Inherit the Flame Page 4

  It was a purpose she could serve well, and it added a little spring to her step.

  As she looped up a curving side street toward a stone-laid thoroughfare, a blue-coated woman stepped into her path. Ripka stopped short, startled. A watcher. The woman had the weather-beaten appearance of one who roamed an outdoor beat, her age made difficult to discern by the sun-bitten wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

  Ripka’d never been stopped by a watcher before. She felt naked without her own blue coat, and tugged self-consciously at the long caramel sleeves of the tunic Pelkaia had loaned her. She’d have to buy new clothes, soon. Clothes meant not to fit underneath a layer of blue.

  “Good morning, watcher,” she said.

  The watcher’s smile grew a little wider. “Good morning, Captain Leshe.”

  Ripka stood straighter. “Miss Leshe is appropriate, please.”

  “If you insist. Have you been enjoying our fair city?”

  Ripka bit her tongue to keep from divulging all her revelations. The watcher was after small talk, not a detailed evaluation of the city’s civic planning. “It is blessedly cooler than Aransa, without being as cold as–” She cut herself off just short of saying the Remnant. “Some southern cities I’ve visited.”

  “We do partake of the Darkling Sea’s breezes during monsoon season, but I’m sure you’ve realized a discussion of the weather isn’t why I stopped to chat with you.”

  Indignation and fascination warred within Ripka. So this was what it was like to be on the other end of being suspected of mischief in a watcher-controlled city. Fascinating. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Not as such. My captain has sent me to fetch you, to discuss your continued presence in Hond Steading.”

  “Dame Honding has given me her blessing.”

  “We understand. Would you come with me, please?” She spoke in the well-practiced tone that gave the polite illusion of question without being an outright command. For just a moment Ripka was tempted to tell her off, return to the palace and complain to the Dame that her watchers had for some reason not gotten the message that Ripka was welcome in their city.

  But Ripka’d never been one to hide under another’s authority. And besides, her curiosity was well and truly piqued. The watch could very well be a deciding force in the city’s defense. If she could bend this captain’s ear, make him see reason and urge his working with Nouli… So many possibilities unspooled within her mind that she caught herself grinning, wiped it away, and gave the watcher what she hoped was a respectful nod.

  “Please, lead the way.”

  The watcher wasted no time. They cut through the city at a crisp near-jog, Ripka struggling to memorize all the twists and turns.

  The watcher delivered Ripka, breath coming a little quickly due to the pace, to the front doors of the station house and bade her enter and ask for the captain – she was expected – then disappeared back into the city to see to her other tasks.

  Ripka forced a deep breath, and steeled herself. Too long on the Remnant had made her jumpy, wary of imprisonment of any kind. She was fine. Even if things went wrong here, Enard knew she’d gone out walking. With Dame Honding’s power behind him, it wouldn’t take him long to discover where she was being held.

  Curiosity overrode caution, and she shoved the station house door open. A large room splayed out before her, high of ceiling and brightly lit with dozens of gleaming oil-fed candelabras. The grandeur of Valathea’s aesthetics infused the room’s size and scale, but the austerity she’d seen on display at the Honding palace was present as well. Every stick of furniture was needed, every piece well-made, if a little worn from use.

  Ripka caught herself doing an inspection – cleanliness of the floors, easy access to a restraints cage – and stopped. This wasn’t her station house. This wasn’t why she was here.

  Watchers buzzed through the room, files tucked under arms or prisoners ushered before them. A few harried citizens sat at tables, distressed and talking with their assigned watcher. Everything, so far as she could tell, seemed in order here. Running smoothly.

  With a pleased smile, she stepped up to the room’s primary desk and addressed the sharp young man standing at ease there.

  “I’m here to see your watch-captain.”

  Surprise registered, but was gone in a flash. “I see. Do you have an appointment?”

