Inherit the Flame

Chapter Fifty-Five

Ripka stayed close by Detan as the ship shuddered against its dock, returning them all to the palace. He’d made a show of being fine. Of being hale. His normal, cheerful, wisecracking self. But when she caught him at off moments, when he thought she wasn’t looking, his face creased with pain, with sadness. Whatever had been done to him while at the mercy of Thratia – whatever he’d been forced to do – would be a long time in healing. If such wounds could ever heal.

Right now, it was easier to worry about Detan’s state of mind than her own. Everytime she closed her eyes – every time she so much as blinked – she saw the faces of Falston’s wife, his daughter. Heard the echo of her whispered plea to keep him safe overlaid with the rattle of his final breath.

“Something’s wrong,” Honey whispered.

Ripka tensed, and leaned against the railing to get a better look. The palace seemed fine, if dark and a little quiet… Which didn’t make much sense, now that she considered the fact. The palace should be alive with light, the servants busy cleaning up the mess, and the Dame’s guard rooting out any of Thratia’s leftovers.

“Detan,” she said quietly.

He paused, one foot on the gangplank. She chucked her head toward the palace and he looked, really looked, and hissed quietly to himself. “What in the pits is it now?”

He turned, taking on an air of command she’d never seen him employ before, and pointed to the Dame’s guards. “You two, forward positions, weapons out. We may have hostiles. Auntie, my dear, I suggest you stay aboard the ship with an honor guard, just in case.”

“And you?”

He looked grim. “I kicked this hornet’s nest. I’ll see it through.”

Ripka and Honey fell into step behind Detan, the two guards taking point. Ripka itched to be in their place, but Detan had given his orders, and she wasn’t about to start undermining him now that he was showing some initiative as a leader. She was half-worried that if she drew attention to herself, he’d order her back. And then she would have to defy him. Some orders, she knew from long experience, were just plain stupid.

Weapons readied, the guards opened the door and edged inside. “Clear,” one called.

Detan held out a hand to indicate those on board the ship should hold position and followed the guards inside. Ripka drew a cutlass she’d collected from some corpse or another and saw Honey do likewise as they followed him into the faintly lit chamber.

The entrance foyer for the dock was dark, but the space beyond – to the hall where the wedding had been held – was bright as day, bleeding light across the floor. A beacon. A lighthouse warning of dangerous rocks.

The first guard across the threshold went down, blood fountaining from his neck, legs kicking as the life poured out of him. The second moved to forward position, brought his shield arm up and swore as something heavy thundered against it.

“Fucking imperials,” the guard barked, retreating.

Detan grabbed the man’s shoulder and hauled him back, out of the line of fire that had taken down his comrade. An arrow skittered across the floor in his now-empty place. Honey drifted forward, pulled by the promise of violence, and Ripka snapped a hand out to grab her arm and stop her. She pouted, but hung back anyway.

“What’s the situation?” Detan asked.

The guard stared at the kicking corpse of his friend. Detan swore and dragged the man further away from the door, physically turning his head to look him in the eye. “Report, soldier.”

The soldier snapped to his senses at the command in Detan’s voice. “They’ve got the hall secured. The exterior doors appear to be barred, though I couldn’t get a good look at them. Armed sentries on every internal door.”

“Uniforms?”

“Light blue.” Ranalae’s imperials. Wonderful.

“Numbers?” Ripka demanded.

“I don’t know – fifty?”

“Shit,” Detan said. Ripka had to agree. He thought a moment, pacing as he tapped his forehead. “How’d she get them in? Thratia’s been watching those ships to the north like a bloodhawk, not a one’s made a move. They even turned some back a few days ago.”

“Oh,” Ripka said, feeling rather stupid.

He spun on her. “What? What is it?”

“I thought… Pits. I thought I was working on infiltrating Thratia’s network. It all looked the same – talk of political change. Weapons smuggling. Deviant smuggling. Never quite caught up with her, turned out I was knocking on a false door, but there was something going on in the city. I should have remembered where she learned her tricks.”

“Ranalae’s got people. In the streets. Same as the night Aransa fell?”

Ripka nodded, slowly. “I’d bet my life on it.”

“You might have to.” He tugged at his hair, scowling, then turned on the guard. “How many of you in the palace?”

There was a time, Ripka recalled, when Detan would have been horrified at being so near the man dying on the ground beside him – out of reach, beyond hope of medical aid. Now, he scarcely glanced the man’s way. And when he did, there was only a faint flicker of pain in his expression, quickly overrun by angry determination.

“No telling what’s left after the imperials swept the place, if they even did, but there were two hundred of us before tonight’s, uh, celebration, sir. Lord.” The soldier cleared his throat.

“Right. Go back to the ship, warn my aunt – ah, the Dame – of what’s going on and leave her with a guard, at least five, then take the rest and go round up your fellows. Gather together in this room in no less than a mark, do you hear me? It’s imperative we use our numbers to regain control while we have the chance.”

Detan caught Ripka staring and blinked at her. “What?”

“You… have a plan.”

He grinned. “Rippy, ole girl, I’ve changed. Hopefully for the better. Now go.”

“Wait.” Ripka stepped in front of the guard. “We’re not alone here. There’s a whole citizens’ brigade outside those walls, just waiting for a chance to aid their city. They’re no soldiers, but they’ve had a week of watcher training. They just need a signal to converge on the palace.”

“Rippy! You’re brilliant!” He reached to scoop her up again and she ducked away, swatting at him.

“Don’t you dare. Soldier, there’s no time to do the signal properly. Can you use a bow?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Fire lit pitch arrows at the northern garden trees. That was our backup plan for tonight.”

His eyes widened. “Those trees are very tall, ma’am.”

“Yes, and bordered by stone walls and not near any domiciles. That’s the idea. Now go.”

He saluted them both and took off at a dead sprint.

Ripka eyed Detan. “And just what do we do in this plan of yours?”

“We make a dramatic entrance. And stall like our lives depend on it, because they definitely do.”