Steal the Sky

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  Prayed even harder he wouldn’t wind up with an arrow in the back.

  He slid to a stop before the push-button door, not-Ripka tugging his arm as she struggled to slow her momentum. Behind them shouts rose higher, strained and frantic. Old wood groaned, cleaved with a mighty crack. Detan flung the door open and leapt onto the cool sands of the night. Somehow he’d lost his grip on not-Ripka’s arm, but he wasn’t surprised at all to hear the soft tread of her feet behind him as he fled back toward the ridge. Angry as she was, the woman still had an instinct for self-preservation.

  As he sprinted across the thin strip of sand between the Hub and the ridge which had concealed their approach, he spared a glance for the direction he’d seen the guards circling in earlier. Not a one was present. No doubt they’d all scarpered off to see what the hubbub was inside the Hub, and found the flames a mite more pressing than the wayward watch captain and her unknown companion. Hopefully unknown.

  He grimaced, imagining the guards tongues wagging back Thratia’s way – describing the silhouette of the man who’d run off with the interloping woman of the law. She was no fool, she’d figure it out right quick.

  And she had poor ole Tibs wrapped up nice and cozy in her web already.

  When they’d scrambled their way up the ridge and down to the narrow ledge on which they’d rested coming up, Detan forced himself forward on jellied legs, making for the edge. The doppel grabbed his arm, holding him back.

  “Take a moment and breathe, or do you want to fall your way down?”

  “Tibs–” he began, but she put her palm on his chest, firm and heavy, and pushed him till his back pressed against the naked cliff face. She narrowed the distance between them. Stood so close he could smell her sweat and the haval oil she wore. He swallowed. Hard.

  This was not-Ripka, he reminded himself. Not the straight-laced, stern-hearted woman of the law he’d thought he was dealing with. He knew nothing about her, save she had a dead son and a whole mess of blood in her past. Heart hammering, he forced himself to stay still. To breathe.

  To resist the urge to reach out and rip off the sel coating her smug little face.

  “We’ve got to get back,” he modulated his voice to sound calm, certain. “We can take advantage of the chaos of the fire. Thratia will be distracted. We’ll slip in the way you came and shove off with the Larkspur.”

  “Just like that?” There was a lilt to her voice, a sense of what – uncertainty? Fear? Probably madness, if the strange glint in her eye was anything to go by. Eyes that, he realized now that he saw them up close, weren’t quite as grey as Ripka’s – a smudge of golden green intruded upon her irises.

  “Just like that. No more Aransa. No more Thratia. You’ll have the Larkspur to do with what you will.” And all those names and addresses went to smoke in that fire. No more murder, too. No more blind, flailing, revenge.

  “Thratia deserves–”

  “Something you can’t give to her. You can’t fight her straight on in her own compound. You won’t win. You’ll waste the opportunity, and be too dead to come back and try again.”

  Her lips pursed, frustrated, sullen. He held his breath.

  Not-Ripka stepped away, her hand falling from his chest. Detan suppressed a burst of nervous laughter. His head swam, his pulse thundered. He needed to end this. To get back to Tibs and get gone.

  “Let’s go,” he said, faking confidence.

  When they reached the Black Wash it felt as if half the night had gone, but the moon had only drifted four marks through the sky. Enough time to make it back before the sun devoured them, but barely. He stood still for a moment, imagining himself rooted to the ground right through the soles of his boots, and let the desert wind play its way over his skin and dusty clothes. He cast an eye to the night sky, silently daring the sun to rise, to catch him out on the Black and burn all his pain and frustration away.

  When not-Ripka stepped beside him he uprooted himself and ran his hands through his hair, tugging and mussing, then set off toward the city with ground-eating strides. The doppel was a good head shorter than him, so she had to quicken her pace to keep up.

  High above, a shadow stirred. The Hub ferry shuddered out onto its guy wires, the rectangular blot of it little more than a black smudge against the navy sky.

  “Is that–?” she asked.

  He watched it toddle along. Didn’t matter how slow the blasted thing was, it’d reach the city long before they ever could. His fists clenched, a thirst for flame rising within him.

