The injury he’d given her.
They stared at one another as the ship tied in and the gangplanks were thrown down. She’d tried to kill him, or capture him, more than once. And here he was, strolling into her home under the power of one of her lackeys. Knee already bent, head bowed to her whims. She had called for him, reached south across the Scorched to a knobby little island in the middle of the Endless Sea and said: come.
And he had. He’d come when she called. Because he desired nothing more than to make her regret it.
He was on the dock, couldn’t even recall walking down the gangplank, standing in front of Thratia. Trying real hard not to look down, not to spare the boards beneath his feet a glance. He didn’t want to see the stain of Bel’s blood there. Didn’t want to see that it’d been scrubbed clean even worse.
“Thratia. You’re looking better every day.”
She cut her gaze to Aella. “You told me he’d changed.”
“He’s started to,” the girl corrected.
A sane woman would have sighed. Would have glared at him and told him to shove it, or otherwise admonished him for mocking the very wound he’d dealt her. Thratia’s lips didn’t even twitch. She cocked her head to the side, looked him over real slow, and nodded to herself. “You’ll do.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, but she had already turned her back on him.
“See Aella’s people settled,” she said to her entourage. “Get secure facilities for the two prisoners, and show the guards where the training grounds are. Upper floor rooms for Aella and the Lord Honding. Honding has free run of the city, do not detain him. Aella–” She turned back to the girl and jerked her head to the side. “With me. My people will make sure Callia’s settled.”
And just like that, Thratia was gone, Aella floating along at her side like a ghost. Her people swarmed Aella’s guards, the ship, bundled off Clink and Forge and set to carrying Callia away to be looked after. Detan found Misol directing the unloading of the ship and looked at her, open-mouthed.
“That’s it?” he asked.
Misol shrugged. “I don’t make the rules. Explore the city, if you’d like.” She grinned a little. “I won’t stop you.”
“Lord Honding?” an attendant sidled up to him. “Would you like to be shown your rooms?”
“I…” he stammered, annoyed that Thratia, of all people, had managed to put him at a loss for words. “No. No. I’m going to go for a walk. Get my land-legs back.”
“As you wish. When you return, any of the house staff will be able to show you to your rooms, you have but to ask.” The attendant dipped her head and raised her palms above her head. “Skies bless,” she said, and bustled off to see to her other duties.
“Skies bless,” Detan responded by rote, numb with shock. Whatever he’d been expecting in Thratia’s home, it hadn’t been a household holding to the old functions of politeness. He certainly hadn’t expected to be turned loose to do as he pleased just like any other guest.
Time to test the leash, he thought, and turned his back on the ill-omened dock to greet the streets of Aransa.
Chapter Ten
Latia’s studio nestled in the cool shadow of one of Hond Steading’s many firemounts. Though Hond Steading’s firemounts lacked the impressive, steep angles of Aransa’s Smokestack, hints of the wealth they generated for the city clung to the sides of each and every one of them. Even from Latia’s studio Ripka could see the fittings of pipework that snaked down the firemount from its mouth, moving selium and gathering it into central confinement chambers as sel-miners urged it along.
“The view’s a bit rubbish,” Latia said, as she swung open the door to her studio. “But I own the place outright.”
“Built it with her own two hands,” Dranik threw in. Latia scoffed.
“Mine and a half dozen others. Used to be I let other artists flop at my place when they were hard up, so when it came time to build my own studio they were all keen to help out. Some of ‘em still drop by, but it’s rare. They think I’m a snob now that I own property. Figures.”
She ushered them into a wide, round sitting room with arched walkways hung with gauzy curtains leading out onto a patio. The walls were mud-plastered, but every inch had been enriched with vibrant frescoes in reds and yellows and blacks. Rare birds, lush flowers, and fish that Ripka suspected were purely imaginary, danced on every available surface.
“Is this your work?” Ripka asked.
Latia flicked the back of her hand through the air, as if brushing away their existence. “Old stuff, but yes. I like to keep the shadows of my past failures close.”
“Failures? But they’re beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Latia is too modest.” Dranik drew back one of the curtains to let in the breeze. “She believes everything she does is her best work while she’s making it, and her worst as soon as it’s done.”
“Piddle. You don’t make anything, my dear, and so you cannot possibly understand.”
“I make no objects, that’s true, but I am trying to make a new future for this tired world of ours.”
Latia rolled her eyes to the sweet skies. “If I could have but half your confidence, I’d have taken over the world by now.”
“What future?” Ripka asked, all curious innocence, as she traced a fish’s tail through the mud-plaster with the tip of her finger.
“Don’t get him started,” Latia admonished.
“Not everyone has their head in their paints, Latia dear.”
“At least let me get them their tea, first.”
After much fuss, Latia situated Ripka and Honey in creaky chairs of woven scrubgrass and deposited heavy cups of bright berry in their hands. The packed dirt patio was soft under Ripka’s feet, the breeze coming down off the firemount crisp with an edge of creosote. Latia might not have been fond of the view, but Ripka enjoyed it. It focused her, reminded her why Hond Steading mattered. Why she was making friends with these people, to discover if they knew any of Thratia’s loyalists.
“I don’t know why Dranik insists on meeting at cafes all the time,” Latia said, swilling her cup in her hand. “I make a much better brew here at home.”
“For the atmosphere, darling.”
“Do you enjoy it when Hammod chokes you then?”
“Is that a regular occurrence?” Ripka asked.
Latia grinned fiercely while Dranik squirmed in his seat. “We disagree often, Hammod and I, but usually he has the sense to take it to the forum for a proper debate. I haven’t a clue why he’s so wound up as of late. He’s never raised hands before,” Dranik admitted.
Latia said, “Could have something to do with the army marching to our doorstep.”
“Bah.” Dranik waved her off. “Thratia won’t crush us. She’d hardly want to take over a city that’s been kicked to pieces.”
“Oh, and does she write you personal letters to tell you as much? With little smooch drawings on the bottom, I bet. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t grind you beneath my heel. Hugs and Kisses, General Throatslitter.’”
“Don’t be so flip, Latia, this is important stuff. Dame Honding has had her run, but let’s face it, the dynasty’s dead. We need someone who will let us hold proper elections, debate city policies openly–”