“He will see you now.”
Grandon’s office was a study in sand and glass. The wall behind him was pockmarked with hexagonal windows, a high shelf encircling the whole room crowded with vials of all the various sands of the Scorched. Detan had never taken the man for being particularly interested in the geology of the region, but then, he hadn’t really thought much about what Grandon may or may not like. Save, of course, that he liked his food and his women and couldn’t give two shits for anyone serving him.
“You,” Grandon said, splaying both his hands on the chunk of wood that was his desk, “better have a very good reason for coming here.”
“Why thank you, I will take a seat. Your hospitality is always so refreshing, Grandon old pal.” Detan sauntered forward and flopped into the chair across from Grandon’s desk, leaning back to kick an ankle up on his knee. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, flicking his gaze around the room. “I’d ask you who your decorator is, but I suspect I’m looking at the man himself, am I right?”
“You have until the count of ten.”
“Now, now, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
“One. Two.”
Detan threw his palms up to forestall the count. “All right, all right. Always in such a rush, you mercers are. Time is money, and all that.” Damn his tongue. He was stalling, and he hadn’t even meant to. He was just loath to speak the words he needed to get his point across. “You may have heard of my impending nuptials?”
Grandon’s face went slack. “Everyone has heard.”
“Marvelous,” he lied, and clapped with pretend joy to cover the sour note in his voice. “Then I’m sure you can help me. I wish to purchase a large quantity of your liqueur for the happy day. A gift to my bride and our guests, to remind her of old times.”
The mercer’s fingers curled slowly to fists atop the desk. “You may remember that the local supply of honey was severely depleted after… the accident at the Hub.”
“Certainly a little explosion wasn’t enough to undermine your entire enterprise, Grandon. This place of yours,” Detan gestured to the finery all around them, “isn’t suffering from the lack.”
“True. My business survived your little fit. But the liqueur has become a dear thing, rare and precious. A top shelf varietal hardly seen outside this city. Steel, you’ll find, is the bulk of my business now. Pre-sharpened, of course.”
Ah. So Thratia no longer saw a point in hiding her weapons beneath crates of other goods. Figured. “But you do still sell the stuff?”
“For a price.”
A price to make even the richest selium trader blush, he had no doubt. This wasn’t just about the scarcity of honey in Aransa. Grandon was punishing him. Funny thing was, the abuse gave him a fleeting sense of relief. “I’m prepared to pay.”
“Nothing counterfeit, I assume?”
He smiled and flicked lint from the cuff of his pant leg. “Do you think me a pauper, Grandon? I have the routing cipher to the Honding coffers. Any counting house in this city will confirm them.”
Grandon raised both brows, greed overriding his anger. “You’re prepared to pay so much for a gift?”
“For my darling wife? Nothing but the best.”
“Well then.” He leaned forward, dragged a ledger open and dipped a pen into his inkwell. “Let’s talk logistics.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The guards, it seemed, just weren’t going to cooperate. When daybreak streamed through the tiny, most assuredly locked, window in their room, the guards knocked heavily on their door before barging in. Bleary-eyed and irritated, Ripka dragged herself to a seat in her bed, blinking back sleep. Honey sat awake in the bed next to her, gaze surprisingly sharp despite the early hour and late night. Probably a habit she’d picked up at the Remnant. Ripka hadn’t been locked in that place long enough to develop the same talent.
“Don’t you sleep?” she muttered at the guards who’d barged in, but they scarcely even glanced her way. Maids of the hotel brought in trays of porridge, fried eggs, and garden herbs, along with two tiny spoons, and scurried back out into the hall. Ripka watched all of this, dumbstruck. She’d been hoping for a communal breakfast with the boys, not a few trays delivered before she’d even had a chance to braid her hair.
The guard was beginning to close the door, the maids safely back in the hall.
“I have to use the privy,” she blurted, which was true enough, but she wanted to stop the rush of events, to have a moment to get her head on straight and possibly come up with a way to exploit their breakfast. The guard, a woman with a permanent scowl on her lips, sighed heavily and jerked her head toward the hall.
“One at a time, no dallying.”
Ripka hurried to her feet, and nearly lost control of her legs as the sore muscles screamed in protest the moment she put weight on them. Honey shot out a hand to steady her, and she took a moment to gather herself while the guard huffed in annoyance. Ripka shot her a sour look. Such impatience would never have been tolerated in her watchers.
They were shuffled, one at a time, to a small water closet stuffed at the back of the floor’s hall. Before Ripka could formulate anything like a plan, she found herself standing back in her room, the door locked firmly behind her, her nightshift too thin against the morning cold and her hair all a tangle.
“Well,” she said, scowling at the food that’d been left for them. “That was disappointing.”
Honey shrugged, stuffing her mouth so full with greasy eggs that her cheeks bulged. At least someone had the foresight to provide some soothing tea for the poor woman’s throat.
“Eat,” Honey muttered around a mouthful, arresting Ripka in a circle she hadn’t even realized she was pacing.
“Ugh.” Ripka flopped to the floor, cross-legged before her tray, and grabbed one of the crusty slices of bread. She knew she’d need her strength, but she was so irritated with the situation it was difficult to muster up an appetite. Yet, as soon as the bread touched her tongue, her stomach grumbled with anticipation. Honey giggled.
“All right, all right, you win,” Ripka said around a smile and a hunk of bread. Sweet skies, but she hadn’t realized how long it’d been since she’d eaten anything. The previous night seemed ages ago.
“What are we going to do?” she muttered around a mouthful. Honey shrugged and pushed a piece of cheese from her plate to Ripka’s. It hadn’t been a real question, anyway. She was thinking out loud, keeping her voice low so the guards wouldn’t overhear.
“Two guards in the hall at all times, it seems. One for each room. I got a look at the building as we walked up last night, and I think the guys’ room is the mirror of ours. So they’ve got a small window, too, but even if the guards wouldn’t hear us breaking the glass we’d all be shredded to bits by the time we squeezed through that little hole, and then there’s the climb down to deal with, and the walls looked pretty smooth.”
“Privy,” Honey prompted.
“No good. They’re keeping us stuck on this floor, though skies know how that trick of plumbing is being handled. And the window there is open, no glass to let the air in, but just about as wide as my forearm. Even if we could squeeze through, I doubt Enard and Tibal would make it, and there’s no way the guards would allow us to enter the privy one by one, each one vanishing just before the next. No. The privy’s out.”
“Fight?” Honey’s gaze had locked on the spoon in her hand. Ripka had seen the shiv Honey could carve from a wooden spoon. She’d hate to see what damage the woman could cause with a metal one.