Inherit the Flame

Chapter Fifty-Two

Detan couldn’t shut his mouth. He knew it was open, knew he should probably do something about that. This was his wedding, after all. Walking around catching flies in his wide-open trap was probably not the done thing. But he couldn’t help himself.

Tibs. Drunker than he’d ever seen him. And cleaner, too, in a pretty neat-looking suit that Detan wished he could swap him for. And he had just declared himself Detan’s cousin. In front of Thratia. Worse, in front of Ranalae and Aella who, even though they were seated down Thratia’s side of the table, Detan could tell clear as day were practically salivating at the thought.

“Tibal,” Thratia said, with a surprising amount of grace. She held her hand out to him and, to Detan’s great horror, Tibs took the clawed thing and bowed politely over it. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Welcome to the fucking family,” Tibs drawled.

Detan cleared his throat. Hard. Tibs didn’t seem to notice, the damned fool. Where was Ripka, anyway? Someone desperately needed to reel Tibs back in, and it couldn’t be Detan.

“I am delighted to hear you’re a part of our little family. The Hondings are so sadly small in number.” Thratia continued with the whole polite-elegant act. Detan gripped the handle of his fork and considered sticking it in her eye. He could probably get away with it. At least until her guards punched him full of arrows.

Detan stared hard at Tibs and willed him to keep his trap shut. Tibs was just as inclined to listen to Detan’s attempt at psychic orders as he was his verbal ones.

“Bastards aren’t hard to come by in any family, Commodore.”

He snapped her a salute that was, under the circumstances, pretty crisp. Detan supposed Fleet soldiers had a lot of practice saluting their superiors even while toasted.

“A bastard, you say?” Ranalae leaned toward him across the table, dissecting him with her eyes. “What side? Who are your parents?”

“Tibs,” Detan said quickly, “is merely like family. More like a brother to me, than a cousin.”

Tibs rounded on him, and from the surly look in his eye Detan knew he was about to open his mouth and ruin the whole damned thing by insisting they were blood-related.

The first militiaman dropped. Wasn’t as dramatic an affair as Detan would have hoped. In the interests of not tipping their hand, dear Pelly had laced the last shipment of honey liqueur lightly. But it was laced, golden needle pumping through the veins of every grey-coated guard in the building, thanks to Gatai’s deft efforts.

The first guard, standing just a few paces away from the table, wobbled a bit, his knees going loose as string. His head tipped back and down he went, all that fancy armor making a mighty racket as he connected with the floor.

There was a pause. Then a scream. And the guards began to drop, one by one, some unfortunate guests following suit. Chaos erupted.

Detan let out a woofed sigh of relief and slipped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his boots up on the table. “About damned time.”

Thratia sprung to her feet, fists planted on the tabletop, glaring down those gathered as if she could scowl her guards into getting back on their feet. “What have you done?” she hissed.

“Me, personally? Not much, really. Just sat around and waited. You really should have disciplined your guards better.”

Black-coated servants moved through the crowd, pretending to see to the fallen militiamen, but surreptitiously binding their hands and ankles so that they would be no threat when they eventually roused themselves. Detan figured there were probably a few knocked heads in the crowd, maybe a few broken bones, and that was a shame. But still a whole pits-load better than an all-out war.

Thratia was on him faster than he could blink. She had him by the front of his jacket in one iron fist and yanked him to his feet, sending his chair flying. The tight buttons of his coat and shirt scrunched, constricting his throat as she dragged him face-to-face with her, his legs too tangled to gain any purchase. He knew she was strong. Hadn’t counted on her being powerful enough to toss him around like a doll when enraged.

He sputtered, tried to suck a breath down but she gave him a shake. “You damn fool of a man. This could have been peaceful. Now your city will have to bleed. But you, first. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I was an idiot to ever let you come within a stone’s throw of a firemount.”

He tried to squawk out a protest, but there was no air left in him. He got his feet under himself, found purchase, prepared to kick away from her grip and reached out, grasping for her other arm. The arm holding the knife pointed at his gut.

“Hey, Thratia!”

Thratia half-turned. Ripka decked her so hard a tooth flew.