Steal the Sky

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  Suppressing a shudder, she slipped into a crouch and squinted down at the face of the corpse. It was a woman, she knew not who, with her sword only half out. She wore blue from head to toe, and even in the dim light Pelkaia could follow the lines of her crisp uniform.

  Expecting nothing at all, Pelkaia laid her fingers against the woman’s throat. Her heart was silent. The handle of the blade was caught in the iron grip of death, so Pelkaia helped herself to the cudgel hung on the dead woman’s belt instead. She hefted the deadly weight, squinting until her eyes adjusted to the dark. She had waited long enough. Nothing could delay her task.

  Whatever awaited in the dark, she was coming for it.

  Chapter 19

  Scrubbed clean as a man could get in the desert, Detan tugged Tibs’s hat down firm on his head and looked at himself in the mirror. It’d been a long time since he’d run a maneuver like this, and every fiber of his being was screaming at him to cut his losses and scramble.

  But there was Tibs at his side, and the doppel’s threat hung over him like a noxious cloud.

  He could still see her, if he closed his eyes. Wearing Ripka’s coat and Tibs’s face. It’d be no trouble at all for her to frame him for some horrible deed. Detan was beginning to suspect that she’d enjoy doing such a thing.

  They could run, sure. They could cut straight out and make for the north, or even north and east to shelter with his aunt until this all blew over. But a doppel was an unpredictable creature, and Detan had no doubt at all that if he bailed on her she’d tail them until she could assure their destruction. That woman was angry. The fierceness of her tone still haunted him.

  She’d lost someone. Detan had no doubt of that. This woman, so long living a peaceable life in the sheltering rock of Aransa, had not suddenly decided to bring her talent to bear against the entire city on a whim. Grief. Grief was the most persuasive of motivators.

  No, they couldn’t run. She’d chase them down just for the joy of spreading her pain around. He had to see this to the end, and he was increasingly running out of viable options. Time to bite the air-serpent’s tail. To stick his neck out.

  “How do I look, Tibs?”

  “Pompous and dirty. Same as always.”

  “You always know how to lift a man’s spirits.”

  “I aim to please.”

  Detan glanced at Tibs through the mirror, catching the eye of his reflection. Tibs knew what he was about. Knew that he was going to kick up as much turbulence as possible in poor old Aransa to see what shook loose. Despite all that, the craggy man’s face was as placid as an undiscovered oasis.

  Tibs, that old rock, always gave him a measure of calm.

  “Let’s go, then,” Detan said.

  He led the way out of their shabby inn and up the steps to the next level. And the next. The grey-coated level guards didn’t pay them any mind. Detan and Tibs didn’t look like thieves, after all. They never did.

  The sun climbed the horizon, casting toothy shadows across the calcite city as morning rose. People were minding those shadows, picking up their feet a little higher and stepping just a little faster to stay out of the sun as long as possible.

  On the warehouse level, he caught sight of a sleek ship snaking its way into port. A Valathean personal cruiser, its darkwood hull gleaming in the growing light. Probably some highbrow ponce in to give Thratia his blessing. Detan smirked. Maybe the ex-commodore had finally given in to a political marriage.

  In the road just before Thratia’s compound Detan hesitated, glancing sideways to catch Tibs’s eye. He was well under control, his face steady and his hands still, thumbs hooked in his belt. Tibs gave him a nod, a tip of the head so subtle that any other soul would have missed it. They strode forward, in step, toward the stony arms which encircled Thratia’s home.

  Her guards seemed to have expected them, because all it took was a cursory exchange of names to get the gates swung open. They didn’t even get the traditional pat-down, which was well enough, because each of them had daggers tucked in the tops of their boots and hidden away in their sleeves. Spring-releases. Good technology, fresh in from Valathea.

  Not that they were any good with them.

  The guards hadn’t even found his little jar of sap glue, which he felt made a rather obvious bulge in the side of his jacket. One of the blank-faced guards led them the long way around, through a dim hallway. The lamps were gone, replaced with cheap beeswax candles, and the light they put off was warm and cloying.