  “I might. One of your watchers collected me and told me he wished to see me.” As she spoke, she realized how ridiculous the story sounded. She didn’t even know the watch-captain’s name, let alone the name of the watcher who’d corralled her here. Ripka’s stomach soured as the young man’s face grew tight with confusion. That watcher could have very easily been playing a prank on her, making the disgraced watch-captain feel important, then ripping the rug out. She might be making a fool of herself. She cleared her throat and started again. “My name is Ripka Leshe.”

  “Oh,” the man said. “My apologies. I didn’t think they’d find you so soon. Please, follow me.”

  The watcher opened a door and stepped aside so that she could pass. Laughter rolled out, young and bright. Ripka stepped into the well-lit room and blinked. A man sat behind a desk, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and a spatter of grey in his short-cropped hair. She marked him in his forties, and the young girl sitting on his shoulders at five, maybe six. The girl grinned at Ripka, revealing a wide gap where a front tooth should be, and the older man looked a touch embarrassed.

  The air smelled of clean oil and fresh ink, the floor beneath her feet was swept clean and all the furniture polished to a high shine. If ever there existed an office meant to be the complete opposite of the Remnant Warden, Radu Baset’s, this was it.

  “I’m Kalliah,” the little girl said.

  “Am I interrupting…? Ripka asked.

  “No, no, not at all.” The man swung Kalliah from his shoulders with ease and the girl whooped. “Watcher Yethon, please take Kalliah to her mother. She’s probably worried sick.”

  “Any idea where she’s at?” the watcher asked, taking Kalliah’s hand and leading her toward the door.

  “Swimming at the hole, more than like.”

  Kalliah brightened. “Can I go swimming too?”

  “Only if your mother says you can.”

  “Yay!” Kalliah dragged her watcher escort behind her like a kite. The man sat back down behind his desk with a rueful laugh.

  “I apologize, miss. She gets away from her mother sometimes, but always to come to see me. Could be worse acts of escape, I suppose. Now, what can I do for you? Did we have an appointment?”

  “I’m not sure,” she confessed. “One of your watchers asked me to come see you. I am Ripka Leshe, formerly of the Aransa watch.”

  “Captain Leshe!” The man was on his feet in an instant. He rounded the desk and held her hand in his before she could blink. He shook it like it had something foul on it he was trying to kick clean, a huge smile splitting his face. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? Sit, sit, please, can I get you a drink?”

  He was gone as soon as he’d come, disappearing back behind his desk to rummage through a drawer that produced the telltale clink of bottles. Feeling like she’d just been swept up in a monsoon wind, she took the chair opposite his desk and sat. It didn’t even creak.

  “No thank you, Captain…?”

  “Lakon. Falston Lakon. I’d say you could call me Falston, but Lakon’s less of a mouthful on the balance. Are you sure you won’t drink? I’ve fizzed Erst Pear juice, new stuff, no booze in it if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’ll try the juice, thank you, Lakon.”

  He produced two glazed clay cups half-full with something sweet and fizzy. As the bubbles popped against her tongue, she recognized the bitter-tannic taste of selium bubbles. Before he could throw another flurry of conversation at her, she gathered herself.

  “Captain, I apologize if I’ve done anything to disturb your watchers. I understand the presence of another cap
tain – even though I’ve lost my post – can be worrisome to some watchers. I mean no harm to you or your organization.”

  He chuckled. “They hide it well, but my people are all in a tizzy that you’re here. The Dame sent me a letter last night to say you’d arrived and would be staying at the palace indefinitely. Of course she didn’t seal the pits-cursed note, so half the station knew about it by morning and the other half by midday. There’s no worse gossipmonger than a watcher.

  “When we started getting reports of a plain-clothes woman roaming the city, acting suspicious by checking out dark alleys and warning citizens against easily stealable items, well, I confess there was a bit of a betting pool on who would find you first – I guess Halka won. She’ll be insufferable about it.

  “You really riled up the populace, you know. It’s one thing to be told to mind your goods by a watcher, but when a perfectly sane and healthy-looking woman comes up to you and tells you the same it really puts the wind up these desert flowers. The High Ridge Ladies’ Club is all afuss – they think it’s some grand conspiracy, though skies know what the conspiracy they’ve dreamed up is for. You’ve caused quite the stir in the city, Captain Leshe.”

