“That’s better,” Nouli said.
Ripka had to agree. As the Larkspur swung about, the ship pointed them at the city’s core, the dense urban center that swarmed around the Honding family palace. It backed up against the largest of the city’s firemounts. The palace itself stepped up the side of the mountain, but the city stayed resolutely in the belly of the valley. A wall swaddled the dense-packed heart of the city.
Compared to the wall that had encircled Aransa, it was a meager thing. It must have been some vestige of the city’s earlier life, when it was little more than a frontier outpost. Now the gates stood wide open, disgorging citizens in both directions. While Ripka doubted those gates had been shut in decades, the mere sight of them eased her worries. At least they had some sort of defensive measure to work with.
From one of the palace’s many high towers a straight blade of a dock awaited them. The Larkspur sidled against it, timbers shivering at the contact. Heavy thumps drummed the air as the crew tossed anchors and tie lines over the sides.
Three men in the sharp, black livery of the Honding family approached the ship. Their uniforms gave Ripka pause. She’d known Detan was a lord of an old family, but around him that was easy to forget. He was a flippant man, caring but unpredictable. Half the time he was in desperate need of a bath.
But these guards – their weapons might have been hidden, but Ripka knew a fighting force when she saw one – who arrayed themselves on the dock wore the insignia of his family with pride. The same sword and pickaxe crossed over a ship’s sail that was burned into the back of Detan’s neck. On them it was dignified. Red and gold embroidery stitched into black coats trimmed with crimson. On Detan, the scar had been a dirty, greasy mess.
“Ho, Larkspur,” a man with a head of iron-grey hair called out. “You’ve been expected.”
Whether that was a good thing or not, Ripka wasn’t sure, but she’d come all this way to keep Thratia from taking another city. Whatever was waiting for her in the Honding family palace, she would prevail.
By previous arrangement, Pelkaia, Tibal, and Ripka were the only ones to leave the ship. Though Hond Steading was supposed to be friendly territory, they had no idea what they faced within those walls – what the rumors of Detan’s misadventures would do to their welcome. The more of them left to man the ship in case of a quick escape, the better.
Ripka gave Nouli a pat on the shoulder and followed Tibal down the gangplank. Pelkaia drifted after them. While her back was rigid, and her chin held with regal bearing, Ripka found something odd about her posture, as if she were trying to hide some sort of pain. Just a few weeks ago, Pelkaia had swung down from the ropes of the Larkspur without care. Now she looked shy of so much as a stubbed toe.
The iron-haired man bowed to the three and fixed his gaze on Pelkaia.
“You are Pelkaia Teria captain of the Larkspur, am I correct?”
Pelkaia inclined her head. After the disaster on the Remnant, she’d stopped bothering to hide the ship’s distinctive lines. “I am that. This is Ripka Leshe, and Tibal.”
“Well met,” he said, bowing his head to each. “I am Gatai, keymaster of the Honding household and personal attendant to Dame Honding. The Dame awaits you in her meeting room. Do you require ablutions before we proceed? I can also send for fresh water to be brought to your ship.”
Ripka raised her brows despite her desire to remain aloof. This kind of hospitality was common on the Scorched: fresh water and a cloth to clean your face were the simplest of pleasures in the desert, but rarely were they offered to those who were unwelcome. She hoped this offering was a good sign for their future, and not just a Honding family matter of pride.
There was a scuffle of feet behind them, and the group turned as one. Honey made her way down the gangplank, Enard’s hand half-extended as if he’d tried to grab her shoulder and missed. The woman’s curly mop of hair caught the sunlight with unsettling brilliance, as if someone had set her alight. She hummed to herself as she strolled along, unmindful of all the startled gazes upon her, and came to stand beside Ripka.
Pelkaia gave Ripka a look that said, quite clearly: can’t you control your pet? While Tibal refused to look at her at all.
Gatai cleared his throat gently. “A pleasure to meet you as well…?”
Honey just stared at him, humming a little lullaby so soft Ripka wondered if she were the only one who could hear it.
“This is Honey,” Ripka offered to cut the tension. “She…” Ripka faltered. What in the pits was she supposed to say here? She’s a woman with a lust for blood who follows me around like a suckling kitten and we’re all worried that if I send her back she’ll make roasts of the crew in my absence? “She’s a friend.”
Honey beamed. Gatai didn’t seem convinced – he had a pucker between his brows that even careful training couldn’t smooth away – but he gathered himself and bowed his head to Honey.
“You are all,” and here he raised his voice to be heard by the crew crowding the rail, “welcome to Hond Steading.”
Unsteady murmurs from the crew. They’d spent all their time aboard the Larkspur avoiding cities like Hond Steading, hiding out in places where imperial reach was imperfect, where their deviant abilities were less likely to get them run out of town or killed. Ripka, having no selium sensitivity herself, wondered what they felt now, to be both known and welcomed in the largest city on the Scorched. She’d be wary, in their place. But there must be some relief. Some fragile hope that at last they may have found a place to belong.
“My ship will take water. We, however, are anxious to greet the Dame.”
One of Gatai’s men broke away, crisp-stepping into the palace to place the order for water without so much as a glance from Gatai. Ripka watched him go with hungry eyes. Here was a well-oiled machine, a force trained to respond without direct interference from their leader. She was desperate to pick Gatai’s brain on his training techniques. But then, it’s not like she had a group to train any more.
“After me, please,” Gatai said, and led them with practiced formality into the palace. Ripka’s heart thumped away in her throat, excitement thrumming through her despite the cool disposition she cultivated.
This place was legend. And though most legends failed to live up to their grandeur once seen up close, she found the Palace Honding did not disappoint.
Its walls were carved of native rock, set so close and fine she could not tell if they were mortared at all. Oil-fed candelabras grew from the ceiling, wrought iron twisted to look like lavish vines, their light bright and warm and pure in the wide hall. A simple stretch of fine wool made up the rug cushioning her feet. It would be unremarkable, except that the whole length of it had been dyed a brilliant, emerald green. Such color she had never seen before outside of nature. She imagined Detan as a child, running wild through the palace, and wondered if he ever really understood what privilege he’d been gifted until the day it had been stripped from him.
Dame Honding’s meeting room was no less elegant, but the Dame herself held Ripka’s eye. Ripka had expected a battleship of a woman. What she found instead was a spear.
Dame Honding stood at the head of the room, one hand resting on the back of a chair it seemed obvious the advisors fidgeting by her side would much rather she sit in than stand beside. Her hair – gone wholly to silver – had been piled atop her head in an elegant bun, framed by the crossed pickaxe and sword carved into the wall behind her. She was the tallest woman Ripka had ever seen. Despite age lending a slight stoop to her shoulders, she towered over all gathered. And though her arms were wrapped in navy silk, the slight curve of muscle along her bicep betrayed an active lifestyle.