Inherit the Flame

Chapter Fifty-One

The marriage thus sealed, apothiks swooped down upon the couple to bandage their hands, and Ripka was astonished to see Detan not so much as blink as an apothik in a sharp white apron rushed at him.

“He has calmed,” she murmured.

Servants brought out tables and chairs for those who wanted them, and the altar was cleared away to make room for a long banquet table at which Thratia and Detan were sat, dead center, Dame Honding to Detan’s left and Aella to Thratia’s right.

Most of the guests stayed on their feet, mingling and chatting and generally trying to get as close to the couple’s table as possible. Ripka eyed those gathered with fresh insight. Their city had just been stolen out from under them, but for the higher-ups of Hond Steading, life went on. And that meant making alliances with this new couple that ruled them, slotting themselves into places of importance in whatever system would emerge in the wake of Thratia’s takeover.

And everyone knew this was Thratia’s city now, not Detan’s. The amount of people trying to get close to her while ignoring their blooded lord’s existence bordered on pathetic. Hond Steading fancied itself the most future-looking city on the Scorched, but its people were still born of the homesteading tradition. These were hard people, and they would do what needed to be done to survive. Ripka only hoped that translated into fighting for their future, if the opportunity would arrive.

“Bunch of vultures,” Enard whispered as he sidled up to her.

“They’re scared,” she said, shrugging.

“Cowards, then.”

“Can’t argue that.”

A young man in a very sharp blue suit stepped in front of Honey. “Good evening, my dear. I fear we have not yet met. You are…?” He extended a hand to her, eyes wide with question. Honey pursed her lips and stared at his hand like she’d never seen one before. His eyebrows drooped. “Ah, do you not speak Valathean?”

Honey turned to Ripka. “I don’t like him.”

Enard chuckled into his drink. Ripka grimaced and inserted herself between the two, nudging Honey gently behind her. Curse Latia for doing too fine a job making Honey distractingly beautiful.

“She doesn’t take well to strangers,” Ripka explained, hoping her apologetic smile might soothe whatever wounds the man’s ego had taken.

“I see. And how would one get to know her?”

Enard stepped forward then, his voice low, but polite. “Not happening, friend.”

The man huffed and stomped away. Ripka let out a breath and gave Honey a side-eye. “Well done,” she drawled.

Honey brightened. “Thank you.”

Enard took one look at Ripka’s exasperated expression and almost choked on his next drink. His amusement lifted her spirits, and she caught herself grinning into her own glass. That crinkle around the corner of his eye, the little way he smiled – just tight enough not to be noticed unless one were really looking. Skies. Everything about Enard calmed her.

“Enjoying the festivities?”

Ripka turned to find Nouli Bern behind her. Someone from the palace had fetched him appropriate clothes for the evening, and, all cleaned up in his fresh suit with straightened glasses, he almost looked like a well man.

“Nouli–” she bit back an apology. After the Dame had thrown her out of the palace, she hadn’t even thought of the man she’d risked so much to steal from the empire. She’d left him here to stew, to prepare for a war she hoped they wouldn’t have to fight, without so much as a word. And yet, he looked more relaxed than she’d ever seen him. Her brow furrowed.

“Whatever you’re going to say, my dear, it’s quite all right.” He drew a hand through his hair, messing up the careful style a servant had no doubt worked hard to achieve. There was a glint in his eye, a sly amusement that she wasn’t quite sure she could trust. “I was hoping to see you here, in fact, so that I could thank you.”

“Thank me?” Enard slipped up alongside her, hands easy at his sides, his glass dangling from his fingertips should he have to move in a hurry. If Nouli noticed the implicit threat in his posture, he said nothing about it. He smiled and tipped his head to Enard like he were an old friend.

“For the introduction to Pelkaia Teria. Fascinating woman. We had much to discuss. Information that proved very fruitful for my particular needs.” He held his glass out to her, and she brought hers up hesitantly to clink them together. His grin was a wolfish thing, taking over his whole face. “I’m leaving Hond Steading tonight, I’m afraid, to continue my research elsewhere.”

