Inherit the Flame

Chapter Forty-Five

Ripka had stood in front of a lot of crowds in her time as watch-captain. Had given her fair share of speeches, most of them structured in the formal trappings of her station. Each time she’d felt calm, assured. She knew her place, and the people she addressed knew it, too.

Now, her stomach coiled in knots. The forum was a much bigger venue than Dranik had made it out to be, and after the eruption the people of Hond Steading had come out in force to discuss the matters of their city.

On the edge of the palace district, shoved up against the backside of the main market, an amphitheater had been carved into the ground. Bright morning sunlight spilled across the hundreds of eager and wary faces crowded into the stone-cut benches, the steady rustle of cloth and murmur of voices reduced to a low hum by the fine acoustics. As Ripka lined up with all of those who wished to speak along the side of the stage, half the eyes in the place clung to her like thorns. Of all those lined up, she was the outsider. The one speaker the citizens did not recognize as a regular.

No different than quelling a riotous crowd, she told herself, and had to stifle a wolfish grin lest those watching think she was mad. At least these people were less likely to try and tear her limbs off.

“Next up,” the organizer boomed from above the podium. “Ripka Leshe, of Aransa.”

Game time. Her fear fled in a flash, anxiety melting from her limbs as her focus narrowed to the podium, and the crowd. There was nothing else in all the world.

Dranik followed her, standing a respectable distance behind her as she placed her palms on the cool stone lectern and leaned earnestly forward. He was not there to speak. Everyone who frequented the forum knew him, and knew that his physical presence was a silent endorsement of what she had to say.

“People of Hond Steading,” she began, thanking the sweet skies for Latia’s knowledge of tea that her voice was smooth and without hitch. She pitched her tone low, going for carriage, and the clever acoustics of the forum did the rest. “I am the watch-captain of Aransa, or was on the day that city fell, and I have come to tell you of what happened in the streets that day.”

Outbursts in the crowd, indistinct but clear in tone: shock, smug recognition. She held up a fist to silence them and, to her surprise, they quieted immediately.

“The day Aransa lost its right to determine its own warden, its own leadership, the streets were flooded with coats of grey.” She tipped her head to point toward the shadow of the Dread Wind over the Honding palace. Any citizen aware enough of the city’s events to attend this forum must have seen Thratia’s militia about, their grey uniforms a ghostly contrast to the ruling family’s black.

“It was my job, my duty, my honor, to protect that city’s right to govern itself under the guidance of Valathean law. I failed that night. I failed in the weeks leading up to that night. And I have come to you, today, to tell you all the ways in which I have failed. So that you – so that we – may not fail again.”

She gathered breath to dive into her next point when a man shouted from the front bench, “Who says a city has fallen just because Thratia Ganal governs it?”

Murmurs of assent spread out around him. The organizer scowled and stepped forward, intent on silencing the man, but Ripka held up a hand to stay him. If she did not face criticism head-on, she would win no one’s mind or heart today.

“Speak your name, dissenter,” she said.

He stood, a thatch of grey hair set aglow atop his head by the angle of the sun. “I am Hammod. All who attend this forum regularly know me.”

She ignored the scorn in his voice, the hint that because she was not a regular here, she was not welcome. “Hammod. Have you met someone who has lived under Thratia’s rule?”

His cheeks flamed red. “Cowards calling themselves refugees is all we’ve seen come through Hond Steading. Opportunists seeking succor from the Dame’s teat, more like. Anyone with any grit has stayed in Aransa. She was elected, as you know. Fair as a calm sky.”

“Elected? And who counted those votes? Commodore Ganal stepped into a power vacuum that her own games had caused–” Ripka carefully danced over the issue of Pelkaia’s involvement. “–and assumed control without the consent of the people. No voting ever took place when I walked those streets, and I left on the day she decided to call herself Warden.”

“Left? I heard you were run out. A traitor made to walk the Black Wash. Why in the pits should we listen to you?”