  “That’s the news getting ahead of us,” he said.

  Her hand drifted toward the hilt of her blade, she half-turned toward the Hub. He knew what she was thinking. It’d crossed his mind, too. They didn’t have to reach the city before the ferry – they just had to reach the Hub’s dock before the ferry made land in Aransa. Two quick chops with that shiny little knife of hers and they’d plummet to the sand below. Thratia would suspect the fire had disabled the ferry, the flames were already a warm smudge of a glow against the side of the Smokestack, but she wouldn’t know about the so-called watch captain’s involvement. Wouldn’t have a chance to figure out Detan had his hands in it.

  It’d be so, so, easy.

  “No,” he said, and reached back to lay his hand across her sword arm. “There’ll be no more death, if I can help it.”

  She eyed him long enough he began to fear she’d shake him off and make for the Hub on her own. But then she nodded, a sharp little jab of the chin just like the real Ripka would do, and let her hands fall free at her sides.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Honding.”

  He turned back toward Aransa, and ran to beat the shadows above.

  Chapter 28

  Thratia’s compound had gotten some life back in it, and Detan wasn’t too sure that was a good thing. Fresh light speared bright and angry through all the windows, the silhouettes of armed men and women passing by them on the regular. There wasn’t any pattern to it he could work out, just a frenetic sort of activity that lacked a focused, guiding hand. Just the kind of hand Thratia was supposed to be providing. Maybe he was lucky. Maybe she was still out.

  “Keep your head down, eh?”

  Not-Ripka nodded and turned up the collar of her shirt to hide her jawline. Not that it did her much good in being inconspicuous. Everything about the way she moved told the story of her confidence, that she was top-of-the-rock in any room she entered. The blasted woman had gotten far too good at playing the real Ripka.

  Lucky for them both, the guards posted at the gate didn’t seem to notice, and the guards usually posted at the big double doors weren’t there at all. Once inside, they tore off down the hallway to the stairs which lead up to the dock. All the while Detan’s heart thudded in his ears, warning him that they were moving too fast – someone was going to notice. Going to stop them. Going to ask questions.

  Or they were expected.

  Shit.

  Just a few marks ago he’d have felt right at home in this sordid little game, but now that Tibs was mixed up tight in the danger all he could think about was getting gone. Shoulda’ listened to Ripka the first time. Or had that been the doppel? He was starting to lose track himself.

  “Whoa there.” As they topped the stairs, one of the guards he’d seen moping about the hallway earlier in the evening put an arm out, blocking his path.

  Detan pulled himself up straight and tried to keep the doppel in his shadow. “What are you stopping me for? Thratia wants me locked up snug with her big balloon and if she finds me out here in the hallway pissing around with you I guarantee it’ll be your nose that gets skinned.”

  The sniveling little rat smirked and put his arm down. “Sure. My mistake. Allow me to escort you.”

  Detan’s neck went stiff and his fingertips twitched, little beads of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. That bluster should not have worked. He couldn’t bolt, not now, not with the doppel a step behind him and Tibs a door ahead. He tried to kee
p his chin up as he followed the strong-arm to the dock, but there was no keeping his gaze steady. His gaze darted around, trying to make sense of every shadow and coming up with nothing at all. He closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and stepped through to the dock.

  Someone had had the fool idea of lighting lamps all around the place, and the whole thing was lit up so bright his eyes watered and his vision went muddy. While he was blinking the wet away, the strong-arm said, “I found the thieves, warden.”

  They were swarmed. Before he could get his bearings straight he was thrown to the ground, the crack of his head against the floorboards bringing another burst of light to his eyes. Tears mingled with blood as he snorted and choked from a fresh nosebleed. His cheeks burned with angry heat when someone laughed.

  As his vision cleared he saw the muscled hands holding him were sleeved in the slate-grey linen of Thratia’s private militia, no mere thug was holding Detan pinioned against the deck. He couldn’t see where the doppel had gone, but he figured she wasn’t looking much better than him right now. He hoped she could keep her face together for their new company.

