Inherit the Flame

Chapter Thirty-One

Hond Steading buzzed with rumors under the shadows of the invading fleet. They pressed Ripka on all sides, fragments of whispers and declarations of doomsday following her down every street. Her only consolation was that Tibal, Enard, and Dranik looked just as wary as she did. Though she missed having Honey at her side, she was glad they’d left the injured woman with Latia to rest. The streets hummed with tension, and Ripka held no doubts that Honey would have itched to add to their song. She hoped Latia kept Honey well sedated while they were gone.

A beggar woman stepped into Ripka’s path. Rags impregnated with dust draped her body, and she clutched a paper-wrapped bouquet of hastily plucked pricklebrush flowers, their petals drooping and only half the thorns stripped from their stems.

“Flowers for the royal wedding?” she asked, shoving one hand forward with a cupped palm for grains.

Foul breath gusted against Ripka’s cheek, but she’d spent more than enough time working with the beggars of Aransa to be put off by such a simple thing. “What wedding?” she asked, digging in her pockets to make the woman linger.

“The only rumor that’s true!” the woman crowed. She glanced left and right, then leaned forward and brought a hand up to shield the side of her lips as she whispered. “The Lord Honding has returned and is to wed Thratia Ganal.”

Ripka froze. “That can’t be right.”

“Got it off the palace guards themselves.” She wiggled her hand, and Ripka deposited a copper grain into it mechanically. The woman moved to give her a flower, but she waved her off.

“For the information,” she said, and the woman gave her what might have been a sarcastic bow before trundling away to find her next mark.

For a moment, all four of them just stood there, contemplating the woman’s information, and Ripka was glad for the silence of her companions. Her gaze dragged across the dusty streets of the city and found the massive shape of Thratia’s new flagship, the Dread Wind, drifting with slow precision toward the towers of the Honding family palace. Her fleet remained on the edge of the city, poised for action, but not invading. Not yet. Why should they, when their mistress was prepared to marry the city’s heir and take the throne through legal means?

Clever bitch. She’d spent years positioning herself in Aransa to be elected to the Warden’s seat, nice and smooth, when the position finally opened up. Ripka had assumed she’d use Detan as a weapon, if she could force him to do her bidding. She had not considered that she might force him to her bed.

Nausea gripped her at the thought, and she shook it away. Detan was in a dire position, but he was not without teeth of his own. And yet…

He was her friend. Her friend was up there, on that ship, just out of reach. Being paraded around like a trophy. Subjected to… perhaps, well. Her stomach clenched. She could not form the word in her mind. Just thinking around its edges made her want to rally all of Hond Steading’s watchers and storm that ship, rip Detan from Thratia’s vile hands.

“We have to get word to him, somehow, that we can help…”

“Not exactly on friendly terms with the palace,” Tibal said.

“We’re not, no. But Pelkaia is.”

“Last she saw him, she looked willing to rip his face off, and I don’t think this news will smooth matters over much.”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t try?”

Tibal’s head dropped as he kicked at the ground and tugged his hat down to hide his eyes. “No, Captain. Just sayin’ we don’t know where his mind is.”

“You really think he’s skipping through fields of flowers hand-in-hand with Thratia?”

“No.” The word was harsh, bitter. “But I’m not sure us interfering would help him any, and we got our own troubles to manage.”

“You’re certain he doesn’t want her?” Dranik asked, a deep furrow between his brows. Ripka coughed over a laugh. Of course he wouldn’t know any better. None of the citizenry of Hond Steading had heard anything but wild rumor about their heir for the last few years, and none of it added up to make Detan look like a particularly stable individual. Marrying a bloodthirsty tyrant just might seem like a grand ole time to him, as far as they knew.

“There are few people in this world Detan hates more than Thratia, and I’m reasonably certain that the only reason she doesn’t return the sentiment is because she can’t be bothered mustering up the energy to care one way or another. He’s a tool for her to gain the throne legally, nothing more.”

“Why would he agree to such a match, then?”

Tibal snorted and stared pointedly at the heavy ships spread across the sky like ink stains. “Because he doesn’t want bloodshed in this city any more than we do. Damn fool is probably arrogant enough to think he’ll retain some control of his throne after he’s hitched himself off to her.”

“I pray he’s not stupid enough to bed her, then,” Dranik said.

Enard, Ripka, and Tibal exchanged a look. It was Ripka who managed to ask, “Why is that?”

“If she cares so little for him, then once he gets an heir on her he’ll be useless to her.”

“Shit,” Tibal said.

Ripka closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. “We have to get a message through to him, somehow. If she casts him off…”

“Aella will catch him,” Enard said.

The three shivered. Dranik looked thoroughly put out. “Who is Aella?”

“A nasty little friend of Thratia’s,” Ripka sighed and opened her eyes. Time to focus. “Come, let’s get this meeting with your people over with, Dranik. Maybe they’ll have some information we can use.”

Dranik led them to an inconspicuous door along a street full of mercer houses. Judging by the sweet scent emanating from within, they were at the trade room of a bright eye berry distributor. Not the most nefarious of locales, but Ripka knew from long experience that a posh setting often hid the darkest of dealings.

Dranik scarcely knocked once before the door swung open. A barrel-chested man with a moustache drooping down past the line of his chin set a wary squint on them all.

“Dranik tole me two ladies were comin’,” he said, and jabbed a finger at Tibal. “Unless you’re particularly ugly, miss, you and your manfriend there are unexpected company. Not much a fan of uninvited guests.”

“We need all the help we can get,” Dranik shot back, throwing glances over both his shoulders. No one would have had reason to be suspicious of a plain trading house until he started up that darting glance nonsense. Ripka sighed and stepped forward, extending her hand to the man.

“I understand and respect your caution. My name is Ripka, and I can assure you these men are of the same mind as I.”

