Steal the Sky

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  If Thratia survived this, Detan was a dead man. It might take her a while, but Thratia’d make sure of it. The knowledge settled around him like a mantle, just as heavy as his anger had been. He shuddered.

  Thratia’s leg twitched, her head turned.

  “Time to fucking go,” Tibs said.

  “Wait, the girl!”

  “No more waiting!”

  “But–!”

  Aella pushed herself to her knees and glared at him. “Go, you idiot.”

  “I thought–?”

  “I didn’t want you around.”

  “What?”

  She stood and smiled, brushing grey ash from her blue dress. “Callia was always going to fail, Honding. Her circus is all she’s ever cared about – tunnel vision, she can’t see beyond it. And I need her alive, you understand? Alive to stand judgment for her failures. And then, well, I’m the only Valathean-bred and trained body positioned to take the reins she’s dropped. Her manicured heir – everyone knows it. I’m her ward! But you, Lord Honding, could have made things very difficult for me if you’d come around. You and your sour, noble blood.”

  “But you–”

  “I just didn’t want the competition!”

  New Chum staggered over to them, missing his eyebrows, with Pelkaia held upright between himself and Ripka. Without another word they hurried as best they could toward the ships while Thratia and Callia were laid out flat.

  Happy Birthday Virra! and Larkspur were in excellent shape, not even a singe on their gleaming hulls. The bubble of air around them was strangely cool despite the raging inferno of the sky above. He glanced over his shoulder at Aella.

  She winked.

  Chapter 42

  The dinghy had been too damaged to return them to the compound, and so they took the ferry, and wound their slow way up the cursed levels of Aransa. With every step Aella took fresh agony wormed its way into her arms, her chest, her legs. A great welt on her throat flared each time she breathed, and though the air was hot and her body exhausted she forced herself to take only the shallowest of breaths.

  Sweat did not pour from her, it simply emerged, a glistening sheen from head to foot that did little to cool her in the stale air and instead served only to increase the stinging of her wounds.

  And yet Aella smiled. It was tight, controlled, not enough to give away her joy, but she had to do something – something beyond trudging through the heat with her head down – to express her triumph. Not that Callia would have noticed.

  Aella spared a glance for her mistress. Callia was carried ahead of her on a shaded palanquin, the curtains snapped tight to hide her from the sun. Well, that’s what she’d said. Aella suspected that she just didn’t want the people of Aransa to see her in her defeat. In her pain.

  Which was probably wise. The people had certainly come out to see whatever there was to see.

  They lined the streets, peered through half-shuttered windows. Each and every one struggled to pick a direction in which to look. Either at the strange procession making its way before them, or at the fire in the sky.

  Most looked up. Aella did, when she was sure she wouldn’t lose her footing.

  The clouds had long since boiled off, and the empty blue vault was smeared in flame. Sourceless, relentless, flame. Every breath she took smelled of the chalk-dirt aroma of cracked stone and gristle roasting over hot coals. Great swathes of sunset colors roiled out of control, on occasion mingling with the selium in such a way as to draw out its opalescent streaks of iridescence.

  Those streaks never lasted long. The fire was ravenous for them.

  Aella began to lift her stinging arm, to hold her hand palm out to the flaming sky in supplication. She stopped herself just in time, but still let slip a dreamy sigh. If she had known Detan was capable of such beauty, she might have contrived to keep him.

  Pretending to duck her head once more, she looked through her lashes to be sure that Thratia had not seen her moment of weakness. The warden strode before Callia’s palanquin, head straight, jaw set. Though her body was scattered with welts and the skin of her left side was scorched red and raw she moved with determined calm, her eyes roving over those who had gathered to watch her pass.

  She looked proud, confident despite her injuries. As if the fire in the sky were her own doing, and everything was as it should be. Aella found herself wondering just what that showmanship cost her. Just how deeply would the new warden sleep tonight?

  She caught herself sneering at the back of Callia’s palanquin and bit her lip, tucking the expression away. Everyone had their own weaknesses and strengths, she reminded herself.

