“Fast as she’ll go,” Tibal called out.
And not fast enough at all. Ripka caught herself leaning forward as if the cant of her body could urge the little flier onward. The Honding messenger had grown closer as Tibal’s flier gained speed, close enough for Ripka to make out the lone man on its deck – a sel-sensitive, no doubt, one of the city’s elite pilots sent to deliver the message with all haste and care – but they could draw no closer. A gulf of empty sky hung between the two ships.
“No luck, Captain,” Tibal said.
“What if we were to wave an emergency flag?” Enard asked.
Ripka hmmed. The messenger was the closest craft in the sky, and as an official delegate of the city would be honor-bound to come to their aid. There was risk in explaining away the deception once the messenger grew close enough to board, but Ripka thought she might be able to wave the messenger’s suspicions away with explanations of urgency.
She found herself wishing for Detan’s easy charm, and pushed the thought away. Whatever he was up to, he was no immediate help to her now. And anyway, she’d spent weeks stewing on the Remnant, hiding who she was, masking her real purpose. Though her watcher training still chafed at the deceptions she’d woven, she’d come to accept that a few little lies were nothing in the face of a worthwhile cause. Especially if they were the only way to achieve her goal.
“Wave the flag,” she ordered.
Enard pushed to the fore rail and waved the emergency flag, a brilliant splash of crimson against the pristine sky. There was nothing subtle in this message, no effort at communicating detail. The empty stretch of red screamed one thing only: help. Ripka had only ever seen it waved once before in earnest, and even though she knew they were safe, the jarring stretch of it made her palms sweat with unease.
Squinting against the brightness, Ripka could just make out the hesitant tilt of the messenger’s head as he caught sight of their flag, then scanned the horizon to see if any ships were nearer. No luck for him. He came to their aid, or no one did. To add emphasis to their distress, she waved her arms above her head, feigning excitement that he had seen them.
The messenger visibly sighed, then began the process of swinging the ship around.
“Got him,” she said, and caught herself grinning. She really was developing a taste for deception.
The messenger’s ship closed the gap quickly, slipping up alongside Tibal’s heavier flier. The messenger himself was a stocky young man in the tight-cut uniform of the Honding household, the only item about his person less than pristine were the well-worn boots on his feet denoting his position as messenger. No messenger worth their salt would be caught dead in stiff, unbroken-in shoes.
“What trouble?” he boomed in a deep, clear voice.
Enard and Tibal both looked to Ripka, and for just a moment she froze, having no idea what to say next.
“Dame Honding sent me,” she blurted.
The messenger’s brows shot up and he took a wary step backward. “I don’t recognize you, and this is no official ship.”
Ripka summoned all the easy arrogance of authority she’d ever possessed, cocked her hips, and sauntered toward the rail. “Do you not know me?” She swept the wrap from her hair dramatically, as if revealing the whole of her face should spark some memory. “I am Ripka Leshe, watch-captain of fallen Aransa, advisor to your dame. Please tell me you are not that oblivious to palace matters.”
The messenger’s cheeks flushed deep and he twisted his sleeve between his fingers. “I’m sorry, but I wasn’t informed. Miss? Captain? I, uh–” He cleared his throat and glanced toward the navigation podium. “I have orders to attend. If your ship is in no danger, then–”
“I am delivering you new orders,” she snapped. The poor young man flinched and visibly repressed an urge to snap her a salute. She held out her hand across the space between the ships, fingers unfurled. “Hand me your parcel.”
He went white as his sails. “That is very much against protocol.”
She snapped her fingers impatiently. “War is coming to Hond Steading, young man. Do you think your precious protocol will remain unchanged? Quickly, now, this ship is slower but we may still catch the delegation before the sun sets.”
“You’re to deliver the message?” he asked, torn between relief and incredulity.
“Of course I am! Do you think for a sand-cursed moment it’s a good idea to send a green-chin like you to a delegation from the empress? Skies above, this city is such a mess – forgive my saying so – but this is no way to handle diplomacy.”
“I, ah – I didn’t think it was so important, you know, just following orders…”
“Less jawing, more handing me that parcel.”
She snapped her fingers again, and he scrambled like a sand flea dunked in a booze bath. The message was removed from a locked chest tucked behind the podium, its creamy paper tied off with a thick, silken ribbon stamped over with Dame Honding’s personal seal. The messenger passed it to her, hand trembling, and she hoped he was too nervous to notice she held her breath.
“Finally,” she said, and tucked the message under her arm. “Back to your barracks, now, and tell your master the message was delivered with care.”
“Yes ma’am!” He snapped her a sloppy salute and scrambled off, pointing his little craft toward the Honding palace docks.
Ripka let loose a breath so deep her shoulders slumped from the force of it leaving. Enard grinned at her, but her own smile was snuffed by Tibal’s sour stare.
“Almost saw the ghost of Honding, there.”
“Funny. I see a real flesh-and-blood Honding right here.”
He went very, very still. She swallowed, hard, regretting the words as soon as she’d said them. She was too jittery. Too anxious over what she’d done to keep her damned mouth shut. The parcel under her arm dragged at her, heavy as the treason she’d just committed. It was one thing to con her way into a prison; that was to free a good man. It was another entirely to undermine the direct orders of a lawfully ruling woman – one whom she respected, at that. She felt sick. Tibal’s hard stare made her feel sicker.
“Point us toward the north,” she said crisply, covering her anxiety with a veneer of professional calm. Seemed all she had left was a collection of veneers, nowadays. She wondered if this was what it was like to be Pelkaia, never quite sure of which face she was going to wear for the moment, let alone the day. “We don’t want the messenger thinking we’re doubling back so soon. Then we’ll bring the flier home, so you can tear her apart.”
“Don’t be coming to me for help with this nonsense again.”
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
Ripka faced the sea-kissed northern winds, her back to Tibal so she wouldn’t have to see the hurt in him, and wondered where things had all begun to fall apart.
Chapter Fourteen
Given the opportunity to be elsewhere, not even Thratia’s lackeys were populating her compound. Detan’s boots echoed in the empty entryway, the angry brightness of the chandeliers not enough to penetrate the shadows that gathered in the high ceilings. A few staff dotted the place, seeing to the type of menial chores Detan had spent most of his life trying to pretend didn’t exist. If Tibs hadn’t made him dust the flier on occasion, he probably wouldn’t know which end of a broom was up.
Despite the meager audience, he sauntered past the single, half-asleep guard at the door and slapped a pompous grin on his face. Body language wasn’t just about fooling onlookers, after all. The demeanors he switched as often as he changed his longjohns – often enough, thank you kindly – were just as much about convincing him of his adopted role as they were about fooling others.