“You’re well?” she asked, breathless with surprise.

“On my way to it.” He leaned forward, squeezed her shoulder in his hand, and spoke softly so that only she and Enard could hear. “My parting gift to you, my dear: mind the sweet stuff.”

He flicked his head toward Detan, who had his head together with Gatai, the keymaster of the palace, whispering. Ripka frowned, not understanding, but before she could muster up a question he winked at her and slipped away into the crowd.

“What in the pits did he mean by that?” Enard asked.

Honey said, “Watch.”

Ripka had seen it, too. Gatai nodded, solemnly, and passed on whatever Detan had told him to another servant. And another. The information spread between them, each pausing to tap another on the elbow and whisper something – lightning quick. Ripka cast around for a nearby servant, hoping to eavesdrop, but the information had already finished spreading

New bottles appeared on their trays, deep green and hauntingly familiar. They circled the guests, handing out drinks when asked, but pressed the militiamen to join in the celebrations with a sip or two. Ripka hadn’t met a guard yet who’d turn down a free drink at a party.

Detan clapped, a whip-crack above the polite murmuring of the crowd. All heads turned to the bridal table. He stood, bowed elaborately to Thratia, then motioned for Gatai to step forward. The man had his own tray now, one of the green bottles and a glass the only items on it.

“A gift to you, my lovely bride.” Detan’s voice was firm but gentle. Even Ripka couldn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in it. “To remind you of all the time we’ve spent together.”

Gatai poured. He placed the glass before Thratia. Even Thratia, a known teetotaler, couldn’t turn down a gift from her husband on their wedding day. She forced a smile and took a small sip.

“Fond memories of Aransa,” she said, loud enough to carry. The crowd applauded as Detan sat back down, the long line of well-wishers clustering forward once more.

“Is he getting them drunk?” she asked.

“Seems like.” Enard waved down a servant who had just finished topping up a guard. They each took a glass, and a small sip. Ripka wrinkled her nose.

“Grandon’s honey liqueur.”

“Indeed,” Enard agreed. “But something else, too, something bitter…”

“Golden needle,” Honey offered.

Ripka swirled her glass, took a long sniff and another, careful, sip. “Fiery pits. She’s right.”

“He’s not just getting them drunk. He’s knocking them all out,” Enard said with admiration. And Thratia, who never drank alcohol, wouldn’t have the slightest clue the brew was off. The hint of sedative was just faint enough that Ripka doubted even the heaviest of drinkers would notice. Golden needle was a strong flavor… Nouli and Pelkaia must have worked out a means to cover it. She grinned fiercely.

“That won’t take long to work. We should be ready.”

Enard nodded and sat his still-full cup carefully down on a passing dish-tray. Ripka and Honey followed suit. “I have a feeling there’s little we can do until the action starts. With luck, the Lord Honding will inform us further.”

“Have you seen Captain Lakon? I should warn him.”

“Sir, please, wait your turn,” a guard was saying firmly at the front of the room. Ripka pressed to her toes to see over the heads of those around her. Tibal stood in front of the couple’s banquet table, swaying with drink, a cup still clutched in one hand. Not the honey liqueur, thank the skies, but it seemed Tibs hadn’t needed the extra kick to get drunk in a hurry. He pinned a hard stare on the guard and slurred. “I’m family.”

“Shit.” Ripka dropped back down from her toes.

“What?” Enard pressed.

“When did you last see Tibal?”

“He was right behind me during the ceremony.”

“Drinking himself stupid.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Right.”

“It’s all right,” Detan’s voice echoed through the hall. He hadn’t seen the man was Tibal yet, couldn’t have. Ripka swore and elbowed her way through the crowd, but she was too far back. There was no way she could peel him away in time. “Let the man give his blessing.”

The crowd broke in front of Ripka. Tibal sauntered forward, set his cup down on the table in front of a slack-jawed Detan, and smirked.

“Congratulations on the nuptials, cousin.”