“And how do we get to this pantry?” Clink asked, eyes narrowed.
“I will escort you, of course.”
“The pits you will. Nothing doing, Honding. We appreciate you’ve gotten us this far but you’re a peacock in this nest. Servants may go unnoticed, but everyone notices you.”
Blasted woman was right, no matter how he hated the fact. The role he’d chosen to play here wasn’t exactly one conducive to sneaking about. And the lord of the palace caught skulking with a couple of maids, even if they weren’t recognized, wouldn’t do him any good either.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’ll precede you to the end of this wing as a lookout.”
“Deal.”
He explained the way to the pantry in broad strokes, steering them clear of the populous areas. The girls made quick work of changing their clothes. Detan was relieved as anything to see Forge slip the packet he’d given them for Ripka securely on the inside of her crisp top. It was no guarantee, but it was something. Enough to ease the tension coiled within him.
“Ready?” he asked.
Nods from both. No time like the present for a little skullduggery, then. He pressed his ear against the door, listening for a few slow breaths to be sure they wouldn’t troop straight into some random’s path, then cracked the door just a sliver. All clear.
A peacock, they’d called him. He could work with that. Shoving his hands in his pockets he sauntered into the hall, a pleased smile slapped across his features and what he hoped was a jaunty tilt to his chin. Tibs would probably tell him he looked stupid but, this time around, that was the point.
The hall was clear right to the end, then Detan damned near tripped over a man strutting about in one of the grey coats of Thratia’s militia. His heart jumped clear to his throat.
He over-exaggerated a stumble, forcing the man back down the hall that intersected the one the others were in, and threw his arms out to puff his coat and obscure any tell-tale signs of black. Servant’s garb or not, if they stumbled across someone who knew their faces, it was all over.
“Whoa,” the militiaman said as he put an arm on Detan’s shoulder to steady him. “You all right, sir? Look like you seen a ghost.”
“Didn’t hear you coming, good man. This wing of the palace is dreadfully quiet. Why is that? Where is everyone?”
The man’s face scrunched under the one-two punch of questions, trying to find a place to latch onto without overstepping his position too much. Detan made a show of straightening his clothes while the man thought, flapping about and generally being an annoyance.
“Lots to be seen to, sir, and it’s still early yet.” Was the answer he eventually arrived upon. Which possibly told Detan more about the militiaman than he’d intended. Bloodshot eyes. Droopy, sallow cheeks. Detan knew the look of a man sneaking away for a nap when he saw one.
“Indeed.” He put on a lofty tone of voice, looking down his nose at him. “And with so much to do, what are you doing back at the apartments, then, forget something?”
“Oh. I. Uh, er…”
Detan put an arm around the man’s shoulders, turned him back down the hall from which he’d come, and lowered his voice to whisper conspiratorially. “I understand, man, I do. Thratia’s one pits-cursed taskmistress, isn’t she? But I can’t just let you saunter on. Hurry back to your duty, and I’ll have the servants bring you some bright eye berry.”
The man swallowed. “You won’t report me?”
“Me? Nah. Truthfully, I understand. It’s been a long couple of days, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He bobbed his head a few times in an awkward half-bow, half-salute, and trundled off down the hall as quick as his leaden legs would let him. When he was well and truly gone, Detan let out a huge sigh of relief and grinned to himself. Still got it.
“Way’s clear, ladies.” He grabbed the corner of the wall and swung around to face them.
They’d already gone.
Chapter Forty-Five
Ripka had stood in front of a lot of crowds in her time as watch-captain. Had given her fair share of speeches, most of them structured in the formal trappings of her station. Each time she’d felt calm, assured. She knew her place, and the people she addressed knew it, too.
Now, her stomach coiled in knots. The forum was a much bigger venue than Dranik had made it out to be, and after the eruption the people of Hond Steading had come out in force to discuss the matters of their city.
On the edge of the palace district, shoved up against the backside of the main market, an amphitheater had been carved into the ground. Bright morning sunlight spilled across the hundreds of eager and wary faces crowded into the stone-cut benches, the steady rustle of cloth and murmur of voices reduced to a low hum by the fine acoustics. As Ripka lined up with all of those who wished to speak along the side of the stage, half the eyes in the place clung to her like thorns. Of all those lined up, she was the outsider. The one speaker the citizens did not recognize as a regular.
No different than quelling a riotous crowd, she told herself, and had to stifle a wolfish grin lest those watching think she was mad. At least these people were less likely to try and tear her limbs off.
“Next up,” the organizer boomed from above the podium. “Ripka Leshe, of Aransa.”
Game time. Her fear fled in a flash, anxiety melting from her limbs as her focus narrowed to the podium, and the crowd. There was nothing else in all the world.
Dranik followed her, standing a respectable distance behind her as she placed her palms on the cool stone lectern and leaned earnestly forward. He was not there to speak. Everyone who frequented the forum knew him, and knew that his physical presence was a silent endorsement of what she had to say.
“People of Hond Steading,” she began, thanking the sweet skies for Latia’s knowledge of tea that her voice was smooth and without hitch. She pitched her tone low, going for carriage, and the clever acoustics of the forum did the rest. “I am the watch-captain of Aransa, or was on the day that city fell, and I have come to tell you of what happened in the streets that day.”
Outbursts in the crowd, indistinct but clear in tone: shock, smug recognition. She held up a fist to silence them and, to her surprise, they quieted immediately.
“The day Aransa lost its right to determine its own warden, its own leadership, the streets were flooded with coats of grey.” She tipped her head to point toward the shadow of the Dread Wind over the Honding palace. Any citizen aware enough of the city’s events to attend this forum must have seen Thratia’s militia about, their grey uniforms a ghostly contrast to the ruling family’s black.
“It was my job, my duty, my honor, to protect that city’s right to govern itself under the guidance of Valathean law. I failed that night. I failed in the weeks leading up to that night. And I have come to you, today, to tell you all the ways in which I have failed. So that you – so that we – may not fail again.”
She gathered breath to dive into her next point when a man shouted from the front bench, “Who says a city has fallen just because Thratia Ganal governs it?”
Murmurs of assent spread out around him. The organizer scowled and stepped forward, intent on silencing the man, but Ripka held up a hand to stay him. If she did not face criticism head-on, she would win no one’s mind or heart today.
“Speak your name, dissenter,” she said.
He stood, a thatch of grey hair set aglow atop his head by the angle of the sun. “I am Hammod. All who attend this forum regularly know me.”