She snapped her fingers, and the guards brought forward finely made rucksacks and set them at the feet of all four. Ripka picked hers up, flicked back the top, and was unsurprised to see her new clothes stuffed inside.
“But you are not leaving this place completely free. Meet your new friends.” She inclined her head to the guards, none of whom so much as twitched an eyebrow in response. “They will escort you out of the palace and into an inn in the market district. That’s the other side of the city, you’ll note. There you will be given two rooms to split however you please, and I will cover the cost for the duration of your stay. Which will be indefinite, as I will not have the time to figure out what to do with you four until well after Thratia has been repelled from these walls. The rules of your new lives are simple: you may not leave the grounds of the inn without escort, and then only for excellent reason. And you, Tibal.” She swivelled to pin him with her gaze. “You will be watched exceptionally closely, and your flier will remain here for safekeeping until I decide what to do with you.”
He bared his teeth at the Dame, an expression of aggression that shocked Ripka straight to the core. “Wouldn’t want to risk losing your spare heir, would you?”
She drew back as if struck, then pressed her lips together and gathered herself once more. “You are of my blood, though it chafes you so. Whether you believe me or not, I care what happens to you. I will see you safe, even if I must imprison you to ensure that fact.”
“Why not just lock us up? You’ve got a big jail here.” Tibal’s arms came unfolded, his head cocked to the side like he’d scented blood in the air. “Why dress up what you’re doing to us like it’s something better than imprisonment?”
“Because it is most decidedly temporary, and my jail is for persons who have been convicted of crimes.”
And the only crime they could be accused of was treason. Which always, always, came with a death penalty – no matter how enlightened a city claimed to be. Ripka shot Tibal a look, but he must have figured it out for himself, because he shut right up and took a step back, folding his arms over his chest to start a good and proper sulk.
Dame Honding surveyed them all, let her gaze linger on every last so-called traitor she’d harbored under her roof, and a spike of guilt stabbed at Ripka’s chest. Though she had been acting for what she felt was the greater good, still she had betrayed this woman’s trust. This firm, kind woman, who was struggling to keep her city safe while what little was left of her family dissolved all around her.
Though her expression was stern, the Dame appeared so very tired in that moment, and not just due to the late night. In fact, Ripka doubted she got to bed at a reasonable time at all any more. The unsteady lantern light highlighted the crow’s feet stamped around her eyes, the hard lines about her lips where she’d spent her life schooling her expression to careful neutrality. Here was a strong woman, a proud woman, worn thin by time and circumstance, looking for a future – any future with a positive outcome – for the people she had spent her life serving. And now, toward the end of her life, she had nothing at all to support herself with. No family. No army. Just a lot of scared people, and a tenuous alliance with an empire that’d always been hungry to reclaim control of her family’s legacy.
But she wasn’t alone, though she didn’t quite understand that fact.
“Time to go,” Ripka’s guard said. Mechanically, she swung her pack over her shoulder, unable to take her gaze from the Dame.
Halfway to the door, she called, “You know how to find him. Write to him. Please.”
The Dame’s brows lifted, and then Ripka was ushered out of the room, and the door clicked shut behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Aella had finished wringing his will down to nothing, Detan stumbled free of the arena and stood, bent over and panting, in the hallway. While he was busy trying to figure out how to make his feet work again, a grey-haired man in the livery of Thratia’s household staff passed down the hall, took one look at Detan, and halted.
“Is my lord all right?”
Detan squinted up at him. Though the man was a bit stooped with age, he held himself with a stiff grace, wiry grey hair slicked back into a perfect, cloud-like swoop. Detan’s first instinct was to tell the man off – he wasn’t much in the mood for company after Aella’d put him through his paces – but something in the man’s manner reminded him of New Chum and put him instantly at ease.
“Can I ask a rather stupid question?”
The man’s expression twitched, hiding whatever his knee-jerk reaction would have been – probably a joke at Detan’s expense. Detan grinned. Yes, he could get along well with this man.
“I will do my best to answer, sir.”
“Do you happen to have any idea where my room is?”
The man’s brows lifted. “Do you have a head injury, sir? I can take you to the apothik straight away, or bring one to your side.”
He forced himself to stand, leaning his back against the cold stone of the wall, and threw him a lopsided smile. “Whatever damage’s been done to my head was done ages ago, my good man. No, I just arrived yesterday morning and I – ah – have yet to spend an evening in my own bed.”
“That I can assist with. This way please, sir.”
Detan regained some semblance of dignity by smushing his hair back down, and followed. The servant kept a crisp pace, but the moment he heard Detan’s breath rasping in his chest he slowed without a word. Detan was so starved for kindness that simple act very nearly made him weep with joy.
“What’s your name, grey-fox?”
The servant’s steady steps faltered at this nickname, and he turned his head to hide his expression – but not quickly enough. A little hint of a smile peeked through. “I am Welkai.”
“Been here long, Welkai?”
The man threw him a bemused glance. Seemed most servants weren’t used to having to do any part of the talking that wasn’t yes sir-ing and no sir-ing. “I have been with the commodore a year, but I’ve lived in Aransa all my life, sir. As did my parents.”
Ah, a proper Scorched native. A son of a family who’d set down roots in one of the Scorched’s rapidly growing cities, who identified not as Valathean but as Aransan first and foremost. He thought of red-cheeked Jeffin, the young lad’s anger boiling over at the thought of allowing someone who was not Scorched to partake of the safety of Pelkaia’s ship. Such pride could be a dangerous thing. Could draw lines in the sand that could be exploited.
And if he were a proud Aransan, he may not be too keen on Thratia’s transformation of the city, and that was something Detan could use. But first he’d have to let the man know he was sympathetic to civic pride.
“Nice to have that sense of history. Not many in the Scorched get that pleasure nowadays, with people migrating here and there for work.”
“Indeed, sir. My brothers and I were lucky our parents chose Aransa to settle down in, as there are a wide variety of opportunities in this city that cannot be found elsewhere. Begging your pardon, my lord, I am sure such opportunities also exist in Hond Steading, but Aransa is big enough for our needs.”
He waved off Welkai’s social stumble with a smile. “My old homestead can be a bit too big for its britches sometimes. Aransa’s a good city, a nice size and full of possibility.” He’d once thought it was big enough for him to roam through without notice, to play his cons and ramble the streets free as the man he wished he could be. But he’d soon learned that the world was slow to forget him, and not even Aransa’s shadows cast far enough to hide the fire in his past. “Your brothers work at the compound too, then?”