She ignored the scorn in his voice, the hint that because she was not a regular here, she was not welcome. “Hammod. Have you met someone who has lived under Thratia’s rule?”
His cheeks flamed red. “Cowards calling themselves refugees is all we’ve seen come through Hond Steading. Opportunists seeking succor from the Dame’s teat, more like. Anyone with any grit has stayed in Aransa. She was elected, as you know. Fair as a calm sky.”
“Elected? And who counted those votes? Commodore Ganal stepped into a power vacuum that her own games had caused–” Ripka carefully danced over the issue of Pelkaia’s involvement. “–and assumed control without the consent of the people. No voting ever took place when I walked those streets, and I left on the day she decided to call herself Warden.”
“Left? I heard you were run out. A traitor made to walk the Black Wash. Why in the pits should we listen to you?”
Ripka hadn’t counted on that story making it to Hond Steading, but of course Thratia would have it spread. She’d been in the city long enough to set her people to whispering – and even before then, Ripka had no doubt that Thratia’s counterintelligence were working hard to keep Hond Steading’s loyalties divided. Explaining the circumstances of that walk, her so-called execution, would take too long – and muddy the waters. She needed something quick, sharp, if not entirely truthful, to clear her name.
“If I had walked the Black, would I be alive to stand before you today?”
Awkward shifting from those in the front rows who had murmured on Hammod’s behalf. No one survived the Black. That was common knowledge. And if she had, then she certainly didn’t fit Hammod’s mold of a cowardly opportunist trying to take advantage of the Dame’s hospitality. Before Hammod could gather himself for another volley, she pressed on.
“This is what Thratia does! She gives herself all appearance of legitimacy, pretends to legally hold the things she’s actually taken. Do you think she came here simply for a wedding?”
Ripka jabbed a finger at the sky, and the silhouetted fleet hanging in it. No one could doubt those ships had been outfitted for war, not romance.
“Do not let her poison your minds. Do not let her assume control through your complacence. We have already seen a demonstration of her willingness to cause destruction to achieve her desires – yes, I place the blame of last night’s eruption at her feet. Do you not think she has a weapon capable of demonstrating such power aboard that fortress ship of hers?
“That was a message for the Dame and her troops. But it was a message you, the people of Hond Steading, must hear. The watch is not enough to keep these streets safe, I promise you that. More souls are needed. Able, quick-minded individuals who want to keep their home, their city, safe. There is no telling what Thratia will do next. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety.
“She will try to take this city legally – by marrying its heir. And I tell you this, he wants no part of that plan. But your ruling family is being held prisoner. Their hands are tied. It is up to you to protect yourselves, now. The time for polite discourse has passed.”
A few whoops from the audience gave her heart, but the crowd was mostly inclined to quiet chatter. Her heart sank. This was the wrong audience for this. These were people who wanted to talk out their problems. A good and noble thing – but Thratia Ganal would let you talk all day while she maneuvered a crossbow behind your back.
Hammod scowled and stomped off toward the line to speak, cutting her a hard glare. Ripka closed her eyes a moment, head bowed over the podium. She knew the rules. Dranik had explained them to her. If she stood mute for more than a minute, she would be removed, and the next in line would have a chance to speak. They could go back and forth like this all day, bickering over the ethics, the legality, while Thratia’s warship had a speargun pointed at all their necks.
She laughed, loud enough to be heard, and lifted her head, letting her tired eyes roam those gathered. When all had quieted, she lifted her hands, her raw and bleeding fingers, and examined them in the harsh morning light.
“Last night I dug the bodies of your fellow citizens from the ruin of their homes. Forgive me if I am short of words.” She put her hands back down, gripping the edge of the podium. “If you wish your city to survive the coming weeks, come see me. Otherwise, make use of this forum while you can. Thratia will not let you keep it long.”
She strode off the stage to profound silence, and did not bother to stop to sign her name in the speaker’s log as was tradition. Her hands shook with anger at her sides, her focus so narrowed that all she could see was the route out of this place – this place of pointless bickering.
Once out on the street, she tipped her head back and glared at the sun, then flicked her eyes away before they could ache. She was going to lose another city to Thratia Ganal. She didn’t know what she wanted to do more: strangle someone, or drink herself stupid.
A footstep crunched behind her, hesitant. She spun, expecting Dranik.
A young man she didn’t recognize jumped back from her sudden attention, pupils wide. “Captain Leshe?” he asked.
“Miss Leshe suits me fine,” she said by reflex.
His grin was fierce. “Not to me. Not to us.”
She blinked. Over his shoulder, a few dozen youths filtered out of the forum, shifting anxiously in the dusty street, each and every one trying to get a good, long look at her. She forced herself to pick her head up, to push her shoulders back, but found she’d never left that posture behind after all.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, not daring to hope. They weren’t all young, some grey heads mingled in the group, their numbers swelling until Ripka couldn’t keep count.
“Where do we sign up?”
Chapter Forty-Six
After Clink and Forge so rudely abandoned him to seek their freedom, Detan paced the empty residence halls of the palace, wondering just what in the pits everyone was up to, but not quite curious enough to go find out for himself. It’d be just his luck Ranalae was planning some new heinous experiment for him. Or worse, his auntie and Thratia were busy picking out decorations for the wedding.
Thing was, he knew where he was going from the moment he wandered away from the east wing. Knew where his feet were leading him, though he didn’t allow himself to approach the thought. There was one place in the palace he’d avoided since coming home. One room he hadn’t dared to poke his head into.
Tibal’s.
The door swung open easily under his hand. Unlatched, unlocked. Left ajar, as was often Tibs’s way when he was head-deep in a project and couldn’t be bothered with niceties like closing doors and bathing. A fan of dust cleared away in the wake of the door. Not even the servants had bothered to touch his room. Detan couldn’t blame them. Last time he’d tried to polish a wrench Tibs hadn’t talked to him for a week.
It’d been the longest they’d gone without talking, before the Remnant.
He stepped inside. His fancy, polished boots felt strange clicking across the gritty floor. Tibs’s sheets were a twisted mess on the narrow bed, his tools spread out around the room in a pattern that made perfect sense to Tibs, and no one else. Detan reached for a hammer, thought better of it, and pulled his hand away before his fingers had brushed the surface. Touching Tibs’s tools pissed him off, and though he’d probably never be privy to Detan’s little saunter through this room, the habit was ingrained. Living as close together as they had on the flier had given them both clear boundaries to be respected. Mostly so they wouldn’t kill each other.
He shivered. Tibs had left the door to the airship dock open, probably never bothered to close the thing the whole time he was here. Damned man never felt the cold, not even during the harshest of winter nights in the highlands of the desert. Despite the airflow, the subtle scent of machine grease and leather clung to the fabric in the room. A phantom of Tibs’s presence.