He took her hand and squeezed it a touch too hard. “Name’s Calson, and I appreciate your forwardness, but I’d like to know just what mind you’re of. Dranik gave us warning you were coming, and told us why, but I’d rather hear it straight from your lips, miss, if you don’t mind my saying so. Lot of tension ‘round these parts. You understand.”

Not only did she understand, she was absolutely relieved that someone had a suspicious bent in this group. If they really did accept her without so much as a sideways glance she’d be wondering if they really were working for Thratia.

She squeezed his hand with equal measure. “The three of us were all present when Thratia took Aransa.” The words when Aransa fell were on the tip of her tongue. She forced herself to bite them back. “And we’d like to help see her succeed here in Hond Steading. There are four of us, another woman as you were told, but she’s recovering from an injury. She should be with us at the next meeting.”

“Funny thing, leaving Aransa after the takeover if you felt positively toward our warden.”

She shrugged. “We’re wanderers by nature. Some souls just can’t sit still.”

“And anyway,” Tibal interjected, “Thratia’s people got a hand on Aransa. It’s Hond Steading that needs help.”

“True enough,” Calson said. It was a marvel, the way Tibal could speak something he thought was true but have it mean something entirely different to the person he was speaking to. No wonder he and Detan had worked up quite the reputation as con men across the Scorched.

“Time’s wasting,” Dranik said, “and we have a mission tonight, don’t we?”

“So we do. Follow me, then.” Calson waved an arm, and they trailed after him down a long hallway.

The meeting hall for Dranik’s underworld compatriots looked like it was more accustomed to meetings of accountants than thieves. Pyramids of the bright eye berry seed dotted the floor along the wall, their aroma sharp and tangy in the air. Massive scales served as the room’s only decor, taking up half the surface of the long table the conspirators were now gathered around. After she was seated, Ripka found the presence of the scales irritating, as every other time she glanced to face whoever was speaking, the polished bronze threw light into her eyes.

“These here are the extra hands Dranik promised us,” Calson said, then rattled off a list of names of the six around the table so quickly that Ripka didn’t manage to catch a single one of them.

“Thratia’s here, it’s time to begin,” a scarred woman with two prominent front teeth was saying. Ripka hadn’t caught her name, but she figured it probably didn’t matter. The woman had a high, whining voice, and smelled faintly of donkeyshit.

“We haven’t received word from any of our contacts yet. It’s too soon, we must be patient,” Calson said in his slow, placating voice.

“Did you not have a mission prepared tonight?” Enard asked, all oblique innocence. The group shifted uneasily as one. Dranik may have vouched for them, and they were obviously in need of the numbers, but still the presence of the newcomers made them uneasy – especially with their mistress close to hand.

“Thing is,” Calson drawled as he leaned back in his chair and settled his arms over the curve of his belly, “I haven’t decided if you’re invited yet.”

Dranik’s cheeks grew crimson and he laid both of his palms down on the table as if he were holding himself in place. “We need the help, and these three are better suited to the work than we are. Do you remember what happened last time? Kleesie nearly got her head torn off, and I remember you damn near shitting yourself.”

“No language like that in this room,” Calson said. “Your concerns are noted, Dranik, but you’re telling me these three new friends of yours are practiced at violence, right? Well that just makes me even jumpier around them – sorry, folks, but things are just too tense and I can’t trust new blood with the more delicate matters. You understand.”

“I don’t, actually.” Ripka leaned forward, folding her hands together on the tabletop as if she were entering into a negotiation. Or an interrogation. “We’re mercenaries, and we’ve expressed our intended loyalty. You know anything about mercenaries, you know they don’t buck a job until it’s done. We wish to see Thratia get what she deserves, and frankly I don’t think your little group here has what it takes to pull that off.”

“Mercenaries, is it? Thought you were all just wanderers. Mercenaries get paid, lass, what’re you asking in payment?”

Enard flashed a grin she’d only seen him muster once before – when he’d faced down his old Glasseater gangmates on the beach of the Remnant. “We’re not in need of grains, if that’s what you’re asking. Sometimes, people like us, we just like to take a little pleasure in doing a job well. Understand?”

Tension webbed the wrinkles around Calson’s eyes, his hands flexed on the tabletop. Everyone in his group was looking at him, save Dranik, who stared at Enard as if he’d never seen him before. Ripka couldn’t blame him. The first time she’d seen Enard switch from affable, sweet New Chum to the hard-boned man who’d been a valet for the Glasseaters she’d damned near choked on air, too.

“Telling me you’re in it for the love of the work?” Calson said.

“I’m telling you we’re in. That’s all you need to know.”

“He’s got a point,” a scrawny man with a surprisingly well-tailored suit said. Ripka’d pegged him as the owner of the counting house. “We’re not fighters, Calson. And we need some to do right by our assignments.”

Tibal isn’t a fighter either, Ripka thought, but judging by this group she had no doubt he’d handle himself a whole pits lot better in a sticky situation than any one of them.

Calson sighed and leaned back, letting his arms go slack at his sides. “All right then. Dranik, we’ll let your friends play tonight. As a trial only. Anything I don’t like happens and you’re all out – you too, Dranik.”

Dranik nodded. “You won’t regret it.”

The bucktoothed woman snorted, proving herself more astute than she let on.

“We’re agreed, then,” Ripka said, “now let’s hear what’s expected for this job.”

Calson ruffled his hair, grimaced, then pulled a leather-wrapped bundle of papers from his interior jacket pocket and dropped it on the table with a puff of dust.

“Orders came in this morning. Got a new mark.”

“Another deviant?” the wiry man asked.

“Aye,” Calson said.

Ripka stiffened, and listened to the details of the woman they were meant to sell into slavery for Thratia Ganal.