by R J Theodore
She wanted to race to it, to clutch it to her, but she restrained herself because the thing would be hard as a rock against the barrier of her suit anyway, and because there was no such prize for Tisker on board. She kept her relief to herself.
Instead she crossed the room to the lidded chest built into the bulkhead, thankful she’d actually stowed her charts before their last meal in her cabin. Im Ufite Rantor had come with its own locker full of freshly pressed navigational charts, sheaths of enormous paper whose corners were not yet blunted by service. But those sky maps had nothing on hers. No notes in the margins. No markings for the little places she’d found, the caches she’d left, or the storm centers where they could find shelter. Some of this was committed to memory, of course. Most of it. But these charts were as familiar as her jacket, and it felt good to hold the wrinkled bundle of vellum and paper again.
And that was it. Charts and a coat.
On that thought, she searched the mess until she found her old boots. She’d escaped from Wind Sabre barefoot, wearing only the pants and a tank top she’d pulled on after waking to the chaos that claimed her ship. Her leather boots were as worn and weathered as the other things she gathered. Shiny and polished had never been her preference. And, in the bottom drawer of her desk, there were the heavy six-shot revolvers. Suddenly, everywhere she looked was something worth taking. She forced herself to leave the cabin before she needed Sophie to lower the tow platform.
Back out onto the deck, she deposited her items in the net bag Tisker held open for her, trailing on a strong thin cord back up the deck to the lift line.
With those prizes, the dam of Talis’s resistance was broken. There was no sense in coming to mourn and leaving again without the items she’d spent a lifetime accruing. The part of her that appraised values and assigned worth came alive. She claimed the azimuth compass and the alchemical kiparcoiled device that had cost her months of captain’s shares. No sense in buying one again, and it wasn’t exactly an item one could find in a chandlery.
Tisker ran a hand over the broken form of the ship’s wheel. It was off its axle, and the tiller ropes were snapped. The king spoke was cracked where the handle met the felloe, and the handle hung sideways like a broken wrist. Tisker twisted it off with a crunching sound of splintering wood and slipped the knot work cuff off the bottom end. He let the handle drop and stared down at the braided ring for a moment, then pocketed it.
Their eyes met. No need to explain, which was good as their helmets would muffle any words into inconsequence unless they stood only a few inches apart.
They returned to the hatch and companionway at midship that led below. Their belts were heavy with sally bars and small gas torches for removing any ice that had frozen doors and hatches shut, but the first access hatch opened with only the slight grinding as frost shaved free of the hinges. They stepped onto the ice-glazed steps that led into the shadowed stomach of their ship.
The carrack’s cargo level was three decks below, and they made their way down, switching their crank-operated torches on again. There was no trash to wade through here, but the frost forced them to pick their steps with care despite the specially designed soles of their boots. The wrinkling of their suits and her breath in her helmet was the only sound to accompany their hollow footsteps along the corridors.
They had a tow line that would lift the heavy Yu’Nyun crates free of the ship. But first they’d have to maneuver them out of the cargo hold and up the companionways, circling around each set of steps between decks. Wind Sabre hadn’t listed far enough to give them direct access to the lower hatch that interrupted the line of her keel.
Talis’s torch light turned with her shoulders as they passed the galley and penetrated the cave-like recess. The evidence of their last meal had been sent down from her cabin but not washed or stowed. Broken dishes, old food—frozen without a chance to spoil—and serving ware scattered across the floor. Some of it piled against the tarp covering the hole in Wind Sabre’s hull. The tarp was torn, and the arm of an antique well pump jutted inward toward the bulkhead above. Stars were visible beyond the opening, and Talis shuddered at the emptiness. Two years ago, they’d had dinner to celebrate their survival, believing themselves clear of danger. The course was plotted to take them into Heddard Bay, where the riches they’d rightfully earned would pay for repairs and upgrades on the ship. Only hours later, they’d lost everything but one hot air dinghy and the blood-stained clothes on their backs.
Talis turned back to see Tisker waiting patiently for her. They couldn’t get Wind Sabre back—there was no longer enough of her to save—but at least they’d finally get what they earned.
The metal bars of the cage in cargo were bent inward under the impact of loose supply crates and boxes that had landed against it. The door’s latch and hinges were intact, but the lock was a melted twist of bubbled iron. Talis ran gloved fingers over the unfamiliar lump. Meran had freed Hankirk from the cell without bothering to steal the key. Afterward, there was no point putting the ruined man back in again, and Talis didn’t even realize the lock was a loss.
Within, the cell held two objects: the Yu’Nyun crates.
Talis released a breath she had not realized she was holding. No one had beaten them to the salvage. She’d not let the thought bubble to the surface, but she worried they would be too late. Eneil hinted that the wealth in her cargo was more common knowledge than she’d wanted to believe. Perhaps that had been bluster, the first barrage of manipulation to get her to sign on.
Well, it worked. Combined with Dug’s injury, and Tisker’s suggestion to salvage their ship before Im Ufite Rantor even approached Heddard Bay, how was Talis supposed to resist?
