Steal the Sky

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  “And money.”

  “Right, and money. So we can get rid of her respect, and a substantial chunk of her money, in one big blow.” He made a fist and raised it up.

  “You only made one point there, and you’ve got five fingers.”

  “Er, well. That doesn’t matter. It makes sense, Ripka.”

  “Watch captain.”

  “Watch captain.” He gave her a smile bright as the midday sun and leaned back in his chair with his fingers laced behind his head. “It’s brilliant. She’ll look like a doddering fool and you can swoop in and save the day. Then let me go, of course.”

  She snorted. “Why in the blue skies would I want to do that?”

  “Because I’d tell Thratia it was your idea if you didn’t, obviously.”

  “And then I look the fool for letting you escape.”

  “No, we let it sit for a while. I’ll slip away after you’ve got the wardenship secured. Tell everyone you shipped me off to serve hard labor on the Remnant Isles.”

  She started, eyes narrowing. “You think I want to be warden?”

  Had he misjudged? Detan held his hands up to either side, palms facing the sweet skies to indicate he would defer to her better judgment. “Well, you must. Or you’ve got someone in mind, surely?”

  She pressed her fingers together above the desk, the arc of her hands outlining the mouth of a cave, and leaned forward as she thought. It was odd she seemed to be thinking so hard about this. He’d thought she’d have someone in mind worth the promotion, but he still couldn’t help but grin. Her body language was open, interested. There was a little furrow between her brows, deep and contemplative. He’d got her.

  “Mine Master Galtro would be a good candidate,” she said, and he chose to ignore the hesitance in her voice. Didn’t matter to him who she picked. He planned on being long gone by the time that particular seat was being warmed.

  He leapt to his feet and clapped once. “Good! Marvelous! Hurrah! We have a warden! Now you just need to let me do my–”

  “Whoa now. What’s in this for you?”

  “The thrill of adventure!”

  “Try again.”

  “Fine.” He huffed. “Say, perhaps, the ship has a little accident in all that excitement. Say, just for example, that some convincing wreckage is found made of the right materials, with the right name emblazoned on the heap. Say that to all the citizens, and let me keep the blasted thing.”

  She drummed her fingers on the desk. “Thratia’s compound is the most secure in the whole city. Just how do you think you’re going to get anywhere near her ship?”

  “That’s my worry, partner.”

  “I am not–”

  “Watch captain.”

  She scowled at him, but quieted.

  “Look, don’t worry over it all too much and don’t count on it yet either, understand? I’m going to have a look around, see if it’s even doable, and then I’ll contact you again with our options.”

  “You get snagged, and I’ll swear I sent you packing this day.”

  “Wouldn’t expect it any other way.”

  “And if you can’t find a way to work it?”

  “Tibal will have the flier fixed up by then, nice and smooth.”

  Ripka eyed him, hard and heavy, and he thanked the stable sands that he had a whole lot of practice at keeping his face open and charming. She grunted and dragged open the top drawer of her desk.

  “Here.” She tossed him a thin cloth pouch and he rolled it over in his hands, guessing at the weight of the grains of precious metal within. “You’ll need to stay upcrust if you want any chance of getting eyes on Thratia, and I’m guessing ole Auntie Honding hasn’t provided you with an allowance fit for something like that.”

  Detan winced at the mention of his auntie, the stern-faced warden of Hond Steading, a mental tally of guilt piling up for every day of the calendar he hadn’t bothered to visit her. Forcing a smile back into place, he vanished the pouch into his pocket and half-bowed over upraised palms. “You are as wise as you are generous.”

  “Get gone, Honding, and don’t contact me again until you’ve got a plan situated.”

  Detan Honding prided himself on being a man who knew not to overstay his welcome. He made himself scarce in a hurry.

  Chapter 2

  “Fresh up from the southern coast,” Sergeant Banch said as he passed her an amber bottle, its contents labeled by a stamped blob of wax so cracked and chipped she couldn’t make it out. Like it mattered. Ripka tipped her head back and drank.

