Zella nodded solemnly. “Remember when this used to be fun?”
Devan smiled at that, but there was a sadness to it. “We can do this,” he said. “He's just one more variable.”
“Just like Phaedra's one more variable.” She turned and looked at Devan. “Just like I'm one more variable.”
Devan leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Just the opposite, Z. You're my constant.”
“Oh Krist,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Devan...I don’t need more of your bullshit right now.”
Devan stared down at her for a moment, considering her. Then, with no small amount of straining, he lowered himself down onto the floor on his one good knee. “All right. So, remember our last job in The Tower?” She nodded. “Winselle had just jumped out of her seat. She’d heard...something. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything about what was going on. Just that you weren’t answering on the link. And you know how that made me feel?”
Zella shook her head.
“Pissed. I was pissed. So pissed at the four of you because you’d obviously screwed up my beautiful, foolproof plan and gone and gotten yourselves captured or killed or something, and how was that going to make me look?”
Zella snorted.
“And then your voice came on the line. And I’d never been so relieved. Up to the moment Winselle jumped out of her chair, it didn’t even occur to me that anything could go wrong. Not just because it was my plan—my beautiful, brilliant, foolproof plan—but because it was you pulling it off. You’re amazing. You work ten times harder than anyone else in the room. And you’ve got balls of solid brass.”
Zella pushed her hair out of her face. “Well. I don’t like to brag.”
Devan took her hands in his. “No bullshit. You’re my constant. My plans work because of you.” He pulled her hands to his chest. “I work because of you.”
Zella watched his eyes for a long moment.
“That last bit was too much,” she said at last.
“Yeah,” Devan said, bobbling his head from side to side. “Yeah, maybe. But the rest of it…”
Zella smiled. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.
“Z,” he said, after a time. “About us. About you and me. I…”
Zella put her fingers down to Devan’s lips. “Later. Let’s do that later. Okay?”
Devan nodded. “Okay. So.” He smirked up at her. “Let’s pull off a goddamn robbery.”
Interlude
When The Palace came to Kauleth, it came with trumpets and flame.
The fanfare from Tult's "Rise, Gloria" resounded off the city’s every tower and spire as eight full orchestras — one for each of the craft’s enormous promontories — filled the night with sound. Below, every home in the city stood empty and every thoroughfare teemed as the Kaulethis poured from their doors to watch the great ship's arrival.
Orbiting The Palace were eight immense globes of flame, which painted the city in reds and blues and greens. Whole storm fronts of confetti billowed from the ship as it passed overhead, coating the streets in a rainbow dream some four inches deep. Children shrieked, their parents clapped and called out, the wealthy rubbed their hands together in anticipation...
...and the elders of the city scowled silently and watched.
Part III : Sky Heist!
Samus
“Has it started yet?” Chutley asked.
Chutley was securing his trousers after a trip to the comfort room. Samus, wearing his finest white robes, was looking down through a grate in the floor. The large, stone-walled room below had no windows or doors; it only had the grate for Chutley to peer down through.
The room was empty. That would soon change.
“Has it…” Chutley began again.
“No,” Samus said, still watching the stone floor far below. “Not yet.”
The words had not finished clearing his lips when a single golden coin materialized suddenly, soundlessly, below the bars of the grate. It fell, clinked to the floor 100 feet below, spun on edge for a moment, and came to rest. “Ah,” Samus said, his face its usual mask of disdainful indifference. “There. The first one.”
“Och...” The great northerner said, pushing past Samus to look down the hole. “I always miss the first one. Trying to see it is always the highlight of my day.”
Samus' face softened as he looked at Chutley. “Your day makes me terribly sad,” he said with a frown. And then the mask was back. Below, another handful of coins appeared and fell. Within a few minutes, they would be pouring into the hold like a waterfall.
With a sweep of his robes, Samus turned and made for the door. “I shall alert the central cashier that all is well in the hold,” he said on his way past.
Before leaving, he turned and watched as Chutley knelt down on his pillow, staring down through the grate at the floor of The Palace’s vault. The poor oaf spent every night in that position, watching the floor slowly disappear under a mountain of gold. And yet, for all his familiarity with the room below, Chutley had never seen its ceiling, which extended a good six feet on either side of the grate through which he watched.
If he could see it, he would have surely noticed a small golden ornament shaped like a lion's head affixed to the stone by a fast-drying sealant.
Samus sniffed and closed the door behind him.
Leaving the observation room, Samus made his way down the lamp-lit hallway, passing a dozen armored guards and a half-dozen blue-robed mages. He ascended a spiraling staircase and arrived in the tunnels below the arena. Locking the door behind him, he found the entrance to the gladiator pens, dug a perfumed scarf from his pocket, and pressed it over his mouth and nose.
It didn't help much. The filth of caged humanity had a physical presence in the pens. “We are the wealthiest enterprise in the known world,” Samus said through his ineffectual handkerchief. “Surely we can afford a bucket and a mop.”
“You do not understand,” grumbled Torg, who was waiting for him by the gate. His new beard was coming in nicely. “Degradation is part of the ritual.”