The two of them shifted the gathered crates away from the cage’s door, grunting with the exertion against gravity’s grip on the sloping deck. Their feet slid, and the work was slowed further by the need to be careful as they shoved the crates aside and gravity took hold again. The hull shuddered as each crate slid into the starboard bulkhead, and Talis held her breath in fear of the flotsam shifting around them. She imagined the ship sinking lower into the garbage with each impact. After two or three crates, the door was clear.
It took both of them to convince the hinges to turn against the dented frame, but once they wrenched it open, at least it stayed that way. The glossy containers within were unmarred. The frost on them made their smooth white surfaces seem even more strange.
Talis stroked a gloved hand across the black control panel on the top of one crate and with a hiss, the lid lifted up and back, sliding on automated tracks that rose out of pockets to either side of the interior. The angle in the deck spilled the contents in a cascade of pressed metal bars and precious stones, which landed with a metallic clatter that echoed eerily in the silence of the room.
“Haven’t seen money like that all together in a while.” The glint of her torch light reflected back, and a glare obscured her faceplate so that she had to turn her head to the side to clear her vision. Two years’ worth of hard work in Lippen was a pile of scrap in comparison.
“Forgot how pretty all that shine was.” Tisker held his torch steady so she could open the second box.
This box did not spill over. Its contents were low by a few inches.
Talis chuckled. “So that’s how the bastard paid for his ride off Heddard Bay.”
Hankirk saved them, but maybe it was only payment for the handfuls of gold and gems he’d helped himself to before Wind Sabre went down.
Tisker muttered something Talis couldn’t make out, but it sounded like a typical Tisker-like string of cursing.
She cut him off with a dismissive wave. “That’s a fair price to never see his face again. Take it out of my cut if you must—still plenty here for you lot. Come on.”
While she scooped up the spilled contents of the first crate into the available space of the second, Tisker removed a series of tether straps
from his shoulder and laid them out on the deck. They sealed the crates again, strapped them together, and fed the straps through wheeled buckles. Tisker lifted the crates up, grunting with the effort, and Talis fed the casters underneath. Then they tightened the straps and pulled the spare length over their shoulders, tugging and yanking their way back up the way they’d come.
As they passed the galley again, Tisker came up short.
“Hang on.” He handed his strap over to Talis, who braced herself in the doorway so the weight of the crates didn’t pull her back down the icy decking, and she watched him cross the ruined galley.
He retrieved the old percolator coffee pot from the gas stove, pulling it free of its spring-tension brace with a scrape. He laughed, fogging his glass helmet slightly until the vent fans in the suit could clear it again.
Curious, she tilted her head and raised her eyebrow, and he banged it against the counter. Talis could hear the dull thud and joined in the laughter. The pot had frozen full of coffee, and the bottom had expanded out in a rounded curve. Nothing a little pounding couldn’t put back to right. She nodded.
Even though the suit collar blocked her view of the lower half of his face, she could see his smile in the wrinkle of skin around his eyes and the sparkle there that was brighter than the reflections on frost they’d been staring at for nearly an hour. He rejoined her in the corridor and looped the handle of the pot through the tether on the crates.
Even if it had been easier to converse through the glass helmets, no words were needed. That percolator was worthless compared to the coffers at their feet, but she knew they’d have it long after the money was spent and gone. Wherever they brewed their favorite brown liquid in the familiar old pot, aboard however many ships, they would be home.
They hauled their prizes the rest of the way out of the quiet belly of the ship. Stepping up onto the boot hook of the descent line, Talis gave Wind Sabre one last look. The ship was a loss, but she’d come away from it with what mattered.
Sophie braced herself against the railing of Im Ufite Rantor’s lower boarding deck and guided the crates up onto the extended ventral transom while Tisker and Talis clambered back aboard via the small outboard ladder. They popped the clamps on their helmets, pushing back the glass faceplates, and gulped the fresh air.
“Suit’s an improvement on the one we had aboard Wind Sabre, but there’s nothing like true breathing.” Talis stowed the helmet upside down in its locker so the condensation could evaporate.
Sophie helped them unclip from their tethers and peel off the crinkling coveralls. In a subdued tone she asked, “How was it?”
Talis spared a glance over the railing. Wind Sabre was indistinguishable again from the rest of flotsam at this distance. Her brain buzzed with a thousand thoughts, each connected to and pulling on something in her chest.
“Quiet,” Tisker answered for her. Seemed to cover it well enough.
Sophie pressed her lips together as she began to secure the cables.
“I’ll go with you,” Talis offered. “If you want to visit her.”
Sophie seemed to have trouble speaking and shook her head. Tisker unhooked the liberated percolator from the tow straps. Sophie’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of it, and he pushed it into her hands. Then, feeling the weight and chill of the frozen block within, she laughed.
“Coffee doesn’t usually have time to cool before we drink it.”
“Could reheat it,” Tisker suggested. “Finish what we started.”
“Oh hells, it would probably be awful!” Sophie pushed the pot back into his hands, as if disgusted. But Talis felt the idea lingering.
She got her Rakkar-made boots back on—discarded by the alchemist Amos and sent home with Sophie from Kirna while they were working in Lippen, the laces replaced in the left one—and knocked one foot against the side of the nearest coffer. “Come on, get these secured. Coffee after.”