  The doors to Thratia’s compound were thrown open for them, all the second and third-ranked of Thratia’s little militia spilling over themselves to offer assistance. The laborers who Thratia had pressed into carrying Callia were released and replaced by guards with fresh backs. Apothiks appeared carrying trays of salves and teas and other accoutrements of their business.

  Aella nearly jumped out of her tenderized skin as a stranger tugged gently on her sleeve for attention. The man was rough of face, handsome in his own way, and carried the most disarming smile she’d ever seen. He proffered a wooden tray to her, strange jars splayed over its surface.

  “This balm,” he pointed to a jar of green soapstone, “will ease the sting, miss.”

  “Thank you.” She snatched it from the tray and then attempted an encumbered half-bow over a palm laid open to the sweet skies. The man smiled, bobbed his head, and moved along. Apparently a simple jar of goop was all the care she was going to get.

  “Enough of this circus.” Thratia’s voice, stern despite her exhaustion, froze in place every soul within the room. “It is time for the empire to leave Aransa.”

  A little trickle of dread excitement wormed its way into Aella’s heart. She shifted, trying to get a good view of Callia’s palanquin through the press of servants. A bruised-plum hand nudged a curtain aside, and Callia leaned her head out. “The empire will forever be in Aransa, warden. It is the way of things.”

  The freshly minted warden pulled herself up to her full height, and Aella felt a thrill buzz through her mind and heart. Whatever was about to happen here was new. After a lifetime of laboring silently in Callia’s lean shadow, anything new was a crisp delight.

  “Escort Dignitary Callia and her charge to their ship.” Thratia spoke to her militia, but her eyes did not leave Callia’s. Much to Aella’s disappointment, Callia snapped her curtain shut and ended the confrontation in silence.

  Aella sighed. Change was sometimes too much to hope for.

  Guards armed with weapons Callia had helped smuggle into Aransa herded them up the stairs, and Aella allowed herself a slim smile at Callia’s lack of power. Even if the dignitary wanted to protest, she was being carried on the shoulders of Thratia’s people. Her autonomy had been revoked.

  As Aella trudged up the steps she smeared the salve from the green jar across her wounds, savoring the cool tingle that radiated from whatever herbs had been mashed into the concoction. She spared a glance for the apothik who had brought it for her, but his balding pate was lost in the press all around. She stopped looking the second she stepped onto the dock.

  Their cruiser was gone.

  A midsized barge hung in the empty space of the u-dock, its overhead buoyancy sacks bulging against the ropes that held them in place. Stabilizing wings hung half open from the front and back, and all of Callia’s attendants were crowded into the center of the ship, held in an uneasy cluster by a line of crossbowmen spread out around the curve of the dock. Of the deviant sensitives, there was no sign. Along the ship’s rectangular haul, The Crested Fool was painted in gilded yellow.

  Aella was forced to stifle a giggle.

  With utmost care, the guards eased Callia’s palanquin to the ground and pulled away her sheltering curtains. From amongst her cushions the battered whitecoat leaned forward, fists clenching the front poles of the palanquin so tight Aella suspec
ted the flimsy, Scorched-grown, wood would snap.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Callia grated.

  Thratia gestured with a wide sweep of her arm. “You promised me a ship, and weapons. Now I have everything we agreed upon.”

  With a grunt of pain-mingled rage Callia jerked herself to her feet and thrust a finger Thratia’s way, her other hand drifting for the grip of her saber. Aella cringed, hoping her mistress would not be so stupid as to get them all slaughtered to assuage her indignity.

  “You lost the ship we sent you, and you have your weapons. Return my craft and my specimens to me immediately.”

  Thratia gave a slow, slow shake of her head. “Now I have a ship. Now I have weapons. Your specimens–” she spit over the rail of the dock, “–have already been bathed, fed, and sent to their own private rooms. Under guard, of course, but with time,” she shrugged, “I do not think I will have need of guards for them. You’re free to go, Callia. Right now. Don’t test me again.”

