Inherit the Flame

Chapter Thirty-Three

Pelkaia dropped, feather-light, from the rope ladder dangling off the side of the Larkspur and stifled a wince as her bones jolted from the impact. Cursed city had to go and pave all its roads and walkways with the stone they’d carved out to make room for homes. She missed the soft dirt roads of Aransa. Bad for heavy carts, but at least they’d been kind to her joints.

Above her the crew of the Larkspur slept, and before her the nightlife of Hond Steading thrummed. In the wake of the warden of Aransa’s death, that city had gone quiet – the citizens scurrying to their homes as quick as they could, doors locked and windows shuttered. This city, this place that had remained independent from Valathea and had its own long pride, went out to dance in the shadows of their invaders’ ships.

Pelkaia prowled amongst them, wearing a stranger’s face. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to get the set of her cheekbones just right, the tilt to her eyes and the small pucker of her false lips, hair carefully scraped back so that she didn’t have to worry about it brushing her skin. She’d gone for forgettable, indistinct. But the truth was she couldn’t shake the firmness of her walk, the confident lift of her shoulders.

It wasn’t her own body language seeping through. She’d always been a furtive woman, careful and secretive. Such things had been required to survive as an illusionist so long in a society wherein that inborn talent meant death.

But something of Ripka Leshe had rubbed off on her, and she found she didn’t want to shake it, though it made her illusions more difficult to perfect.

In every tavern, revelers toasted the health and good fortune of the happy couple. A practice Pelkaia had no stomach for. She could not even pretend to toast Thratia Ganal, even if it meant ingratiating herself within a likely group. She paced the streets, looped round and round neighborhoods, seeking a building with its lights on but a decidedly more somber crowd.

She found one at last, in a dark little corner of what she guessed to be an artisan neighborhood. Bright lights gleamed in the windows, and figures moved within, but with decidedly less pleasure. They sat hunched over their glasses, not clinking them together nor shouting lewd cheers.

Perfect.

Pelkaia slipped inside, remembering to round her shoulders to look less intimidating, and slouched her way over to an empty barstool. A few glanced her way, but quickly wrote her off as beneath notice.

The bartender gave her a sour look until she slid her a couple of copper grains, then the woman shrugged and poured out what was probably a short glass of cheap ale. Didn’t even say a word to her. Pelkaia’d never met a quiet bartender in her life, but she didn’t mind. Gave her a chance to listen in on the rumble of conversation in the room.

Which was, decidedly, less positive than the rest of the city. No surprise there – these weren’t exactly happy folk – but the glum tenor she’d expected was laid over barely restrained anger. At the table nearest her, a man with shoulders that’d barely fit through the door clutched his mug like he was strangling a throat and didn’t bother to keep his voice down.

“I’d kill the bitch myself, given half the chance.”

“Good fucking luck,” his friend said. “Don’t call her Throatslitter for nothing.”

“Fuuuck that. She think she can just roll over our city, sack up with the Honding heir, and everything’s fucking grand? Everyone who’s not a moron knows it’s a sham anyway. Ladies don’t usually show up for their wedding days with a fleet and a big ass warship, do they?”

“My kinda’ lady would.”

“Yeah. But you’re an idiot.”

Pelkaia let their bickering fall to the background as she considered her options. This man was obviously no fan of Thratia’s – and by the looks of him he was used to violence – but could she use him? He wasn’t a deviant, but having some dumb muscle on hand might be useful.

When the man wobbled for the door, Pelkaia trailed him on instinct, sticking to the shadows and subtly altering her face each time she was hidden so that he wouldn’t recognize her from the tavern.

If the crew of the Larkspur wasn’t willing to bring arms against Thratia, then she needed to find support elsewhere. This big bastard seemed as good a place as any to start.

She tracked his wobbling steps to a dusty apartment complex, one of many hunkered along the stone roads of Hond Steading. Such proud and foolish people, to build so high out of stone when they lived so near to firemounts. Not even the builders of Aransa were quite so arrogant as to build over two stories of stone.

While the man fumbled with the latch on his door, Pelkaia slipped around the side of the building and hunkered in shadow, considering. To approach the man now might be too forward – she would startle him, and lose his trust.

A hand closed around her arm.

She jumped, wrenching herself free, and spun around, hands dropping to the blades tucked beneath her jacket.

Coss frowned at her out of the dark. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “Pell. What in the skies are you doing?”

She eased her hands away from her weapons, trembling slightly with the flood of adrenaline, and smoothed her coat back in concealment. “Almost stabbing you, apparently. Why are you following me?”

He scowled. “Don’t evade the question.”

“Seeking recruits, if you must know.”

“That man a deviant?”

She waved off the question. “I’m not sure.”

His scowl was back in full force, his voice tight with restrained anger. “Just a random thug, then.”

“Who wants to see Thratia out of his city. I think that’s fair enough.”

“Brutes from off the street? Is that what we do now? Is that how you plan to protect the people you claim to have saved, by dragging banal muscle on board? What if he’s anti-deviant – did you even consider that? We’re not exactly on stable footing here, Pell. The Dame tolerates us, but there’s no telling how long that’ll last if the public gets wind. Not a lot she could do against a mob.”

“Exactly. We’re weak, we must strengthen our numbers–”

“For what?”

She clamped her mouth shut, almost bit straight through her tongue, and grated, “You know what.”

“Thratia. It’s always about thrice-cursed Thratia.”

“She murdered my son.”

He grimaced and stepped back from the force in her words. “I know. I know. But that was a long time ago, and you have other charges now–”

“Charges? Deviants, Coss. We’re all a bunch of fucking deviants. And always will be, unless we tear down those who would label us as such.”

“We talked about this. They’re not your soldiers.”

“Which is why I’m out looking for willing hands! Yes, we did talk about this, and I’ve listened – I’m trying something new, aren’t I? But you cannot expect me to do nothing. Gods beneath the dunes, Coss, Thratia is here, a half-mark’s walk away from where we stand. If I didn’t know that palace was brimming with Aella and her lot I’d saunter right in and take the woman’s head with my own hands. But I can’t, you know that. But neither can I let this opportunity pass. She’s so close. Something must be done.”

“Must? And you would risk the whole crew to get your revenge?”

“I never said–”

He held up a fist. “You didn’t have to.” He sighed and shifted his weight, tugging his coat close though the night was warm and held only a gentle breeze. “Take the night, Pell. Think it through. We’re going to have to talk to the crew, you and I, about all this.”

“We? It’s my crew, Coss. My ship.”

“Yeah,” he said, and the sadness in his eyes was a punch to her gut. “And remember we can leave your ship any time we’d like.”

“It’s safer for us all, there.”

“Is it?”

Before she could muster up an answer he turned and stomped back down the alley he’d used to sneak up on her, heavy coat flapping at his dusty heels.

Pelkaia glared at the shadow of the Dread Wind looming in the cloud-streaked sky above the palace, spit in the dust, and went in search of a room at an inn for the night.