  “Please, call me Ripka. I apologize for frightening your citizens; that really wasn’t my intention.”

  He held up a hand to forestall her. “You misunderstand me. I’m glad you did. This city has been too cursed safe, and all the older generation are set in their ways, not thinking at all that anyone could dare do anything to harm them, or steal from them. But Hond Steading’s getting big, and with the refugee problem spilling over from Aransa and some of the smaller cities Thratia’s people have been snatching up in her name, well, desperate people are here. They’re hungry and they’re scared and our regular populace just doesn’t know how to deal with it. I’m glad you scared ‘em a bit. Maybe they’ll watch themselves now.”

  “You’ve a refugee problem?” she asked, embarrassment buried beneath professional interest. He grinned like a man who’d just snagged a fish on a hook.

  “‘Fraid so. I know you did the best you could for Aransa – please don’t think I’m disparaging you for what happened there – but the fact is Thratia’s takeover wasn’t as complete as she thought. People got scared, they ran, and there aren’t a lot of places to run to on the Scorched, you know? Lots of them came here, looking for new lives – or at the very least safety. And the Dame is a kind soul, beneath all that iron she carries around her, so she let them in with open arms, started training programs for them to get jobs in spots we’re lacking here in the city. But there’s just so many, and every day the numbers grow. We could shut ‘em out, it’s been discussed, but the Dame doesn’t want them to die in the desert on their own. And anyway, they’ve got nowhere else to go. They’d likely camp on our doorstep, and just get absorbed into Thratia’s army when it arrives. None of us want to see them turned into cannon fodder, even if they are kicking up a spot of trouble here and there.

  “We suspect some of Thratia’s supporters are getting through too, of course, but there’s no real way to tell. Nothing to tie them together, if you know what I mean. But we’ve found a bunch of her trash kicking around the city. Posters, leaflets, things like that. I’ll hand it to the old girl, she knows how to write a piece of propaganda.”

  Ripka remembered stacks of crates, loaded with liqueur and weapons. She’d discovered them too late – the weapons had already been distributed throughout the city. Though she doubted Thratia would risk using the liqueur as her cover again, she thought it a safe bet that the method would be more or less the same. And here, in Hond Steading, she had time. They were in the early days of Thratia’s aggression here; she hadn’t come knocking yet. If Ripka was lucky, she could poison the roots of Thratia’s uprising before they ever took hold.

  “I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” she said carefully, watching Lakon’s expression with every word. “But I have some experience with Thratia’s techniques. If you’d allow me to consult you on these matters, I think we could puzzle out what keeps her people connected here in your city.”

  Lakon grinned and drained his glass. “I was hoping you’d say that. Consider yourself hired, Captain, though the issue of rank might be a tricky one.”

  She waved him off. “No. I won’t wear the blues again. But I will help you as best as I can.”

  “As some sort of private watcher?”

  She shrugged. “Think of it as undercover work. People may know my reputation, but they don’t know my face, and looks are an easy enough thing to alter anyway.”

  “Hmm. I like it. Where would you start, though? You’ve hardly been a day in the city. I suppose I’ll have to give you a tour.”

  Ripka leaned forward and set her empty cup down, eyes bright and a new intensity burning in her chest. “Tell me, have there been any new food or drink crazes in your city lately?”

  Chapter Seven

  Pelkaia lay dying. Every bone in her body ached. Every pore of her skin bled hot sweat into the fine linen of her sheets. The steady thrum of her heart was a stutter-stop drumbeat in her chest, marching her to her grave.

  She twisted, feeling her back peel away from the sweat-puddle it had left throughout the night, the fresh air a blessed, cool kiss over her heat-tired skin. Movement sapped her strength, made her limbs shaky with exhaustion. Fingers jittery, she reached to the trunk bolted alongside her bed, slumping, fumbling with the catch.