  On unsteady feet Callia stepped toward the gangplank, her eyes as wide and rolling as a startled horse. Aella sighed and started forward, offering her arm to the whitecoat. Callia took it, and Aella was surprised by how much weight she allowed her to carry.

  “You,” Thratia pointed a finger Aella’s way, “have a choice. You may stay with me, or not. I will not force you either way.”

  Aella pretended to take a moment to mull over the offer, then bowed her head in deference. “I will go with the woman who raised me.”

  Callia snorted pride, lifted her chin with smug satisfaction. Which was, of course, precisely the reaction Aella had wanted her to have. When Callia returned to the Valathean court in disgrace, Aella would be ready. She’d have plenty of time to plan, crossing the sea on such a slow vessel.

  And if Callia proved too much a terror on the ship, well then. She had her new little jar of salve, tucked safely in the loose folds of her pocket. A great many dangerous herbs could be blended in to such a base. Aella touched the jar in her pocket, treasuring it, and felt smooth letters and numbers carved, ever so tiny, into its base. She swallowed, following that little string with the edge of her thumb. A cipher. A way to communicate with Thratia in secret, if she so chose.

  Aella did not dare look the warden’s way. She was too afraid she would smile.

  As they crossed onto the deck of the new ship, Callia’s attendants took over, shifting her weight onto their trembling shoulders. Aella sighed. The walk had rubbed some of the salve off her arms. She opened the jar, oblivious to the threat of crossbows all around her. Thratia would not fire if there was no need of it.

  “You’ve made a grave mistake,” Callia called as her men unmoored the ship. “Valathea will hear of your betrayal.”

  Aella picked her head up just in time to catch a satisfied smile dance across Thratia’s tired, soot-smeared face.

  “Good,” the warden said.

  Aella fought down a grin, bending her head over the open jar of salve to hide it. Thratia was baiting the empire to war… She would have to work that into the plans she made as they crossed the sea.

  The Crested Fool slithered out into the open sky, rising to clear the craft from the line of crossbows. Despite their haste to be away, the ship stayed lower than its preferred cruising height, wary of the fires boiling the sky above. Heat sharper than any sunlight bathed Aella’s head and arms, and in a moment of recklessness she lifted her face to that fire and closed her eyes.

  “Aella!” Callia called, snapping her back to herself.

  It was all she could do to keep from humming a merry tune as she returned to her mistress’s side.

  Chapter 43

  Detan sat on the deck of the Larkspur, a cup of tea warming his hands and a large metal firepit warming his toes. Tibal, Ripka, and New Chum sat around the same fire, their figures slumped in unconsciousness, half-drunk teacups spilled from their hands. Tea Pelkaia had made them. A few stains of the stuff were creeping across the Larkspur’s fine wood. Detan sighed. That was going to be a pain to clean up.

  He hitched the thick, goats’ wool blanket Tibs had rustled up for him tighter around his waist. It was cold up here, so close to the stars, but the crisp wind felt good on his bare back all the same. Felt like it was leeching some of the heat out of his healing burns. Made his legs feel like numb, dead weight, though. Ripka burped in her stupor, a stream of drool ran down Tibal’s chin. Detan waited.

  The tea grew cold by the time Pelkaia emerged from the cabin, stretching herself toward the moonlight. Her face was cast in shadow, but still he saw her turn, saw her shoulders jump just a little in surprise. She sauntered forward, wearing her preferred face, and knelt beside New Chum.

  “Had too much to drink, did they?” she said.

  “Something like that.” Detan leaned forward and set his mug down before him, giving it a twist as if he were drilling it into place. Pelkaia smiled, and shook her head.

  “I should have known.”

  “Yes, you should have.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve been a guest of the whitecoats. Golden needle is what they use to knock off that pesky screaming and squirming that goes on while one’s being cut to ribbons.”

  “Ah,” she murmured, the ghost of a real frown scampering across her features. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to bring back sour memories.”

  “That’s what you’re going to apologize for?”

