Inherit the Flame

Chapter Thirty-Four

Her name was Sasalai, and Ripka had come here to steal her and sell her into slavery. Though most of the Honding staff lived in the palace, Sasalai’s advanced age and long service had given her a home of her own in the expensive palace district. A humble house, by local standards, but a respectable construction of mudbrick faced in stone. A warm, clean little place in which she had raised her children and, later, her grandchildren.

She lived alone, now. That would make the kidnapping easier.

“I don’t like this,” Ripka whispered. She lounged alongside Enard on a bench in a nearby park. The slight knoll in the rock garden’s center gave them a clear view of Sasalai’s path home. Twilight settled on the land like a blanket, bringing with it a soft northern breeze and a brilliance of stars. The night was too lovely, too peaceful, to shelter such horrendous work. Enard squeezed her hand, twining his fingers in hers, and she squeezed back.

“We won’t let them sell her off,” he whispered in return.

“We can’t promise that.”

“I am promising that.” His voice had a sharp edge to it that had been seeping out more and more since their time together on the Remnant.

“I believe you.”

His shoulder eased against hers, tension releasing, and she leaned into him, just a touch. If she closed her eyes, or glanced away from the grandmother making her way home, Ripka could almost imagine them out to experience the night together for kinder reasons. But that was a path she dared not let her mind walk. Whatever grew between them, neither could risk the entanglement now. Not with everything drawing so close, so quickly. The slightest distraction could spell either of their deaths.

But it was nice to pretend, just for a little while.

“Here they come,” Enard murmured.

Tibal and Calson strolled down the path toward Sasalai, two well-to-do gentlemen out for a midnight ramble. They slouched, gesturing broadly as they pretended at some good-natured argument, looking for all the world like they were meant to be there, like they were at ease. Tibal did, anyway. To Ripka’s trained eye, Calson looked ready to bolt like a sandrat in a hawk’s shadow.

“He’s too tense.”

Enard leaned forward, the muscles of his arm firm against hers. “She’ll see through that.”

“She’s a grandmother. Her eyesight might not be the best.”

“She’s a grandmother who spent her whole life hiding a deviant ability while working in the Honding family palace.”

“Good point.” Ripka slipped her fingers free of Enard’s so that she could settle them on the weapons at her waist. Not that she’d use any of them – even the cudgel seemed exceptionally cruel on a woman as old as Sasalai – but the threat of them might be enough to cow her.

Might be, but probably wasn’t. In Ripka’s experience, grandmothers feared nothing except running out of honey taffy.

Sasalai’s persistent shuffling step slowed as she approached the gentlemen strollers. Her arm tightened around the cloth sack slung across her chest and shoulders. She thought them raucous youth, Ripka decided. Possible thieves, definite annoyances, but nothing more troubling than that. She leaned on her cane, tightening her grip in silent threat or anxiety – Ripka couldn’t tell.

Ripka held her breath as the men approached, biting back a cry of warning. This moment was the very type of thing she’d trained most of her life to stop. She tried to tell herself this was little more than a demonstration, of sorts. The woman would be fine. Enard had promised her that, and Tibal would never cause her harm. But Calson was down there too, a wild card she did not know, and her teeth clenched and ground as the distance closed.

Tibal swayed, affecting drunkenness, and bumped Calson hard in the side. Calson stumbled sideways toward the woman, arms outstretched to right himself. A brown arc flashed through the air, the heavy crack of bone echoing over the sharp edge of a cry. Ripka was on her feet in an instant, Enard at her side, pounding down the knoll toward the scene.

It took her a moment to process. Calson lay on the road, curled up in a knot, both hands clasped around a shin that looked… Wrong. Ripka’s stomach clenched as she realized the bone had been neatly bisected under the lash of Sasalai’s cane, the skin intact but the limb itself clearly stepped down in one spot.

“Fiery pits.” She skidded to a stop on the dusty road and dropped to one knee beside Calson while Enard looped around to help Tibal restrain the struggling granny.

“How bad is it?” Calson hissed through his teeth. His people crept toward them, hesitant steps shuffling on the dirt as they peeled themselves from their hiding places. Tibal and Enard had the woman well in hand, her mouth stuffed with a gag and her hands tied. If her glare had been able to cut, it would have, but for the moment she was restrained.

Ripka peeled one of his hands away and tried not to let her shock show as she examined the break. “The skin’s not broken,” she said, the most positive comment she could muster, “but you need an apothik.”

“Shit shit shit,” he groaned, and thumped the back of his head against the road.

“You.” Ripka jabbed a finger at the buck-toothed woman. “Do you know where the nearest apothik is?”

“Just down Lighten Way,” she said.

“Good, then you lot,” she waved a hand at all those approaching. “Get a litter together to carry your boss, will you? Sooner this gets set, the better his chances of survival.”

“Survival?” Calson asked, all the color draining from his face.

“Broken bones are dangerous.” She mustered all the gravity she could and layered it thick into her voice. Clearly this man hadn’t experienced so much as a cut requiring a stitch in all his life.

Enard, that beautiful man, was quick to catch on to her plan. “Hurry up,” he said, stripping his jacket off. “Take my coat, it’s long enough. If one of you grabs each corner, you should be able to carry him.”

“But what about the mark?” Buck-toothed asked, squeezing Enard’s jacket between her fingers.

“Kill her,” Calson growled.

“Hasty,” Ripka chided. She pushed to her feet while the others hesitantly set about laying out Enard’s coat and rolling the writhing man onto it. “The job still holds. Dranik knows where to find your contact. Don’t worry, we’ll get her there.”

Wariness lined Calson’s face, but shattered under pain as they jostled him onto the coat. “If she fights you–”

“I have her,” Tibal said, letting his disgust with Calson’s need for revenge show plain as a clear sky.

Calson sneered, but whether it was due to pain or Tibal, Ripka couldn’t tell.

“Aren’t you glad you brought us on after all?” Enard said, flashing Calson a smile, and that time he definitely did sneer.

“Hurry, he’s looking too pale,” Ripka threw in, just to get Calson to shut up and get his lackeys moving. With nervous glances all around, the awkward litter-bearers shuffled off with their wounded boss, throwing glances back over their shoulders at Ripka all the way. She had to resist an urge to flash them a rude gesture.

“Well,” Enard said once the others were out of earshot. “That worked out well.”

The old woman scowled around at them all.

“We should probably get off the main street, anyone could see,” Dranik piped up. Sweat dotted his forehead despite the cool night air.

“Which way then, lad?” Tibal drawled, and the color came back into Dranik’s cheeks full force as he flushed with embarrassment. “Right. Right. This way.”

He angled toward the south end of the park, a narrow little lane Ripka had scouted on her way in and found mostly deserted at this time of night. A good enough move for now. She allowed herself to relax, just slightly, eyeing the woman Tibal led along by her bound wrists. She wanted to peel that gag from her lips, to explain herself and her friends – to tell the woman she was safe, and that her only trouble tonight was a bit of momentary discomfort and fright. But, despite Enard’s confidence, Ripka was not so sure. They needed inroads to Thratia’s network, and every time you knocked on that woman’s door you risked losing the hand you knocked with.

“Who is this contact, anyway?” she asked as they padded along the dark lane.

“We don’t know her name,” Dranik said, “she’s called the Songstress.”

“Fuck,” Ripka said.