Ripka hadn’t counted on that story making it to Hond Steading, but of course Thratia would have it spread. She’d been in the city long enough to set her people to whispering – and even before then, Ripka had no doubt that Thratia’s counterintelligence were working hard to keep Hond Steading’s loyalties divided. Explaining the circumstances of that walk, her so-called execution, would take too long – and muddy the waters. She needed something quick, sharp, if not entirely truthful, to clear her name.

“If I had walked the Black, would I be alive to stand before you today?”

Awkward shifting from those in the front rows who had murmured on Hammod’s behalf. No one survived the Black. That was common knowledge. And if she had, then she certainly didn’t fit Hammod’s mold of a cowardly opportunist trying to take advantage of the Dame’s hospitality. Before Hammod could gather himself for another volley, she pressed on.

“This is what Thratia does! She gives herself all appearance of legitimacy, pretends to legally hold the things she’s actually taken. Do you think she came here simply for a wedding?”

Ripka jabbed a finger at the sky, and the silhouetted fleet hanging in it. No one could doubt those ships had been outfitted for war, not romance.

“Do not let her poison your minds. Do not let her assume control through your complacence. We have already seen a demonstration of her willingness to cause destruction to achieve her desires – yes, I place the blame of last night’s eruption at her feet. Do you not think she has a weapon capable of demonstrating such power aboard that fortress ship of hers?

“That was a message for the Dame and her troops. But it was a message you, the people of Hond Steading, must hear. The watch is not enough to keep these streets safe, I promise you that. More souls are needed. Able, quick-minded individuals who want to keep their home, their city, safe. There is no telling what Thratia will do next. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety.

“She will try to take this city legally – by marrying its heir. And I tell you this, he wants no part of that plan. But your ruling family is being held prisoner. Their hands are tied. It is up to you to protect yourselves, now. The time for polite discourse has passed.”

A few whoops from the audience gave her heart, but the crowd was mostly inclined to quiet chatter. Her heart sank. This was the wrong audience for this. These were people who wanted to talk out their problems. A good and noble thing – but Thratia Ganal would let you talk all day while she maneuvered a crossbow behind your back.

Hammod scowled and stomped off toward the line to speak, cutting her a hard glare. Ripka closed her eyes a moment, head bowed over the podium. She knew the rules. Dranik had explained them to her. If she stood mute for more than a minute, she would be removed, and the next in line would have a chance to speak. They could go back and forth like this all day, bickering over the ethics, the legality, while Thratia’s warship had a speargun pointed at all their necks.

She laughed, loud enough to be heard, and lifted her head, letting her tired eyes roam those gathered. When all had quieted, she lifted her hands, her raw and bleeding fingers, and examined them in the harsh morning light.

“Last night I dug the bodies of your fellow citizens from the ruin of their homes. Forgive me if I am short of words.” She put her hands back down, gripping the edge of the podium. “If you wish your city to survive the coming weeks, come see me. Otherwise, make use of this forum while you can. Thratia will not let you keep it long.”

She strode off the stage to profound silence, and did not bother to stop to sign her name in the speaker’s log as was tradition. Her hands shook with anger at her sides, her focus so narrowed that all she could see was the route out of this place – this place of pointless bickering.

Once out on the street, she tipped her head back and glared at the sun, then flicked her eyes away before they could ache. She was going to lose another city to Thratia Ganal. She didn’t know what she wanted to do more: strangle someone, or drink herself stupid.

A footstep crunched behind her, hesitant. She spun, expecting Dranik.

A young man she didn’t recognize jumped back from her sudden attention, pupils wide. “Captain Leshe?” he asked.

“Miss Leshe suits me fine,” she said by reflex.

His grin was fierce. “Not to me. Not to us.”

She blinked. Over his shoulder, a few dozen youths filtered out of the forum, shifting anxiously in the dusty street, each and every one trying to get a good, long look at her. She forced herself to pick her head up, to push her shoulders back, but found she’d never left that posture behind after all.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, not daring to hope. They weren’t all young, some grey heads mingled in the group, their numbers swelling until Ripka couldn’t keep count.

“Where do we sign up?”