  Detan frowned at one of those flickering flames, wondering if Thratia kept a hive of the deadly little creatures. It was a common enough pastime for the rich back in Valathea, but here on the Scorched the bees were as big as a fist and made hives as wide as the room they were standing in now. Detan decided that if Thratia were going to keep any kind of bee, they’d be the Scorched variety.

  The guard abandoned them in Thratia’s grand hall, promising the ‘warden’ would be along shortly. Detan blinked, too stunned by what he saw to rustle up a response to the guard.

  The mélange of the fete’s revelry had been replaced with great iron and wood machines, copper bellies belching steam into the cavernous chamber. Men and women in tight-fitting, sleeveless tunics with their hair pulled back in no-nonsense buns tended the machines, feeding barkboard paper in one end and examining it as it came out the other. Black and blue stains smeared the forearms of each worker, and many sported fingertip-shaped smudges on their cheeks.

  Detan crept forward, peering through the obscuring steam to make out what it was they were doing. Piles of posters leaned against the edge of the machines, Thratia’s sharp face obvious even in silhouette. He couldn’t make out the words, but he could guess the meaning easily enough. He flicked his gaze from pile to pile, estimating their number – more than she could possibly need for Aransa.

  The ex-commodore stepped between him and those machines, both brows raised in sharp irritation. Detan scrambled to flick her a salute.

  “Evening, commodore.”

  “It’ll be warden soon, Honding.” She put her fists on her hips and he saw she was dressed much the same as she had been for the party. He doubted she changed for much at all. Detan took a breath, and plastered a big grin right across his face.

  “If you can keep the Larkspur to yourself.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you attempting to threaten me?”

  He opened his arms and spread his hands. “I’m offering you a chance to save face, Throatslitter. I don’t give a shit who ends up warming Faud’s old chair, but I do care very much about losing.”

  “What, exactly, would you lose?”

  “There’s a doppel in this city, and she is going to steal the Larkspur.”

  Detan held his breath while Thratia thought that over, but it didn’t take long. She wasn’t the type to jump to conclusions, and he had given her precious thin information to work with. He was not at all surprised when she cut straight to questions.

  “Just how do you know all that?” Her body remained still, her lips working over the words with the fine efficiency of one of her machines. Detan struggled not to scowl. Her body language was more tightly reined than he had remembered.

  “You remember Ripka arresting me at your lovely banquet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you remember Ripka keeping an eye on the party all evening?”

  “Yes.” She bit off the word, the sharp edge of exasperation creeping into her tone.

  “The Ripka who walked me out your backdoor was a doppel, I’m afraid, and I spent an unearned night in the clink because of her. I am not a forgiving man, Thratia. I know her plans, and I want her to fail.”

  “And just how do you propose to keep my ship safe from this nefarious creature?”

  He dragged in steam-laden air, forced himself to smile and willed himself not to sweat. “Why, you’re going to put me in charge of your security staff.”

  She laughed, tipping her head back and baring her teeth to the heavens. The
sound raked claws down his spine, rooted his feet to the spot.

  “I know full well there is a doppel in this city, Honding. What I’m not buying is that it’d risk getting tangled up with someone like you.”

  He grimaced. “I was afraid of that. What if I could produce an independent party who happened to see Ripka in the dance hall at the same time I was being arrested?”

  “Really,” she drawled. “Who could you find that’s impartial?”

  “Oh, she’s partial, but not in my favor. I want you to send ole Halva Erst a calling card.”

  “What will the Lady Erst have to say about it?”

  Tibal cleared his throat and shuffled forward a half step on cue. “Lady Erst witnessed my conversation with the watch captain while Detan was being detained.”

  “Also, I left her at the altar,” Detan piped up, just to be sure Thratia knew there was no friendship between them.

  Thratia grinned. “Oh, this is a lovely way to start the morning.” She snapped for an attendant, “Bring me the Lady Halva Erst. No delays.”

