“A gift to you, my lovely bride.” Detan’s voice was firm but gentle. Even Ripka couldn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in it. “To remind you of all the time we’ve spent together.”
Gatai poured. He placed the glass before Thratia. Even Thratia, a known teetotaler, couldn’t turn down a gift from her husband on their wedding day. She forced a smile and took a small sip.
“Fond memories of Aransa,” she said, loud enough to carry. The crowd applauded as Detan sat back down, the long line of well-wishers clustering forward once more.
“Is he getting them drunk?” she asked.
“Seems like.” Enard waved down a servant who had just finished topping up a guard. They each took a glass, and a small sip. Ripka wrinkled her nose.
“Grandon’s honey liqueur.”
“Indeed,” Enard agreed. “But something else, too, something bitter…”
“Golden needle,” Honey offered.
Ripka swirled her glass, took a long sniff and another, careful, sip. “Fiery pits. She’s right.”
“He’s not just getting them drunk. He’s knocking them all out,” Enard said with admiration. And Thratia, who never drank alcohol, wouldn’t have the slightest clue the brew was off. The hint of sedative was just faint enough that Ripka doubted even the heaviest of drinkers would notice. Golden needle was a strong flavor… Nouli and Pelkaia must have worked out a means to cover it. She grinned fiercely.
“That won’t take long to work. We should be ready.”
Enard nodded and sat his still-full cup carefully down on a passing dish-tray. Ripka and Honey followed suit. “I have a feeling there’s little we can do until the action starts. With luck, the Lord Honding will inform us further.”
“Have you seen Captain Lakon? I should warn him.”
“Sir, please, wait your turn,” a guard was saying firmly at the front of the room. Ripka pressed to her toes to see over the heads of those around her. Tibal stood in front of the couple’s banquet table, swaying with drink, a cup still clutched in one hand. Not the honey liqueur, thank the skies, but it seemed Tibs hadn’t needed the extra kick to get drunk in a hurry. He pinned a hard stare on the guard and slurred. “I’m family.”
“Shit.” Ripka dropped back down from her toes.
“What?” Enard pressed.
“When did you last see Tibal?”
“He was right behind me during the ceremony.”
“Drinking himself stupid.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Right.”
“It’s all right,” Detan’s voice echoed through the hall. He hadn’t seen the man was Tibal yet, couldn’t have. Ripka swore and elbowed her way through the crowd, but she was too far back. There was no way she could peel him away in time. “Let the man give his blessing.”
The crowd broke in front of Ripka. Tibal sauntered forward, set his cup down on the table in front of a slack-jawed Detan, and smirked.
“Congratulations on the nuptials, cousin.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Detan couldn’t shut his mouth. He knew it was open, knew he should probably do something about that. This was his wedding, after all. Walking around catching flies in his wide-open trap was probably not the done thing. But he couldn’t help himself.
Tibs. Drunker than he’d ever seen him. And cleaner, too, in a pretty neat-looking suit that Detan wished he could swap him for. And he had just declared himself Detan’s cousin. In front of Thratia. Worse, in front of Ranalae and Aella who, even though they were seated down Thratia’s side of the table, Detan could tell clear as day were practically salivating at the thought.
“Tibal,” Thratia said, with a surprising amount of grace. She held her hand out to him and, to Detan’s great horror, Tibs took the clawed thing and bowed politely over it. “Always a pleasure to see you.”
“Welcome to the fucking family,” Tibs drawled.
Detan cleared his throat. Hard. Tibs didn’t seem to notice, the damned fool. Where was Ripka, anyway? Someone desperately needed to reel Tibs back in, and it couldn’t be Detan.
“I am delighted to hear you’re a part of our little family. The Hondings are so sadly small in number.” Thratia continued with the whole polite-elegant act. Detan gripped the handle of his fork and considered sticking it in her eye. He could probably get away with it. At least until her guards punched him full of arrows.
Detan stared hard at Tibs and willed him to keep his trap shut. Tibs was just as inclined to listen to Detan’s attempt at psychic orders as he was his verbal ones.
“Bastards aren’t hard to come by in any family, Commodore.”
He snapped her a salute that was, under the circumstances, pretty crisp. Detan supposed Fleet soldiers had a lot of practice saluting their superiors even while toasted.
“A bastard, you say?” Ranalae leaned toward him across the table, dissecting him with her eyes. “What side? Who are your parents?”
“Tibs,” Detan said quickly, “is merely like family. More like a brother to me, than a cousin.”
Tibs rounded on him, and from the surly look in his eye Detan knew he was about to open his mouth and ruin the whole damned thing by insisting they were blood-related.
The first militiaman dropped. Wasn’t as dramatic an affair as Detan would have hoped. In the interests of not tipping their hand, dear Pelly had laced the last shipment of honey liqueur lightly. But it was laced, golden needle pumping through the veins of every grey-coated guard in the building, thanks to Gatai’s deft efforts.
The first guard, standing just a few paces away from the table, wobbled a bit, his knees going loose as string. His head tipped back and down he went, all that fancy armor making a mighty racket as he connected with the floor.
There was a pause. Then a scream. And the guards began to drop, one by one, some unfortunate guests following suit. Chaos erupted.
Detan let out a woofed sigh of relief and slipped his hands behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his boots up on the table. “About damned time.”
Thratia sprung to her feet, fists planted on the tabletop, glaring down those gathered as if she could scowl her guards into getting back on their feet. “What have you done?” she hissed.
“Me, personally? Not much, really. Just sat around and waited. You really should have disciplined your guards better.”
Black-coated servants moved through the crowd, pretending to see to the fallen militiamen, but surreptitiously binding their hands and ankles so that they would be no threat when they eventually roused themselves. Detan figured there were probably a few knocked heads in the crowd, maybe a few broken bones, and that was a shame. But still a whole pits-load better than an all-out war.
Thratia was on him faster than he could blink. She had him by the front of his jacket in one iron fist and yanked him to his feet, sending his chair flying. The tight buttons of his coat and shirt scrunched, constricting his throat as she dragged him face-to-face with her, his legs too tangled to gain any purchase. He knew she was strong. Hadn’t counted on her being powerful enough to toss him around like a doll when enraged.
He sputtered, tried to suck a breath down but she gave him a shake. “You damn fool of a man. This could have been peaceful. Now your city will have to bleed. But you, first. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I was an idiot to ever let you come within a stone’s throw of a firemount.”
He tried to squawk out a protest, but there was no air left in him. He got his feet under himself, found purchase, prepared to kick away from her grip and reached out, grasping for her other arm. The arm holding the knife pointed at his gut.
“Hey, Thratia!”