Samus sniffed. “Pit fighting is a religion now. I had no idea.”
“The pit has always been a temple,” Torg smiled derisively at the pudgy, balding man. “You should come pray some time.”
Samus rolled his eyes. “Spare me. Is she ready?”
Torg's laugh could have shaken Samus off his sandaled feet. “You could say that.”
---
“Are you deaf? Can you not hear me?” In truth, Samus would have been shocked if the Kaulethis on the street below couldn't hear Breigh's bellowing. “Show me your testicles, I say!”
Breigh hung from the ceiling of her cage. Across the hall from her in a cage of his own, Arachnus of the Fall stood impassively, arms folded, watching her. He hadn't said a word since his handlers had led him in. Breigh seemed committed to changing that.
“At least describe them to me!” she shouted with a mad grin. Dropping off the bars, she began to pace the floor, watching the giant man as she stalked back and forth. “I'm not concerned about their size. From what I have heard from the nickel whores and orphan mongers, I should have no trouble fitting them into what small room remains on my trophy belt.
“But tell me of their quality. Are they healthy balls? I merely ask because, when I fight a real champion, I would hate to have her ask, 'What is that, there, on your belt?’” Breigh rubbed her chin theatrically. “‘What is that shriveled...black...tiny sac? That one—the one with all the flies on it. The one that smells like a cheese monger’s midsummer shit. Whose balls are those?'“
Breigh leapt onto the bars of her cell door, which clanged loudly in protest. “For I would have to tell her, 'That's all that remains of Arachnus of the Fall! A diseased scrotum, and an oily black stain on my belt!'“
Arachnus said nothing, but Breigh was certain she saw him swallow hard. She threw her head back and laughed, loudly and lustily.
Torg banged on the bars of Breigh's pen with the wooden r
od that pit guards carried. Samus stood a respectful distance behind. “Gladiator,” he barked. “A word.”
Reluctantly, Breigh stepped down from the bars again and made her way to the far end of her cage. “This shouting,” Torg said, leaning in close to her. “It's not in keeping with ritual.”
“Neither is losing,” Breigh replied. “I have my own rituals.”
“I'm sure,” Samus said dryly, eager to be done with his business in the foul-smelling dungeon. “Breigh. After you win, the guards will lead you back to the pens to be bathed and dressed. Usually, the winners who remain unmaimed are auctioned off to spend the night celebrating with a wealthy patron or patroness.”
Breigh grinned. “Indeed?”
“Of course, we are more interested in getting you out of The Palace, so we will instead smuggle you out in a laundry truck.”
Breigh's grin fell. “Hm.”
“Torg will help you celebrate later,” Torg said, with a lopsided smile.
“Torg should be so lucky,” Breigh said, shooting him a look out of the corner of her eye. “As I say. I have my own rituals.”
Torg reached into a pouch and produced a small dagger, held in a clasped sheath. “Perhaps you will observe at least one of mine?”
Breigh eyed the small blade. The etching on the hilt was as fine as she'd ever seen.
“This little devil has brought me nothing but good fortune. But there’s a trick to him. He must stay sheathed until you're ready to deliver the killing blow.”
“Magic?” Breigh asked.
“Of a sort,” Torg whispered, as solemnly as his growl could get. “It would do me a great honor if you would let it drink from Arachnus of the Fall.”
Breigh considered it, then nodded. Torg's lopsided smile returned. He took a knee before her and strapped the scabbard to her thigh.
“Watch your hands,” Breigh taunted him where he knelt, his head at her waist. “I once had to put a dog down after it got its first taste of something it shouldn't have.”
His work completed, Torg rose to his feet and faced Breigh. He offered his hand through the bars. With a fierce smile, she took it.
“You die tonight,” Torg said, letting her see the steel in his eyes.
“Then warn the gods,” Breigh replied. “A demon comes.”
Torg nodded his approval. “It seems some of our rituals overlap at least.”
Breigh patted the blade on her thigh. “We'll see.”
Torg nodded to her and led Samus back to the gate. As he left, Samus could hear Breigh return to berating Arachnus again. Something about his parentage. And then the door clanged behind him.
---
His breathing hard and shallow, Samus trotted up the seemingly endless stairs of the coliseum. Already the stands were nearly full with anxious Kaulethis. After two generations of pious orthodoxy, the city had sired a new wealthy overclass starving for distractions, and there was no greater distraction than the chaos of the pit.
At last, Samus passed under the Grand Arch that led to the main gaming hall, trading hard marble steps for plush red carpets. His feet luxuriated. He mopped his brow.
Across the hall, Samus spied Devan and Allister, dressed in chef's whites and sporting wigs and fake beards. They were right where they were supposed to be—dispensing drinks from the east beverage concession. Their booth was situated in front of a curtain that led back to the maze of service corridors where the lock room lay.
Samus caught Devan's eye. They exchanged nods.
Samus' gaze swept across the hall and found Phaedra pushing a serving cart. The cart was piled high with covered dishes, its sides cloaked with curtained fabric. He caught her eye too, and they nodded each other's way.