  She shrugged. “It’s what I’m actually sorry for. Anything else would be a lie.”

  “At least you’re honest.”

  Pelkaia patted New Chum on the shoulder and walked around the fire to sit beside Detan, close enough he could feel the warmth radiating from her. Could smell the spicy mélange of the oils she wore in her hair. A scent that brought with it memories of her smile, obscured by Ripka’s face, flashing in the dark. Bright. Enticing. Knowing she had him on a string only she could play. He swallowed, shifted, but didn’t scoot away.

  She stretched her long legs out, letting the soles of her boots draw close to the dancing flames. His own legs were crossed, and beneath the shelter of the blanket he could feel the wooden handle of his knife shoved in his boot, warm with the heat of his tired body. It would be easy.

  He didn’t like easy.

  “Which ship?” he asked.

  She said nothing, only reached down and patted the smooth wood of the Larkspur’s deck. He nodded. “Why?”

  “I told you all along it was mine.”

  “Not good enough.”

  She sighed, but from the corner of his eye he saw a smile pull up the ridges of her lips. “All right then. Callia’s given up the chase for now, gone north to get her sorry hide across the Darkling Sea before the monsoons strand her behind the Century Gates until the end of the season. Means we’ve got time. Time I plan on using to sharpen a stick to shove in her eye.”

  “And the Larkspur?”

  Her fingers spider-crawled across the deck, her palm came to rest against the cap of his knee. He did his best not to notice the heat of it. “You’re a hunted man, Honding.”

  “I’ve been hunted since I fled Valathea the first time, it’s nothing new.”

  “This is different. Back then, they knew your abilities deviated, but not to what extent, and you hadn’t yet done them a personal insult. Callia delayed her trip back to Valathea for a week just on the chance she’d catch you, and I would bet freshwater that she only left when she did so that she could make it there, drop her cargo, and come right back around before the monsoons really get going. After your little demonstration at the Smokestack, you’ve become worth your weight in sel.”

  “I can’t even imagine a man’s weight in sel.”

  “Exactly.”

  He pulled the blanket snug around his waist and tried to keep his shivering from being too obvious. What little of the golden needle had made it into his system was dragging him down, making him drowsy. Detan sucked in a deep breath of the cold night air and tried to calm hi
mself, to focus. Breathe in, breathe out. One-two, one-two.

  “Still haven’t told me why you plan on taking my ship,” he said.

  “Do you know what I was planning on doing with it, when Tibal found me on the Smokestack?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “I was debating the merits of shoving it down the throat of a sel pipeline.”

  Silence held between them, heavy and tense, while Detan imagined the ramifications. If the line backed up, it could have triggered an eruption.

  “You wouldn’t really have…”

  Pelkaia tilted her head and looked at him. There was no smile on her lips, no sheen of amusement in her eyes. Just placid, determined calm. The same fierce light she’d had in her eyes when she’d dragged him all the way out to the Hub, knowing a whitecoat was waiting for her to slip and land in her clutches. Pelkaia was willing to burn the world and herself with it if it meant she’d take down those she’d believed wronged her. He believed she would have shoved it down the pipeline. He really did. Worse of all, he didn’t blame her for wanting to. Not one bit.

  “I can’t let you take it. Not for that.” His fingers closed tight around the knife handle. If she would just look away…

  “I’m past that. I plan on using this ship against Valathea, but not in such a literal fashion.”

  “Any particular reason you don’t want us,” he gestured to their drugged companions, “a part of it?”

  She looked away, studying the limp-doll figures, and drummed the fingers of her other hand against her thigh, a habit she’d picked up from imitating Ripka. He wondered just how much of Pelkaia was Pelkaia, and just how much were little pieces of all the others she’d mimicked melded together. But was that fair, really? How many people were entirely themselves, anyway?

  “This stretch of time I’ve been given, this little extension of life. I’ve been thinking I should do something with it, since it was given to me.” She glanced sideways at him, and he looked straight to the deck boards, unmoving. “I believe I’ll go find others like us. Maybe even pull them together.”