Patrons milled about the exterior, talking to be heard over the soft threads of music seeping through the ramshackle building. Laughter and song and the vapor of alcohol mingled on the breeze, tinged with something else. Something Ripka couldn’t quite place.
“They’re so happy,” Honey murmured.
The shock of that statement stopped her walking. That was it, that was all there was. These people were happy, out enjoying the night and the company of others despite everything. Despite knowing their city was doomed to fight for its freedom, despite knowing full well that the armies of Thratia were only days away – perhaps even here already, if rumors of a convoy spotted to the west could be believed.
Unlike Aransa, these people hadn’t suffered weeks brewing in tension. Hadn’t strained under the fear of a doppel in their streets, of their warden murdered and who knew how many officials lined up next on that shadowy boogeyman’s chopping block. The people of Hond Steading were used to coming up on top. Ripka wasn’t even sure that they knew what it was to fear for a nation, for a people.
It should have brought her joy, to see so many of them without care. Instead, her stomach clenched. A people easy with themselves, mollified and convinced of their invincibility, were difficult to mobilize. Thratia would arrive to find a city full of fat goats, ready for the slaughter.
“Come on.” Ripka urged herself forward. “Let’s go find Latia and get some seats.”
Progress through the crowd was slow, halting. People did not endeavor to block her path so much as be completely indifferent to the fact that anyone of their number might have a sense of direction, of urgency. Ripka’s training ticked away, marking certain groups as more likely to cause trouble than others, rankling at the sight of knots of people blocking exits. Worse yet, vendors clustered in triangles around every door, hawking beer and wine and portable foodstuffs. Didn’t they see that this place had already burned down once? Fire was a real hazard on the Scorched, if they kept the doorways clogged, then–
“Here.” Honey’s short fingers gripped Ripka’s shoulder, stopping her mid-prowl of the perimeter. She pressed a lopsided clay mug of something dark and grainy and frothing into Ripka’s hand. “You need to relax.”
Ripka took a long sniff. The sweet aroma of fermented grains startled her – this was no backwater swill – and the smooth warmth of it going down eased knots she hadn’t realized she’d been bunching in her shoulders.
“Thanks.” She took a longer pull as Honey bought a beer for herself.
Someone banged a spoon against a tin cup and the collective heads of those gathered lifted to the noise, everyone turning to mill into the husk of a lounge. Ripka followed, hesitant, and every time she wondered about the structural integrity of the building she took a deeper drink of her beer. By the time they were gathered in the lobby, her cup was half empty.
“There you are!”
Ripka turned just in time to see Latia swoop down upon them. She’d piled up her hair in a mass of a bun, shoved a paintbrush through it to keep it in place, and donned the biggest, sparkliest set of hammered-copper earrings Ripka’d ever seen. A brief impression of the woman was all Ripka could gather before she was having her cheeks kissed in a dizzying rush, then Latia grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length, nodding to herself.
“This shade of red does become you.”
Honey grinned a bit over Latia’s shoulder and Ripka shot her a sour look. “Honey decided I needed an update.”
“A woman of few words, and excellent taste. I love it!”
Latia gathered Ripka’s shoulders under one arm, Honey’s under the other, and steered them firmly through the crowd toward a scattering of wood pallet tables that filled the floor before a burlap-curtained stage. She claimed a table toward the middle of the room and ushered both Ripka and Honey into chairs. One look at their drinks, and Latia clucked her tongue.
“For you, Ripka darling, that brew is just fine, but Honey! My dear, that just won’t do for that poor throat of yours. You!” She flagged down a harried-looking serving boy and thrust a finger at Honey’s cup. “Get this poor dear a dark tea with whisky and honey, warmed up, now, and be quick. The dear girl is injured, for skies’ sake.”
Latia dropped copper grains into the boy’s outstretched hand and he raced off. “There!” She collapsed into her seat in a puff of stone-smoothed linens and dust.
“Where is Dranik?” Ripka asked when Latia paused to take a breath.
“Oh, him.” Her face screwed up as if she’d tasted something sour. “Off on one of his little missions of truth and right-thinking, no doubt. Probably haranguing some poor passers-by in the market about the glory of a representative government.” She sighed heavily. “He is such an earnest, yet tedious young soul.”
“Is he not your elder brother?”
“Pah. Age is in here, my darling.” She tapped her temple with one finger, a bit of mustard-yellow paint dried on its tip. “And as such he is decidedly my younger fool of a brother. Poor dear. Mama poured a bunch of nonsense into his head, he hardly stood a chance.”
Ripka pressed her lips shut to keep from inquiring, fearing that if she seemed too eager to learn about Dranik’s politics she might stir suspicion. Latia was Dranik’s gatekeeper. If Ripka could ingratiate herself with the woman, then maybe she’d let her get a closer look at what was really going on.
She was forming a tree of questions in her mind to peel away the truth when the waiter arrived and plunked Honey’s new drink down. Before Ripka could find a proper opening question, the candelabras lining the walls were snuffed and all conversation fell to a soft murmur. While each table had its own guttering candle, the stage glowed with oil lamps, a brighter light than any of the candles could give.
The stage glowed like a stoked ember. Sorrowful notes from a violin moaned from behind the curtain, their hollow tone carving out a matching emptiness in Ripka’s belly. She leaned forward, and noticed Honey doing likewise. Honey’s eyes were rapt, glowing in the unctuous light from the lamps, her golden curls all aflame on the top of her head. Her bee-sting full lips moved, slowly, mouthing the tones of the violin.
Honey had seemed focused but bored when she danced death among the rioting prisoners of the Remnant. Now she was enraptured. Ripka swallowed a long sip of her drink, trying to tell herself her fingers trembled because she was overtired.
A woman’s silhouette stepped behind the thin curtain. She stood in profile, one arm extended to the sky, the other crooked at her back. She’d curled and teased her hair so much it obscured the shape of her face, of her shoulders. Just the slim curve of lips and nose were visible beyond the ringlets. Ripka leaned forward, trying to discern some telling feature, and the lips moved. The woman sang.
The sound was low, haunting. Shivers coursed up Ripka’s spine, trailing goosebumps across her entire body. Beside her, Honey mouthed the words, the barest whisper slipping past her lips. Neither the language nor the tune was familiar to Ripka, but the glaze over Honey’s eyes was enough to tell her the woman knew every word.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as a shadow fell over her shoulder, the presence of a man behind her, body warmed with exertion, shocking her out of her reverie.
“What are you doing?” Latia whispered, a low hiss.
Ripka forced herself to wrench her gaze away from the figure on the stage and turn in her seat. She was a little jealous to see Honey ignore the interruption, so intent was she on the performance. Ripka went cold.