  So early. Sunlight slanted like blades across her cabin floor, pressed at her eyes and made her vision milky – no, that wasn’t the light. Old eyes. Old, stupid, failing eyes.

  Been alive too long. Been moving and breathing and fucking and fighting longer than she’d had any right to. Even of the long-lived Catari, Pelkaia was an anomaly. Must be. Couldn’t even imagine the whole of her people stumbling through old age like this, wretched as she was.

  How many years? Her fingertips brushed familiar bottles, body going through the motions even while her mind wandered down old, dusty hallways of memory. Really – how many years? How many children raised and, halfbreeds that they were, left to the dust? Except Kel. Sweet Kel. He’d died before his youth was through, died to hide Thratia’s plans.

  She pulled stoppers with her teeth, drank bitter concoctions she hardly remembered the names of. Every morning, she forgot them. By night they’d be back again, filling up the empty spaces that now echoed in her brain. Full formulas, names, methods of growing the plants to make them. Each one was bitter, acerbic. A healthy throat would have rebelled at their abuse, but hers was long past healthy.

  Ritual complete, she dropped the last of the bottles into place and flopped back into bed, arms splayed, feeling the potions that would be poison to any other body course through her. Eyes half-closed, she imagined them filling her veins, replacing her blood, re-inflating her vitality. Stolen time. That was all she had left, now.

  But a little bit of stolen time might just be enough to do some good.

  Or punish some wrongs.

  The cabin door banged open, and she was amused to realize she remembered the sound. Coming back up, now, she thought. Raising herself from the dead. Her skin was growing cooler, almost clammy, the sweat that sheathed her turning into chilly condensation. She cracked an eye, saw her vision clear, then risked cracking the other. Took a breath, and noted her lungs inflated fully.

  Functional, then. At least for another day.

  “Pell?”

  Oh. Right. Coss. She’d been so busy raising herself from near-death she’d forgotten he came in to wake her every morning. Well, ostensibly to wake her. She suspected he insisted on barging in as soon as the sun was up to make sure she was still alive.

  “I’m here,” she said, which was a rather stupid thing to say because, really, where else would she be?

  “I see that.” His voice was soft, amused. Not long ago that voice had made her knees weak. It still made her head swim, her heart thump, if she were being honest with herself.


  But that was before she started dying. She’d had to kick him out of her room, then. Couldn’t let your lover see you rot from the inside out. Poor dear thought he’d done something wrong. Probably thought Pelkaia was drinking herself to death, or something, with all the bottles she kept locked up in her room. She almost giggled at the thought, then remembered she had company.

  “Give me a hand?” she asked, after she moved to swing her legs over the bed’s edge and realized they weren’t quite ready to obey her yet.

  Coss was at her side in an instant, his big hand enfolding hers while he slipped the other behind her back, between her shoulder blades where the sweat was still thick, and helped her upright. Either he didn’t notice, or he pretended not to, when her legs thumped weakly over the edge of the bed, heels dragging on the floor.

  Gods below the dunes, but the worry in his eyes almost broke her faster than the age taking its dues on her organs.

  “Are you well?” he asked, which seemed a stupid question, because obviously she wasn’t.

  “Stomach upset,” she lied easily, giving him a lopsided smile as she pushed a sweat-damp chunk of hair off her forehead. No one ever asked detailed questions about stomach troubles.

  Except Coss, apparently. “What did you eat last night?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes, wiggling her fingers to get the feeling back in them. “Same thing as everyone else, just didn’t take well to me.”

  The look he gave her was clear enough. He thought she was full of donkeyshit. Which she was, but that wasn’t any of his business.

  As clarity seeped back into her overheated mind, she began to realize just what was wrong with this scene. Why Coss was seeing her so weak and shaking when she’d taken great pains to push him away from this, away from the truth of what was eating her up inside. Coss came to her every morning, sure, but after she’d raised herself from the dead. After she’d had her bath and her elixirs and had a moment to sit just breathing, gathering herself against the plain exertion of living.