Inherit the Flame

Chapter Forty-Four

The bundle of servants’ blacks made an obvious bulge beneath the front of his coat, but Detan figured no one would bother to comment on their lord’s new paunch. They had other things to worry about. Not that anyone was about to comment, anyway. The palace residence wings were as empty as a whorehouse come the dawn. Normally he would have resented the lack of an audience, but today he welcomed the solitude. Every gaze he’d caught lately housed a question he just wasn’t able to answer. Not yet, anyway.

By the time he reached the east wing of the palace he was jumping at shadows, expecting a trail from Misol or any other one of Thratia or Ranalae’s cronies to make themselves known at the most inopportune of moments. This was the area of the building his auntie had handed over to Thratia, and each time he turned a corner he half expected to see her narrow eyes glaring him into a puddle.

Lady luck, or at least someone pretending to be her, was smiling on him. The empty halls caused him to wonder just what exactly Thratia was up to while he was sneaking about. He had a real nasty feeling that that’d spell trouble for him in the future.

The future. Hah. Ripka had rubbed off on him. He’d never worried about planning for the future before. Options, flexibility. These were the circumstances he created for himself.

Not that his previous habits were doing him a whole lotta’ good now.

Detan strolled along like he belonged there, and probably he did. He could get away with explaining he’d come to see his darling betrothed, if pressed by any wanderers. Thratia wouldn’t buy it, of course, but it’s not like she could kill him until after the happy nuptials.

He decided it was best not to think about what she could do to him that was worse than killing.

Gatai had said the girls were being kept in a room with a view of the monsoons, and there was only one he could think of that fit the description. A lot of windows faced the same way ‘round this side of the building, but only one room had been built at an unfortunate angle from a nearby tower that forced the winds to howl incessantly against its exterior, making the balcony all but useless. His auntie stuck guests she didn’t like in that room.

Whether Thratia knew that or not, he couldn’t guess, but the fact was the winds were likely to keep escape via the window a remote possibility, and the howling would keep any shouts for aid real quiet. She was a clever one, his bloodthirsty little wife-to-be.

Casting around one last time for visitors, he leaned against the door as if gathering his thoughts, tucked a hand up under the small of his back, and tapped on the wood. No response. Those winds weren’t doing him any good, either. Nothing else for it, then. He gave the door one solid kick with his heel.

“What the fuck you want us to do, invite you in? Not like we can open the door,” Clink’s familiar voice barked.

Detan grinned. “I’m not entirely sure I can either, my dears.”

A pause. “Is that you, Honding?”

“There are two Hondings in the building at present, but I believe I’m the one you’re referring to.”

She snorted. “And are you going to be any use this time around?”

“That’s the idea.” He wished Tibs were with him as he turned his back on the hall and slipped the two picks he’d brought with him into the lock.

“For fuck’s sake, man, pass me those things. Ain’t named Clink for nothing, you know?”

He blinked owlishly at the door. “Oh. Right.”

Though the door was nearly flush with the floor, he managed to wiggle them under just enough to feel Clink snatch them away. Immediately, rattling issued from the knob.

“Keep it down, yeah?”

“There’s two ways to do this: quiet and slow, or quick and loud. So shut up, I’m concentrating.”

In Detan’s experience, slow was the only way to go about picking a lock, but he didn’t count himself dumb enough to argue with a woman who’d taken the name Clink when it came to lockpicking. He bit his lips and crossed his arms to keep from fidgeting as he leaned against the door, hoping the muffle of his back would silence some of the rattling. It didn’t.

“Black skies,” he muttered, and was promptly hissed at through the door. Irritable women, these friends of Ripka. But then, he’d probably be pretty pissy too if he’d been locked up to use as leverage against a man he didn’t even know.

The lock gave with a clatter and he nearly fell ass-first into both women as they pulled it wide. Clink grabbed him by the scruff, dragged him the rest of the way in, and eased the door shut behind him.

“Skies above, I can’t believe the captain was a friend of yours. Damn incompetent.”

He made a show of straightening his clothes. “This incompetent has just sprung you both, thank you very much.”

Clink and Forge exchanged a long look, then glanced pointedly toward the door. “Really? And just how are we getting past, oh, I don’t know, a whole household full of unfriendlies?”

He patted his protruding belly. “I have an answer for that. But–”

Forge jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “You want a favor, is that it, Mister Altruism? Thought you were going to set us free out of the goodness of your little heart.”

