Inherit the Flame

Chapter Ten

Latia’s studio nestled in the cool shadow of one of Hond Steading’s many firemounts. Though Hond Steading’s firemounts lacked the impressive, steep angles of Aransa’s Smokestack, hints of the wealth they generated for the city clung to the sides of each and every one of them. Even from Latia’s studio Ripka could see the fittings of pipework that snaked down the firemount from its mouth, moving selium and gathering it into central confinement chambers as sel-miners urged it along.

“The view’s a bit rubbish,” Latia said, as she swung open the door to her studio. “But I own the place outright.”

“Built it with her own two hands,” Dranik threw in. Latia scoffed.

“Mine and a half dozen others. Used to be I let other artists flop at my place when they were hard up, so when it came time to build my own studio they were all keen to help out. Some of ‘em still drop by, but it’s rare. They think I’m a snob now that I own property. Figures.”

She ushered them into a wide, round sitting room with arched walkways hung with gauzy curtains leading out onto a patio. The walls were mud-plastered, but every inch had been enriched with vibrant frescoes in reds and yellows and blacks. Rare birds, lush flowers, and fish that Ripka suspected were purely imaginary, danced on every available surface.

“Is this your work?” Ripka asked.

Latia flicked the back of her hand through the air, as if brushing away their existence. “Old stuff, but yes. I like to keep the shadows of my past failures close.”

“Failures? But they’re beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Latia is too modest.” Dranik drew back one of the curtains to let in the breeze. “She believes everything she does is her best work while she’s making it, and her worst as soon as it’s done.”

“Piddle. You don’t make anything, my dear, and so you cannot possibly understand.”

“I make no objects, that’s true, but I am trying to make a new future for this tired world of ours.”

Latia rolled her eyes to the sweet skies. “If I could have but half your confidence, I’d have taken over the world by now.”

“What future?” Ripka asked, all curious innocence, as she traced a fish’s tail through the mud-plaster with the tip of her finger.

“Don’t get him started,” Latia admonished.

“Not everyone has their head in their paints, Latia dear.”

“At least let me get them their tea, first.”

After much fuss, Latia situated Ripka and Honey in creaky chairs of woven scrubgrass and deposited heavy cups of bright berry in their hands. The packed dirt patio was soft under Ripka’s feet, the breeze coming down off the firemount crisp with an edge of creosote. Latia might not have been fond of the view, but Ripka enjoyed it. It focused her, reminded her why Hond Steading mattered. Why she was making friends with these people, to discover if they knew any of Thratia’s loyalists.

“I don’t know why Dranik insists on meeting at cafes all the time,” Latia said, swilling her cup in her hand. “I make a much better brew here at home.”

“For the atmosphere, darling.”

“Do you enjoy it when Hammod chokes you then?”

“Is that a regular occurrence?” Ripka asked.

Latia grinned fiercely while Dranik squirmed in his seat. “We disagree often, Hammod and I, but usually he has the sense to take it to the forum for a proper debate. I haven’t a clue why he’s so wound up as of late. He’s never raised hands before,” Dranik admitted.

Latia said, “Could have something to do with the army marching to our doorstep.”

“Bah.” Dranik waved her off. “Thratia won’t crush us. She’d hardly want to take over a city that’s been kicked to pieces.”

“Oh, and does she write you personal letters to tell you as much? With little smooch drawings on the bottom, I bet. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t grind you beneath my heel. Hugs and Kisses, General Throatslitter.’”

“Don’t be so flip, Latia, this is important stuff. Dame Honding has had her run, but let’s face it, the dynasty’s dead. We need someone who will let us hold proper elections, debate city policies openly–”

“You mean like the forum the Dame opened, that you’re so fond of?”

“Yes! But imagine if we could debate the merits of our officials as well as small civic matters.”

“You forget, my dear, that people like Hammod would have just as much right to make arguments as you do.”

They fell into a pattern of bickering that felt old and comfortable. Ripka leaned back in her creaking chair, watching them battle out their differences with good-natured affection. Something like what they spoke of – that forum – might have done some good in Aransa. She wished she’d heard of it before Warden Faud’s death. Then maybe all those angry souls who’d secretly worn her uniform would have been able to talk about their grievances with the empire, and find solutions, before a tyrant took the reins.