  The mud wall of the guardhouse was cool against her back, the bottle warm in her hand, and the memory of the rising sun still rosy on her cheeks. So what if the bench was stiff beneath her? So what if the stench of fresh blood clung to her nostrils still? She drank deep, ignoring the murmur of the crowd dispersing just outside the guardhouse door.

  It’d been one sand-blighted morning. Executing a man was never her favorite service to perform on behalf of the city, but with rumors flying wild about a killer on the loose, and Warden Faud not two days in the dirt, the city was wound up tight. She’d never seen such a turnout before. She only wished she could have given them the blood of Faud’s murderer, instead of some sandbagged thief. Doppel or no, she had no taste for executing nonviolent criminals.

  Ripka glanced toward the ceiling, squinting as if she could see through the rafters to the freshly minted corpse of the doppel who’d stolen Mercer Agert’s ship. Brave son of a bitch, he hadn’t blinked when she’d asked if he wanted to meet the axe or walk the Black. He’d opted for the axe, which always surprised her. But then, walking the Black was one pits-cursed way to go.

  The Black Wash spread out between the city’s lowest wall and the rugged slopes of the Smokestack – the great, looming firemount from which the city mined its selium. Composed of glittering shards of firemount glass, the path between the city and the Smokestack was blisteringly hot during the day. Merely standing on the black sands could leave your face burned within a quarter-mark.

  As long as Ripka’d been in Aransa, she’d never heard of a soul making it across the sands alive. First your face burned, crisped up under the glare of the sun, and any stretch of skin not covered in cloth was quick to follow. If your shoes weren’t sturdy enough – and most condemned were forced to walk in prison garb: thin boots, linen jumpsuits, no hat – then the unweathered shards of black glass would work their way through to your feet before you’d reached the quarter waypoint. By halfway, you were leaving bloodied smears in your wake. By three-quarters, most lay down to die.

  With no water, and no shade, the heat of the air dried out your lungs, made every breath a pink-tinged rasp. Dried out your eyes, too, and many were weeping blood while they were still close enough to the city walls for people to see what should have been the whites of their eyes turned angry red. Most were jerky before they made it within throwing distance of the Smokestack.

  It was miserable, and it was deadly. But it was a whole lot less final than a beheading. At least you had a chance out there. Under the axeman’s swing, your chances were used up in one swoop.

  She took another draw on the bottle. It did little to wash away the memories of this morning’s execution, the phantom heat of the black sands at her back.

  “Think the vultures are gone yet?” she asked.

  “’Nother half-mark, I bet. The undertaker’s not done dicing him up, and there’s some that will want a memento. Bit o’ hair, a real knuckle bone to throw. Shit like that.”

  Ripka cringed and took another swallow. “Damn savages.”

  “Says the Brown Wash girl.”

  She laughed, alcohol burning in her throat, and fell into a coughing fit. Oh well. At least the guardhouse was nice and cool. “Don’t see why they have to chop the poor bastards up anyway.”

  “You know how Valatheans get about graves. Put the whole body in one place and people will make a shrine of it. Then we’ve got a martyr on our hands.”

  “Pah, no
one’s going to make a martyr of a doppel. They’re piss-scared of them.”

  “You’d be surprised,” a woman said.

  Ripka glanced up from the bench and squinted at the backlit figure. Tall, strong, womanly in a way that rankled Ripka with jealousy. Thratia. She wore a simple bloodstone-hued tunic, martial leggings and tall leather boots. No fancy attire for Thratia – she liked to keep her appearance akin to the common folk of Aransa, never mind her massive compound sprawling across half the city’s second level. Sad thing was, most of the locals fell for her of-the-people charm.

  Ripka snapped her a half-hearted salute and nearly clanged the bottle against her head in the process.

  “Morning, Thratia. You do know this is a guardhouse? Not usually open for visitors, if you take my meaning.”

  Thratia brushed the long warbraid from her shoulder and shut the door behind her, dipping them all back into the dim light of dusty lamps. Ripka made a note to have the men who usually manned this place scrub it down.