  * * *

  When the lady in question arrived at Thratia’s estate, Detan reflected that he would have had better luck summoning a whole swarm of spiders to his aide. She was positively incensed, her milk-tea cheeks flushed dark as garnet and her lips drawn so thin and bloodless one could mistake her for having none at all.

  Upon entering Thratia’s compound, she spied Detan and clenched her lily-soft fists into petal-powered hammers, and flew down upon him.

  “You swine! You heartless, chicken-livered, old goat!”

  Detan eased a step back, wiping spittle from his sore cheek. “Really, my dear, try to stick to one theme of animal.”

  She glowered and whirled to face Thratia, who had the grace to cover her wide smile with the tips of her fingers. “I want him thrown to the Black Wash, warden! This man is a mongrel–”

  “Another animal?”

  “Be silent!”

  Detan was beginning to feel dizzy when Halva spun upon him and jabbed a slender finger into his chest with each word she spoke. “You lost the right to say anything at all to me when you left me without so much as a peep! I thought you were dead!” Her eyes welled.

  He frowned at the glimmer rimming her eyes, at the finger prodding him in the chest. Halva had always been one for histrionics, but this was a bit much. They’d hardly known each other, after all, and… His eyes narrowed at a suspicious glint.

  “Is that a wedding ring on your finger?” he blurted.

  She snatched her hand back and clasped it in the other. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve married Cranston Wels. He’s a gentleman.”

  “Cranston! Your father hated that slag –oh.” He sifted through memories long-since buried, recalling Halva’s too-eager proclamations, the strange man who had leapt over the lady’s garden wall, red in the face and screaming mad. Cranston Wels – it must have been. A man so slack-witted her father would have never permitted the match. Unless, of course, Daddy Erst felt he had barely escaped a much direr pairing.

  “You used me!”

  Halva’s tears vanished without so much as a sniffle, and she rolled her big, glassy eyes to the skies. “Try to control yourself, my dear.”

  Detan gawped more like a landed fish than a landed man. He found he harbored a new appreciation for Halva Erst.

  “As entertaining as this is, I am a busy woman.” Thratia’s soft voice cut through the haze of his wonder.

  The effect on Halva was instantaneous. She ducked her head and dropped a low curtsey to Thratia, who didn’t seem to care one whit. “Now girl, I need you to answer me honestly, do you understand?”

  “Yes, warden.”

  “I’m not the warden yet.”

  Her smile was coy. “Daddy said it’s only a matter of time.”

  “That may be true, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Now, did you see Watch Captain Leshe last night at the party?”

  “I did, she was lingering on the second story balcony, drinking herself stupid with that rat.” She pointed an accusing finger at Tibal who grinned a little, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  “Wasn’t like that, missus. Was just a drink or two, not the whole bottle or nothin’.”

  “I don’t care about your drinking habits, Tibal. Did she leave the balcony at any point, Halva?”

  “No, not until the band stopped playing. Then she went down to break up a fight.”

  Thratia’s brows shot up. “There was a fight at my party?”

  “Oh, just a tiff over a girl.”

  Thratia waved it off and nodded. “Very well. You can go now, Lady Erst.”

  “But–” She looked hungrily at Detan, which was a most unsettling experience for him.

  “Go now, before you make a fool of yourself. Highroad, and all that. Off with you.” Thratia shooed her away as if she were waving at a gnat. Lady Wels-nee-Erst harrumphed and expanded her sun parasol with vigor. She strode from the room, leaving a trail of jasmine perfume in her ruffled wake.

  “Strange girl,” Thratia said. “I have no idea what you saw in her.”

  Detan had the grace to look chagrined. “I really did want her father’s atlas.”

  Thratia sniffed and tossed her hair, sharpened pins glinting. “Well, mongrel, I believe the doppel has taken some interest in your pathetic hide.”

  He clapped his hands, unable to hide the relief in his eyes. “Excellent. We will take the most wonderful care of your gorgeous ship.”

  She barked a short laugh and turned back to him, one eyebrow arched. “Do you think me cruel, Honding? Heartless – maniacal, perhaps?”