  “I didn’t steal a damned thing!” he called, blowing a rather undignified bubble of blood out of one nostril.

  Someone’s knee bit into his back and he grunted. With the side of his face pressed to the deck he couldn’t see much of anything, but then a familiar black-dusted boot eclipsed his vision and he found himself wishing he could go back to not seeing anything at all.

  “You’re a thief and a liar, Honding, but you haven’t stolen from me. Let him up.”

  The knee disappeared and the meat-hook hands came off. He pushed himself up and wiped the smear of blood from his nose onto his sleeve. Thratia’s lip curled in disgust at that, which gave him a little tingle of pleasure.

  “What’s this about, warden?” He laid all the saccharine respect he could over the word warden, but she was too cranked up to notice. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flush. She even had a strand of hair out of place, her knuckles gone rough and pulpy by a recent strike. He was, Detan realized, quite probably a dead man.

  “What do you think?”

  She pointed. Detan stared.

  Out past the elegant shape of the Larkspur, the whole side of the Smokestack was glowing bright and angry. The flames must have gotten loose in the Hub, must have reached beyond the ready feed of wood and paper to rarer delicacies. Detan’s throat went dry. Reaching up from the Hub, long arms of flame crept along the side of the Smokestack toward the divot of its mouth.

  The selium pipelines were made of leather. Leather smeared with fat to proof it against the monsoon season. Ready fuel for a hungry inferno. Aransa’s whole economy – done in by the flash of one measly little lantern.

  “Wasn’t me,” he blurted.

  “Clearly.”

  “Warden,” the strong-arm interjected. “It may be he was involved. Those who came across on the ferry said the watch captain had an accomplice, a lanky man. And here he has just now returned with her.”

  Thratia moved so fast Detan barely saw it. She spun around and brought her hand up and down, one swift axe-blow, on the back of the strong-arm’s neck. He grunted and staggered forward, eyes rolling up. The militiaman beside him grabbed him just in time to keep him from going full over the edge of the dock. Thratia didn’t seem to notice the assistance. Or at least, she didn’t care.

  “Idiot.” There was no malice in her voice, just motherly disappointment. “This man here may be a scoundrel, but he wouldn’t set light to the whole of the Hub on purpose. His heart’s too soft to doom a whole city like that.” She scowled, rubbing the side of her hand. “And he wouldn’t have done such a fool thing on purpose and leave his partner to rot. No, if he’d planned this little disaster he and Tibal would be halfway across the Scorched by now.”

  Thratia turned away, her victim forgotten. She tucked a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear and gestured toward the ground, where a bit of not-Ripka was visible underneath the knees and elbows of a half-dozen of Thratia’s people. Detan tried to muster up the nerve to be offended that Thratia had thought her the bigger physical threat, but didn’t have it in him at the moment.

  Tibs was still here, then. But where?

  The militiamen dragged the doppel to her feet, and he was a little irritated to see that she had escaped without a nosebleed to match his own. Women, always getting unfair treatment. Her jaw was set tighter than he’d ever seen it, the tendons on either side of her neck sticking out from the strain, but she kept her mouth shut, which Detan reckoned was the wise choice given the current mood of the room.

  Detan cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone light. “Speaking of that old rock, where is Tibs?”

  Thratia smiled. It was horrible.

  “Bring her out.”

  “Her? Now, Tibs may be a little slender about the waist, but–” He swallowed his own rebuke. From amongst the crates Lady Grandon was shuffled forward, her lips hidden beneath a spit-wet rag. The lady’s delicate wrists had been tied together with supple leather, her ankles little more than a hand’s width apart. Her hair, so perfectly coiffed upon their last meeting, was skewed and skirling in the open air of the dock.

  She held her chin high, but… her eyes. Those were terrified. Detan opened his mouth, and found no words worth saying.

  “Did you think you wandered my city completely unwatched?” Thratia tsked. “Every soul you’ve shared more than a passing glance with, I’ve had noted. Every time you’ve exchanged words with a cart-vendor, ears I own have written them down.”

