“Heard he’s hustling gambling tables in the south,” the woman drawled.
“I heard he’s murdered someone,” Dranik threw in. “What kind of leader would that be? We need a new system in place, before it’s too late and we end up with the likes of that buffoon.”
“You want to run elections like the other un-founded cities?” The old man snorted. “Know what they call the leaders of those places? Wardens. Like they run a prison! Hond Steading ain’t no prison. It’s a jewel. The Scorched’s jewel.”
“That’s only because the wardens operate under the yoke of the empire. If we were to shake off Valathea’s rule, then–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the old man sneered at Dranik. “You some kind of secessionist?”
“I’m only saying–”
The older man grabbed Dranik by the front collar of his shirt and gave him a hearty shake. “Saying what? Saying that bloodthirsty Ganal would be better for us than the Dame and her lineage?”
“I didn’t mean that,” he squeaked.
Ripka was on her feet without realizing. Between the sedative effects of the alcohol and the energizing nature of the tea, she felt a weird disconnect in her body – as if she were at once sleepy and alert, sharp but slow. Dimly she was aware of Honey rising alongside her, of the woman and the man at Dranik’s table shouting protests.
She closed the distance. The old man was weakened by drink and age, so he put up no resistance as she peeled him off a flush-faced Dranik. No physical resistance, anyway. He spun around and loomed over Ripka, yelling into her face so that spittle flecked her cheeks. She grimaced.
“This is no business of yours, girl!”
Honey sidled up alongside the old man and pressed something shiny down low against his hipbone. Not too hard. Just enough to be clear of her intentions. Her voice was soft as always, but from the way the old man’s eyes widened he didn’t have trouble hearing.
“Don’t yell at the captain.”
Dranik brushed off his clothes and scowled, oblivious to the real reason the old man had gone pale. “This brutish behavior is the inevitable result of just the old-fashioned kind of thinking I was talking about.”
“Out!” The waitress reappeared, her serving tray wielded like a battering ram. “I said no trouble, understand? I’m sick of your brains and your squabbles. Take it to the street, now, you’re barred for the week.”
“But–” Dranik protested. The woman with painted fingers whooped a laugh and jumped to her feet. The man in the mustard coat had managed to fade away to another table during the scuffle. Ripka caught his eye, and he winked, then hid his face with his mug and turned away.
“Knew this would be a good time,” the woman said.
While they scurried to gather their things, the old man stood stock still, a little bit of sweat on his pale brow.
“Honey,” Ripka murmured, “that’s enough.”
She pouted, but slipped whatever implement she’d found into a pocket and slunk away from the old man to take up her usual position in Ripka’s shadow. Tray held before her, the waitress ushered all of them out onto the road and slammed the gate behind. The old man stomped off without another word. The woman gave a whoop and clapped Ripka on the back.
“Haven’t seen you ‘round before, lady, but that was a fine showing, twisting up old Hammod like that.”
Ripka flushed. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“Sweet of you, but Hammod’s all bluster. I suppose now you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s running home to change his pants.”
“That’s unkind, Latia,” Dranik said.
“True, though, innit?” She flashed him a grin, and he rolled his eyes.
“So sorry to get you involved,” Dranik said, turning to shake Ripka’s hand, “but thank you nonetheless. Hammod may be toothless, but he’s got to learn that that kind of behavior is no way to argue a point.”
“You really believe all that stuff you were saying?” she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
Latia snorted. “He believes it well enough, it’s what he’s willing to do about it where it all falls down.”
“Now, that’s unkind,” Dranik admonished. Latia rolled her eyes, but lapsed into silence. “I am a believer, it’s true. Say, you didn’t get to finish your teas. May I buy you another?”
“And bend our ears?” Ripka asked. Dranik shoved his hands in his pockets and made a close survey of the ground.
“Hah,” Latia said, “don’t let him pick the place, he’s got terrible taste. Let’s all go back to my studio. I’ve got the tea, and Dranik hasn’t got the grains to treat you both anyway. Could barely afford his own cup today.”
“I afforded my cup just fine!”
“Then why were you nursing it so long?”
Dranik scuffed a kick against the dirt floor. “Fine. But I’ll replace the tea we drink.”
“Sure you will. Care to join us?” Latia turned to Ripka and Honey, eyebrows raised expectantly.
“What about your other friend?” Ripka asked.
“Oh. Him.” Latia threw her hands in the air dramatically. “He’d only drink the tea to be seen drinking it, if you catch my meaning. So, what about it? Coming along?”
“We’d love to. I’m Ripka, and this is Honey,” she said. Latia gave Honey the once-over and harrumphed.
“Don’t hear a name like that every day.”
“It’s for my voice,” Honey said. Ripka held her breath, but they seemed to take this at face value. Despite Honey’s muted rasp, she had an undeniable sweetness to every syllable.
As they followed the two through the city, listening to them rehash old arguments, Ripka leaned close to Honey and whispered.
“Did you get a knife?”
“Found it.” She flashed Ripka a quick glimpse of a worn fruitknife and then slipped it back into her pocket.
“Where?”
“The waitress’s apron.”
Ripka coughed on a laugh and grinned despite herself. “Honey, you little thief.”
“She wasn’t using it,” Honey protested, a faint pout on her lips.
“Keep it close,” Ripka said, eyeing Dranik’s back. “And hidden.”
Chapter Nine
Aransa. City of fire. City of blood. City of Thratia Ganal. It slid into view upon the horizon just like any other city, the sharp crags of its skyline a black blot under the bowed head of the setting sun.
Such a city should not appear so docile, so sleepy under the lowing of the day’s light. Detan wanted to hate the sight of it. This was the city that had almost trapped him, almost enslaved him. This was the city where he dug deepest, reached out and rendered the sky in flame.
This was the city that broke him, though it took a while for the cracks to show.
And yet he could not hate it. Could not even summon up a mild disgust. Aransa was beautiful, with its dormant mountain cut through with streets and city life facing the relatively blank face of its commerce-supplying firemount. Those black shards of obsidian that stretched between the city and the firemount gleamed even in the setting light, their heat twisting vision into smoky waves. Somewhere beneath those shards a vast chamber of magma dwelt, merging with the desert heat to create a killing field.
He’d walked that field, once. Walked it with Ripka, for Ripka, and had come out the other side a different man.
No, he couldn’t hate it. Aransa was the city that’d forged him. He was only gaining temper, now. Honing his edge for what was to come.
Closer, and the differences began to show. Thratia’s compound had expanded, bled out across the level below. The first time he’d seen it, the size had struck him as ostentatious. Now, with her walls consuming half of a whole level, he realized how wrong he’d been that first time. She’d just been waiting. Waiting to consume the city whole.