She turned, meaning to carry her old jacket and boots up to lay out near the engines, but felt a wet spot on the jacket. One pocket was already thawed. Too soon for even her body heat to have made a difference against the hard freeze of flotsam.
Frowning, she reached in and found an unexpected, but familiar lump. Without having to pull the object out, she recognized its shape.
Lindent Vein’s ring. So that’s where it had gotten to. She didn’t remember pocketing it again after everything. Once Meran had absorbed Onaya Bone’s powers, the ring that had controlled her had seemed a worthless piece of old junk. Only it was still warm to the touch, even after two years in the frost of flotsam, as if it still had some potential purpose.
Talis considered it as she headed back to the crew deck above. Decided she would take it as a good sign. Things were going well.
They had their wealth back and all the resources it would pay for. Instead of needing to rent or buy a new ship while they waited for Sophie’s plans to be finished, they had a very nice, very shiny ship, and since Dug was mending, she’d say it had come at a bargain.
For the moment, they were back ahead of the game.
Soon as her things thawed and dried, she’d be her old self again.
Chapter 20
Liara and Reian slid back the thick steel door so Zeela, and the other three young Vein women who worked for her, could leave their secure inner apartments and open the shop for the day’s business.
Faelyn, wife of Paternus Grimm, was already waiting outside the shop. Zeela could hear the rustle of the Cutter woman’s full jacket sleeves, even before she activated the sensory net in her own robes. Her head filled with feedback from the nodes spread throughout her storefront, and she paused to orient herself. The enhanced auras of Reian and the other women moved across a grid of awareness, each knowing exactly which duties to perform to keep the shop running as Zeela preferred it. Their mistress slid the shop lockbox into its housing beneath the shop counter, then signaled with a tap of her toe against the floor. Reian crossed to the front door and rolled the security shutter back into its pocket in the wall. Zeela heard her murmur a welcome to Faelyn, and the impatient ripple of beads as the customer entered.
Faelyn’s footsteps were unsure on the parquet flooring. Zeela heard her fingers navigate by the edges of the shop display furniture. She resisted the urge to sigh.
“Good morning, Faelyn. You’re up early this morning.”
“It’s broken again. I can’t see a cursed thing.”
Zeela unfurled her most patient smile. ‘See’ wasn’t the correct word for the sensory input the system provided, but such was the language of the sighted. “I have asked you not to wear the devices to bed.”
Paternus Grimm’s wife was losing her ocular senses and refused to let them go with grace and dignity. She came to Zeela and offered a small fortune if the Vein woman would sell her the assistive devices employed by her people. Assistive devices not openly discussed with outsiders. But the woman, already impatient and paranoid thanks to her husband’s business practices, was also greedy enough to keep the secret herself rather than admit to her competition and underlings that she was losing what she perceived to be a valuable sense.
“You told me to build up a tolerance.”
“Build a tolerance,” Zeela confirmed, lending a lyrical emphasis on the word. “Slowly. Only an hour or so per day, not days at a time. And not by rolling around on the delicate wires in your sleep.”
She reached out her hands, but Faelyn did not respond to them. She must truly have overdone it. “The devices, please.”
Faelyn started, then unlooped a tote bag from her shoulder and retrieved a satin slip, laying it over the surface of the shop’s counter. Zeela could feel deep creases in the fabric, and a short exploration with her fingers found the crimped wires sewn between the layers. “This technology is difficult to repair. It would last longer if you wore it only when necessary.”
“Then I s
hould have a spare set. I can’t keep the books if I can’t read them or count the inventory. Any sort of discount for buying multiples?”
While Faelyn spoke, Zeela heard steps sound on the suspension bridge leading toward the Platform District and knew the uniform, heavy steps belonged to the Rosan Guard.
Subrosa had been subject to more traffic coming down the lifts and stairs from the city above, but none of it had been tourism. The Guard, once content to let Subrosa govern itself in exchange for a weekly tithing for the trouble of looking the other way, had taken up the practice of aggressively turning over their posted service people. Their tours in Rosa were now so brief, none of them felt the need to work with the local business owners to make sure their stay was as comfortable as possible.
Bribing the Rosan guards was a thing of the past. Fighting them was a fool’s choice. The best advice had been to stay beneath their notice. Something Zeela had managed fairly well.
Until now.
She was also aware that Lilac had been waiting outside her shop, but Faelyn had demanded her attention and was difficult to coax into leaving. As this larger group had approached, Lilac had slipped away to avoid them. Faelyn, who may or may not have been able to detect such things while still adjusting to her new sensors—had she not broken them again—jumped almost clear of the counter when the door beads clacked at the entrance in a cacophony of metal and shells. The strands swung and tangled, and one of the shop attendants moved to rearrange them once the party had entered and cleared the doorway.
“I am afraid not, Madam.” Zeela slipped the garment off the counter and beneath it, her discretion intended for the both woman’s reputation and to guard against curiosity on the part of the five Rosan guards now positioning themselves throughout her shop. “If you’ll come back tomorrow, your repair should be complete.”