  “I do not mean to interrupt your–” she let her eyes roam over the bottle in Ripka’s hand and the blue coats of their uniforms slumped over the backs of chairs, “–work. But, after observing today’s execution I wanted to commend the forces of the Watch for your fine administration of justice here in Aransa.”

  “Really. That’s all?”

  “Well…”

  Ripka chuckled and waved the bottle in her direction. “Go on then.”

  “I had expected you to encourage the condemned to walk the Black.”

  “Encouraged? That’s not our place. It’s been the condemned’s choice since the day Aransa was settled, and it’ll stay that way.”

  “I understand there is a certain level of patriotism involved in the display of choice, and that is valuable. However, walking the Black is a unique feature of Aransa, and I believe it would do the people good to see the condemned die not only by the will of the city, but a feature of the city itself. In the case of doppels, it would also enhance the message that they are not wanted here, as they would be cast out. Forced to walk away from the city to die.”

  Ripka frowned, wondering just how much Thratia had rehearsed that little speech. “And how do you suggest we encourage them to make that choice?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Thratia waved a dismissive hand through the air. “You could always get rid of the option of the axemen. Make it hanging or walking.”

  “Hanging’s a sorry way to die.”

  “Exactly.”

  Ripka leaned forward, sat the bottle on the bench beside her, and rested her forearms across her knees. Thratia stayed where she was, a single step in from the door, her charcoal arms crossed over her chest and a little smile on her face so small and warm Ripka half expected her to offer up a sweetcake to share. Ripka cleared her throat.

  “I’ll take that under advisement, Thratia. Thank you for your visit.”

  “I hope to share many more visits with you, watch captain. Best of luck in apprehending the doppel who murdered Warden Faud.” She bowed at the waist, nothing mocking about it, and stepped back out into the bright of day.

  Banch and Ripka sat for a while, letting the rum they’d drunk warm up the chill Thratia had left behind. She ground her teeth, then plucked a wax-wrapped nub of barksap from her pocket and popped it into her mouth to chew over.

  “There goes our new boss,” Banch said.

  Ripka chucked him in the arm, nearly missed and had to put a hand on the bench to keep from sprawling to the ground. “Resigned to it already? Mine Master Galtro could win it. Thratia’s a skies-cursed murderer. Even Valathea thought she was too brutal to keep around. You think Aransa will vote in the woman they call General Throatslitter behind her back?”

  “Please, they call her that to her front. It’s practically a rally cry. They love that she stuck it to the empire.”

  “She refused to relinquish power after her conquest at the behest of Valathea of the Saldive Isles. Nothing heroic about that.”

  Banch rolled his shoulders and snagged the bottle back, tested its weight with a disappointed scowl. “Tell it to the folk in the lower levels she’s been sending food to. Tell it to the mercers who’ve been promised they can use that fancy new ship of hers for faster trade.”

  “I just don’t trust her, Banch. She’s up to something.”

  “O’ course she is. Everyone on this sunblasted continent is.”

  Ripka rolled her eyes and dropped her head back against the wall, letting the chill of it seep through her hair and soothe the itch of her sun-kissed scalp while she thought.

  Just why was Thratia so keen to send people to walk the sands? Walking the Black meant that if you were very, very lucky you just might survive. If Ripka was sure about anything, it was that Thratia felt no mercy for those who stood for judgment on the guardhouse roof. Why would she want a doppel, of all things, to have a chance at life?

  So she could use them.

  Ripka shot up from the bench and heaved herself up the ladder to the roof where the execution had taken place. The undertaker was still busy at his work and gave her a cheery, gore-smeared wave when she glanced his way.

  Clenching her jaw, she strode to the back edge of the roof and leaned out just as far as she dared. The Black Wash splayed below her, glittering so bright she had to squint and bring a hand up to shade her eyes. She stared straight on at the sharp crest of the Smokestack and the Fireline Ridge spread out around it, waiting for her vision to get used to the blinding light. Banch hauled himself up beside her.