But it was too late for Aransa. She scrubbed the past failures of that city from her mind for the time being. Though they were what kept her up in the dark of the night, they helped her not at all now. She was here to find out how far Thratia’s fingers reached. She let her mind wander, stoking the coals of information she’d gathered.

In Aransa, Thratia had smuggled weapons in the bottom of liqueur crates. Here, where Detan had written to his aunt about Grandon’s honey liqueur, she would have had to find a different method. According to Watch-captain Lakon, these bright eye berry tea shops were the place to be seen amongst the young and vibrant of Hond Steading. The pattern might not be exact – it’d been the poor and working class Thratia had reached for in Aransa – but it needn’t be. Thratia was a flexible woman, and Hond Steading was a very different city.

“Listen to you prattle on, Dranik, we’re ignoring our guests.” Latia turned her languid gaze upon Ripka and Honey. Her eyes were set just a touch further apart than Ripka felt was strictly normal, her lashes thick and a dark, dusky brown. In the half-shade of her patio, lounging against the scrubbrush furniture with a mug in her hand, Latia reminded Ripka of old etchings from fairytales. A queen of the fae, perhaps. Or a poisoner. Ripka’s mother hadn’t exactly been coy with the stories she’d sung Ripka to bed with as a child.

“Don’t change your habits for our sake,” Ripka protested. “We’re new to the city, and happy for the company.”

“New?” Dranik sat forward, fingers tight around his mug. “Where did you come from?”

Ripka doled out the bait with care. “Honey’s from Petrastad, and I’m from Aransa.”

“Aransa!”

“Petrastad!” Latia was suddenly alert. “What’s it like?” She directed her question to Honey, who’d been running a thumb around the edge of her mug, but not drinking.

Ripka held her breath as Honey looked up, frowned a little in thought, then said, “Cold.”

“Oh!” Latia said, “It must be more than that, surely?”

Honey stared at Ripka, begging for help with her gaze. Ripka just shrugged.

“Damp, too,” Honey amended.

Latia arched one eyebrow at Ripka, who offered a helpless smile and another shrug. “Honey’s a woman of few words.”

“Never found much use for them,” Honey said, her rasp growing in depth the more words she strung together.

“Oh, you have a throat injury! My poor dear girl. I had a friend like that. She wanted to sing on stage, but blew out her voice – something about not hitting the high notes right. Ah! I’m such a terrible host. That bright berry’s no good for your throat at all. Here.” Latia swept to her feet, swooped down upon Honey and snatched her untouched mug from her hands. “Let me brew you something a little more soothing.”

Honey caught Ripka’s eye and murmured, “I don’t like the stage.”

Ripka had absolutely no idea what she meant. She gave Honey’s hand a pat, as if they were old friends discussing past heartaches, and the woman’s pouting lips swung up in a smile. Ripka caught herself smiling back. As much as Honey unnerved her, Ripka was convinced there was a streak of good in the woman. A streak she’d like to get to know.

“Never mind the stage,” Dranik said all in a rush. “When did you come from Aransa? Were you there for the takeover?”

“I was there when Warden Faud was murdered. I left shortly after that.”

“So you’ve seen it in action! The well-oiled machine of the populace, rising together to elect a leader more fit to listen to their needs than the old aristocracy.”

Ripka bit her tongue until she tasted iron. This young fool was her best bet for discovering Thratia’s network in Hond Steading, or at least the only lead she’d stumbled across so far, and she didn’t want to alienate him. Even if she thought he was a proper moron. And yet, she just couldn’t bring herself to sing Thratia’s praises. Ripka smiled a little, thinking of Detan. That willingness to deceive was where their paths diverged. She hoped he was having better luck than she was.

“…Thratia certainly disrupted the old ways. But I can’t say how well it went, I was gone long before she took complete control.”

“A pity you didn’t get to see it.” His shoulders slumped.

Latia glided back to the patio, dropped a fresh mug in Honey’s hands and actually squeezed the woman’s shoulder affectionately. “There you go, my dear. Drink up, drink up. I can’t undo old damage, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve to make living with it easier.” She pinned Dranik with a look. “Living with old pain’s the best anyone can hope for.”

Dranik shifted, took a drink, coughed into his elbow and adjusted the collar of his coat. “I was just asking Ripka here about her time in Aransa. Seems she left before things really got cooking.”