He winced and held his hands out in supplication. “You’re in an unfriendly city that’s being threatened with war on all sides. Tell me you wouldn’t go looking for the captain, as you call her.”

Forge narrowed her eyes. “We might at that. None of your business, noble-boy.”

“Agreed. But, if you do see her…” He pulled a leather-wrapped packet about the size of his palm from his pocket and passed it over to Clink. She eyed it, weighing it with care.

“Bit heavy for a love-letter.”

He snorted. “It’s a few things she might need, that’s all. But don’t worry, I didn’t forget gifts for you ladies, either.”

He pulled the parcel of servants’ blacks from beneath his coat and laid it out flat on one of the two thin, hard beds that filled the room. The women fingered the material, frowning.

“Servants’ uniforms?” Forge asked, holding one up to her body. The fit was reasonable enough, if a little large.

“No better way to go unnoticed in a palace,” Clink said with a little grin.

“Except by other servants.”

“Ah, but they are very much on your side. You have only to make it to the central pantry, and you will be smuggled off into the city from there.”

“And how do we get to this pantry?” Clink asked, eyes narrowed.

“I will escort you, of course.”

“The pits you will. Nothing doing, Honding. We appreciate you’ve gotten us this far but you’re a peacock in this nest. Servants may go unnoticed, but everyone notices you.”

Blasted woman was right, no matter how he hated the fact. The role he’d chosen to play here wasn’t exactly one conducive to sneaking about. And the lord of the palace caught skulking with a couple of maids, even if they weren’t recognized, wouldn’t do him any good either.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’ll precede you to the end of this wing as a lookout.”

“Deal.”

He explained the way to the pantry in broad strokes, steering them clear of the populous areas. The girls made quick work of changing their clothes. Detan was relieved as anything to see Forge slip the packet he’d given them for Ripka securely on the inside of her crisp top. It was no guarantee, but it was something. Enough to ease the tension coiled within him.

“Ready?” he asked.

Nods from both. No time like the present for a little skullduggery, then. He pressed his ear against the door, listening for a few slow breaths to be sure they wouldn’t troop straight into some random’s path, then cracked the door just a sliver. All clear.

A peacock, they’d called him. He could work with that. Shoving his hands in his pockets he sauntered into the hall, a pleased smile slapped across his features and what he hoped was a jaunty tilt to his chin. Tibs would probably tell him he looked stupid but, this time around, that was the point.

The hall was clear right to the end, then Detan damned near tripped over a man strutting about in one of the grey coats of Thratia’s militia. His heart jumped clear to his throat.

He over-exaggerated a stumble, forcing the man back down the hall that intersected the one the others were in, and threw his arms out to puff his coat and obscure any tell-tale signs of black. Servant’s garb or not, if they stumbled across someone who knew their faces, it was all over.

“Whoa,” the militiaman said as he put an arm on Detan’s shoulder to steady him. “You all right, sir? Look like you seen a ghost.”

“Didn’t hear you coming, good man. This wing of the palace is dreadfully quiet. Why is that? Where is everyone?”

The man’s face scrunched under the one-two punch of questions, trying to find a place to latch onto without overstepping his position too much. Detan made a show of straightening his clothes while the man thought, flapping about and generally being an annoyance.

“Lots to be seen to, sir, and it’s still early yet.” Was the answer he eventually arrived upon. Which possibly told Detan more about the militiaman than he’d intended. Bloodshot eyes. Droopy, sallow cheeks. Detan knew the look of a man sneaking away for a nap when he saw one.

“Indeed.” He put on a lofty tone of voice, looking down his nose at him. “And with so much to do, what are you doing back at the apartments, then, forget something?”

“Oh. I. Uh, er…”

Detan put an arm around the man’s shoulders, turned him back down the hall from which he’d come, and lowered his voice to whisper conspiratorially. “I understand, man, I do. Thratia’s one pits-cursed taskmistress, isn’t she? But I can’t just let you saunter on. Hurry back to your duty, and I’ll have the servants bring you some bright eye berry.”

The man swallowed. “You won’t report me?”

“Me? Nah. Truthfully, I understand. It’s been a long couple of days, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He bobbed his head a few times in an awkward half-bow, half-salute, and trundled off down the hall as quick as his leaden legs would let him. When he was well and truly gone, Detan let out a huge sigh of relief and grinned to himself. Still got it.

“Way’s clear, ladies.” He grabbed the corner of the wall and swung around to face them.

They’d already gone.