  “Just what in the pits are you doing, captain?”

  “There, look.” She pointed at two glints of light, figures moving across the rugged side of the Fireline up toward the ferries that shuttled people back and forth from the city to the selium mines and Salt Baths. The mines were shut down for the day due to an infestation in one of the pipelines, and the baths were clear on the other side of the Fireline – too far by half for a leisurely stroll.

  “Aw shit. Do you think we’ll have to send a rescue?”

  “Those aren’t lost bathers.”

  The figures sped up, moving with expert ease over the rough terrain. The glints she had noticed came from low about their waists, about the right place for a sword handle to rest.

  Banch’s voice was very, very quiet. “Thratia’s?”

  “Who else? I suppose now we know why she wants us to make the doppels walk.”

  She turned away from the vista and forced herself to look at what was left of the nameless doppel. He was a brave man, and now she suspected she understood why he’d been so sure of the axe. She’d heard horror stories of Valatheans enslaving the doppels, using their desire to be close to selium to secure their loyalty. It was illegal, of course, even the imperials saw using the doppels as cruel and unsavory. But Thratia hadn’t been exiled to the Scorched Continent for being kind and cuddly.

  “Come on, Banch. We’ve got to find our killer.”

  Before Thratia does.

  Chapter 3

  The downcrust levels of Aransa were hotter than a draw on a jug of spicewine. Ripka had set Detan free just a mark or so after sunrise, and already the streets were baking. He tugged his shirt-ties loose as he wandered down the cramped streets to where he’d left Tibs with the flier, winking at ladies as he passed.

  Not that there were many ladies with a capital “L” this far down in the city. The real desert flowers liked it up top where parasols and shade trees were plentiful. He figured the women down here were more fun, anyway. At least they weren’t shy with their hand gestures.

  He found Tibs lying under the fronds of a reedpalm, his hat pulled down over his eyes and his back propped up against the carcass of their six-man flier. Tibs was a scrawny bastard, long of limb even when he was slouched. Last night’s clothes clung to him in disturbing pleats of grime and sweat, and his boots were beginning to separate from their soles. Hair that Detan suspected had once been a pale brown stuck up in strange angles from under his hat
.

  Detan crept up on him, squinting down into the shadow that hid his sun-weathered face. Tibs was breathing, slow and even, so he turned his attention to the flier.

  It was long and flat, maybe a dozen and a half long paces from end to end, crafted in the style of old riverbarges. Its sel sacks, which would normally be ballooned up above it under thick rope netting, lay crumpled on the deck. Though rectangular of body, Tibs had worked up a neat little pyramidal bowsprit to make it a tad more aerodynamic, and Detan had made blasted sure that the pulley-and-fan contrivance of its navigational system was made of the best stuff he could afford. Or steal. Even its accordion-like stabilizing wings, folded in now, were webbed with leather supple and strong enough to make a fine lady’s gloves feel coarse and cheap.

  Midship, right behind the helm, rose a plain-walled cabin just wide and long enough to house two curtain-partitioned sleeping quarters. It was a good show for guests, but the real living space was hidden in the flat hold between deck and keel. Though the space was not quite tall enough for Detan to stand straight within, it ran the length of the ship – a sturdy little secret placed there by the smugglers who had originally built the thing. To Detan’s eyes, it was the most beautiful thing in the whole of the world.

  Unfortunately, the buoyancy sacks lay flaccid and punctured and the right rudder-prop was cracked clean off, rather ruining the effect

  Detan glowered and kicked Tibs in the leg. He squawked like a dunkeet and flailed awake, knocking his hat to the black-tinged dirt.

  “The pits you doing, Tibs? You haven’t even touched the old bird.”

  Tibs reached for his hat and picked off a spiny leaf. “Oh I touched it all right, just couldn’t do a damn thing for it. What you think I am, a magician? The buoyancy sacks are as airtight as pumice stone and the mast is as stable as mica on edge, lemme tell you.”

  “Please do tell me, old chum, because I sure as shit don’t understand your miner-man rock babble.”