“Oh?” Latia sank back into her seat and laid her arms out on the wide arms of the chair. “And why did you leave? Though I can think of a half dozen good reasons.”

“I had a job to do,” Ripka said.

“Really?” Latia grinned. “Come now, what kind of job? You’ve been traveling with your muted friend too long, I think. You can’t just leave it like that – a job. By the sweet skies, woman, you do leave one’s imagination to spin with that kind of talk. Fess up, now, what’s your work?”

Watcher. Prisoner. Con-woman. Ripka blinked, slowly. None of these would suit her purposes here. Detan had told her, before she’d gone to the Remnant, to stick to half-truths when faced with the need to tell a lie, something she was likely to remember, to be able to supply details for. And she’d had work before she was a watcher. She’d just tried hard to forget it.

“I fought for prizes, for a while. I guard convoys now, if I can find the work.”

Honey’s eyes widened, just a touch.

“A prizefighter!” Latia leaned forward and clapped. “That explains your killer instincts with Hammod. Are you any good?”

“The best,” Honey said, firmly.

“My, my, she speaks. How’s that throat?”

Honey cleared her voice carefully. “Better,” she said, and though her tone was still soft, it was clearer.

“Marvelous. And what about you? Surely we don’t have two prizefighters before us tonight?”

“I used to sing,” Honey said, and hummed a little under her breath. Ripka really, really wished she’d taken the time to work out a proper backstory agreement for them both before she’d gone storming off to the cafe. She’d spent too long with Detan, had grown too used to winging her maneuvers. That would have to stop. She had watcher training to fall back on, and to ignore it now would do more than herself a disservice.

“Of course you did, dear.” There was a patronizing sadness in Latia’s tone that said clearly that she’d seen this sort of thing all too often: women who thought they’d be great singers, great performers, cut down by faulty voices. Ripka wondered how much pity would fill Latia’s heart if she knew Honey only sang when she was shedding another’s blood.

“We met in Petrastad,” Ripka said before Honey could explain herself further. “Both out of work, and decided to head to Hond Steading for a fresh start.”

“Pity,” Dranik said, “that you chose this place. There’s nothing fresh in these streets.”

“Piddle,” Latia said.

“You don’t know how beautiful it is,” Honey murmured.

“I know,” Latia insisted. “It’s this tosh-head who can’t see the beauty through his own self-importance. Say, where are you two staying?”

Honey’s lips parted. Ripka said, “The palace district.”

Dranik coughed over his cup. “Prizefighting must pay well.”

“I was very good.” At least that much was true.

“Well! I was going to invite you to stay awhile, the studio has been so quiet lately.”

“You never ask me to stay,” Dranik protested.

“Quiet of worthwhile conversation. But! You are new arrivals, yes?”

“Just last night,” Ripka said.

“Marvelous. Let me be your ambassador to this sweet city. Tonight, the Ashfall Lounge, around the seventh mark a friend of mine will sing. Please do join me.”

“I don’t know…” Ripka demurred, tried to catch Honey’s eye but the woman was staring down at her cup.

“We’ll come,” Honey said.

“Wonderful!” Latia leapt to her feet and swept the empty cups from their hands, stacking them one atop the other. “Now I must usher you out, I feel all bursting with desire to paint – shoo, shoo, all of you. Yes, you too, Dranik. I shall see you tonight!”

Before Ripka could so much as thank the woman for her tea and invitation they were, all three of them, back out on the street, staring at the door that’d been closed in their faces.

“Well,” Ripka said.

“You get used to it.” Dranik ran a hand through his hair. “She gets… creative fits. Runs off in the middle of dinner sometimes.”

“You’ve known each other long?”

He stared at her, wide-eyed, and barked a laugh. “She’s my little sister.”

“Little?”

“I know. She takes after our father.” He paused. “You don’t want to meet him. See you tonight?”

“Yes,” Honey agreed.

Dranik gave them both a quick bow and took off at a brisk stroll. From within the studio, the sound of banging pots echoed. Ripka frowned at the door, then looked to Honey.

“You really want to go tonight?”

“Yes.” Her expression grew wistful. “I miss singing.”

“No cutting anyone who doesn’t try to cut you first.”

Honey sighed the sigh of a long-suffering child, kicked at the dirt, and gave a sullen nod.