  “Why?” he said, voice coming out higher than he’d intended. This wasn’t right. And where was Tibs? Did he make it out?

  “You carry quite the reputation. But then, so do I. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Release her.” He found old strength in his voice, lost the flippant roll of syllables he employed to pull people along whatever nonsense train of thought he wanted them to follow. He knew that wouldn’t work here. Not now. Not with her.

  “Ah, so you do remember your teeth, lordling. I will, however, have to decline your request. You see, you’ve allowed me a handful of opportunities. I’m going to craft you an enemy tonight, Honding.”

  “There’s nothing that says we have to be enemies, Thratia, just–”

  “Not us, you empty sack.”

  Lady Grandon closed her eyes, gave a subtle shake of her head. Detan hadn’t the slightest clue what it meant. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, physically grasping for some sort of solution, for some path out of the mire. Desperate for an option that didn’t end in blood. He glanced to the doppel, found her face unreadable.

  “Bel’s husband is an ambitious man, I can respect that,” Thratia said, but all Detan really heard was the woman’s name. Bel. Bel Grandon. He cursed himself for not knowing her better, for not understanding any of what he’d just stepped in.

  Played it too loose, Honding.

  The warden paced before Bel, tapping the flat of a longknife against her thigh with each step. It was the vilest weapon Detan had ever seen. Long and fire-blackened, the tip swooping up in a wicked curve. He swallowed, forcing himself to watch her face, not her blade.

  “But his ambitions have led him astray. He snuggles up with the empire, giving the Valathean mercers prices he doesn’t share with the Scorched. Now, I can’t have that. I need his distribution network. Especially after tonight’s… setbacks. And so–” She turned, pressed the tip of her knife beneath Bel’s chin. “You’re going to have to go my dear. I am quite sorry, but it accomplishes two purposes I cannot overlook.”

  Detan lurched forward, the movement pure instinct, and found his upper arms held fast by two iron-handed men. He thrashed against them, knowing it was useless. Knowing he didn’t have a chance against common street toughs in a fair fight, let alone against trained men of the commodore. Better not make it fair, then.

  He opened his sel-sense wide, casting about for the tiniest sliver of the g
as. Something he could use. The Larkspur’s laden buoyancy sacks filled his mind, crowding out all finer sense. He couldn’t even detect the thin film laid over the doppel’s face. In the shadow of such a presence, he could sense nothing small enough to use. And if he reached for the Larkspur itself… He shivered. It hadn’t come to that. Not yet.

  “I will make damned sure Grandon knows whose hand murdered his wife. I will do everything in my power to turn this against you!”

  Tears slipped down Bel’s cheeks, her lips moved, murmuring beneath the gag. Thratia cocked her head, listening, and Detan’s heart leapt. Did Bel have something to bargain with, something worth her life? She was landed by birth. It was possible.

  “No, my dear. That would never work.”

  Thratia leaned forward, held Bel’s cheek in her empty hand, and pressed her lips to the trembling woman’s forehead.

  Blood erupted. Detan hadn’t even seen the knife move.

  Thratia stepped back, wrenched her blade free. The only sound was that of metal scraping bone. Catching, snapping. Bel’s eyes rolled up, she tried to scream and a meek gurgle bubbled out of the raw maw that had been her tanned throat.

  He wanted to scream for her, but he forced himself not to react. To stand still. To breathe easy. He couldn’t do it, not all the way. While his legs stayed anchored and his lips slammed shut he couldn’t dampen the thunder of his heart, the panting need of his breath. As if he could suck down enough air for himself and Bel both.

  She fell to the ground, curled around herself. It took longer than he would have deemed possible.

  “Now.” Thratia wiped her blade on a cloth a militiaman handed her. All business. “Two purposes. The first, of course, is to place her murder in your hands. My people and I will attest that Bel came over for tea and company, and got tangled up in your arrest for the arson. I will confide in Grandon that the empire knows you are dangerous, and has let you run loose too long. With his help, I will vow to hunt you down. Thus we will be united in purpose, and his love for Valathea will fade.”