  His relief evaporated under the heat of her regard. “I never said–”

  “You’d be correct, in many ways – few of which you understand. You might think all those things of me, Honding. But don’t ever think me stupid.”

  “I would never–”

  “I know you think me a poor fit for Aransa. You and your new creature-friend, no doubt. No, don’t protest. Play at ignorance all you like, and ignorant you might be, but you’re enamored with the very idea of the doppel, aren’t you? It’s what you want to be – what you wish you were. An independent element, moving against the stability of the empire. But you’re not. You’ll never be.”

  Thratia stepped close to him, her breath hot and near enough that he could smell the bright-eye berries she brewed in her tea. His stomach lurched at the saccharine scent – at her nearness. He’d almost rather her breath stink of wine. At least that way she would have drugged herself with something to make her slow-witted instead of sharp.

  Before he could squeak any kind of response, any denial to collusion with the doppel, she pressed her hand over his mouth and gripped. Hard.

  “You’re clever, I’ll grant you that. And I don’t believe the rumors you’ve gone cracked in the head, not wholly. You’re scared. I see it in the way you move, hands shaping half-formed thoughts, shoulders closed forward in defense even while your hips stay open, ready to run. I’ve made a study of it. The way people stand and the way they say what they want you to think they think. You jump from town to town, harassing anything with even the slightest stink of the empire on it but never, never, reaching your hand out to harangue the real seed of your terror.

  “I don’t know what happened to change you, Honding. I don’t believe losing your sel-sense alone did it. Whatever happened to you, know this: that creature is little more than a murderer. Justified, possibly. I have no idea, nor do I care. But that thing has put terror in the hearts of the Aransan people. So you think real hard. Who’s better for this city? The woman the people want to elect, or the choice of a man so addled he can’t tell a flower from a thorn?”

  “Mmmrpf,” he said.

  “If it’s the Larkspur you want to watch over, then you may have it.” She shoved him away and jerked her chin toward a militiaman. “Take them to the Larkspur. Let them be extra bait upon the trap. Do not, under any circumstances,
allow them to leave the dock or this compound. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Heavy hands closed around Detan’s arms, and he had to fight back an urge to jerk away. She turned her back on them, forgetting them the moment they were out of sight. But he saw the way her shoulders slumped, saw the subtle sigh leave her. The future warden, it seemed, was very tired indeed.

  He frowned, mind racing as he was dragged back, Tibs hauled along beside him. Something she had said… Extra bait. But what was the original? The ship? Would she really risk her treasure just to capture one doppel?

  “What’s the hurry, Thratia?” he called, heels thumping against the stairs as he was dragged up them. She paused and turned back, face impassive. But her head was tilted forward, just the tiniest bit. She was listening.

  “You worried it’s your head she’s coming for next?” His ankles burned as he dug his heels in, trying to slow the progress of his cursing captors. Thratia just smirked, an uncontrolled reaction. She didn’t fear for her own life, then. But why the rush?

  He recalled the shadow of the Valathean cruiser drifting overhead, mooring itself to one of the compound’s less glamorous docks. Was she trying to clear away the problem before Valathea could instigate a purge? Had that been how she managed to maintain all her imperial connections, despite being expelled from the Fleet? A promise to clean up Aransa? If they performed a purge immediately after her taking the wardenship, the city would be paralyzed. Useless.

  The doors to the dock opened behind him, the threshold loomed above his head. He cursed and lunged forward one last time against the arms that held him, desperate to catch a glimpse of her face. She stood in the center of the steam-filled room, arms crossed low over her ribs, head tilted back as she watched him being hauled away.

  “Afraid of breaking contract?” he yelled. Her head tipped back, but her expression remained smooth. Placid. A mask locked into place. He smirked.

  “Gotcha,” he whispered.

  The militiamen threw him to the floor of the familiar u-dock. He landed hard on his side and grunted, little stars dancing before his eyes. The doors slammed shut, the sound of heavy metal gears echoing in the chamber as the locks were thrown.