At last, Samus looked to one of the grand stairways that led up to the mezzanine. There at the base, trying to look bored, was Zella. Surrounded by a kaleidoscope of elegant evening gowns, Zella's dress stood out in the crowd for its sheer, painful plainness. It was a businesswoman's suit. The uniform of someone desperate to be taken seriously.
Samus almost pitied her.
She stared at him, communicating her impatience with her eyes. He nodded back sharply. The implication was clear: Not yet.
Samus crossed the plush red carpets of the gaming hall and opened the door to a service stairwell. Three flights down, he entered the airship bay. As expected, only a handful of crafts were docked there, hovering silently above the floor, tethered tightly to ensure they didn't list into one another.
A full complement of guards stood watch at the open bay door. Occasionally one of The Palace's orbiting fireballs streaked past the cavernous opening, bathing the bay in reds and blues and greens. Otherwise, the vast room was still—quiet and all but deserted.
Samus waved to the guards, who paid him little mind; everyone knew and disliked the hateful little man. The less they needed to speak with him, the better. Besides, they were watching the fireballs, gambling on what color would race by next.
“Nalan?” Samus asked as loudly as he dared, peering between two airships, then between two more. “Nalan?” He peeked between a third pair, and there he was, against the back wall, inspecting a teleportation kiosk. It was a larger version of the tabernacles in the cashiers’ cages, used by sultans and merchants to offload huge sums of money quickly from their private ships. Samus waddled quickly over. “What’s the word on the security ships?”
“They've all been fitted with Aurium,” Nalan said, looking up from the kiosk. “I can't just pry the panels off them. I'd have to take them apart. All of them. Down to the superstructure.”
“Marvelous,” Samus moaned, shaking his head. “Then you're in for a chase after all.”
“Yes.” Nalan emerged from under the ship and rose. Together they walked to their own airship. It was immense—larger than any two of the security vessels. And it was hideous. Boxy and brown, lacking any manner of adornments, it was clearly a craft designed for hauling bulky freight.
“Doesn't much look like a gift for a wealthy baron's mistress.” Nalan had a wonderful gift for understatement.
“If this is a just and fair universe,” Samus said, rubbing his temples, “then Vertus will spend eternity being molested by thorn pigs.” He shook his head. “The vile old degenerate would probably enjoy that.” He looked to Nalan. “Does it look like it will work?”
Nalan rubbed the back of his neck. “The frame will hold. I'm not so sure about the sides. If this thing is full of gold coins and we take a hard corner, I can't guarantee one of the walls won't give. Tolem seemed to think it would be okay; he's the only one who had seen it before today.”
Samus nodded at that. “Did he say anything else about it?”
“It shakes.”
“It shakes? Why would an airship shake?”
“The mage who sold it to Vertus said something about how the incantations that provide locomotion were applied unevenly. When we try to turn or back up...it'll be a rough ride.” Nalan shook his head.
If Samus were to translate his expression into words, those words would be: “Fucking magic.” That almost made the fat man smile. Of all Tolem’s 'children,' he found himself almost enjoying the company of dour, forthright Nalan. And that almost made him a little sad. “All right,” Samus said. “No use fretting at this point. This is what we have.”
Nalan nodded. “Let's get to it.”
Devan
The gong rang in the arena. The undercard was ready to begin, and so was Devan’s plan.
Devan slipped away to the comfort room, leaving Allister to man the drink station by himself. As soon as he arrived, he checked his wig and beard in the mirror. The fake beards were pointless, but they seemed to make Allister feel better. His reasoning was that Phaedra had likely told the guards what they all looked like, and the beards would throw them off the trail. Devan had tried to explain that there was nothing stopping Phaedra from pulling aside a guard the night of the job and telling them to look for two servers with beards, but Allister would
not be swayed. Beards he would have, so beards they did find.
Devan didn't mind, of course. It was a minor addition to the plan. Checking himself once more in the mirror, he slicked back his prosthetic mustache with his thumb. In deep cover. Wearing a disguise. Just minutes before the biggest heist in recorded history. Devan smirked at his reflection and thought to himself, Could this be any more perfect?
Exactly on cue, the door to the comfort room opened and Tolem walked in with a crowd of other patrons. Even though he was expecting his uncle, Devan’s stomach clenched at the sight of him. They’d barely been in the same room since that ugly night a week prior. Since then, Tolem had returned to their suite only to sleep, and they’d spoken only as much as they needed to finalize the plan.
Tolem was carrying Allister’s toiletries case—their 'bomb.' The two locked eyes in the mirror, for a moment. Devan tried to keep his expression impassive. In the end, he went back to primping his beard.
Other patrons hurried around the two of them, all of them anxious to get out to their seats before the preliminary matches began. As the crowd thinned, Tolem crossed the comfort room floor and set the case on the counter, a few feet down from Devan. With exaggerated caution, Tolem looked to the left, looked to the right, then looked down to open the latch on the case.
He cracked the lid just a hair, and the radiance within lit up their corner of the room. It was a show just for Devan—Devan and any passersby who might be watching them. Devan looked over. Tolem caught his gaze.
The look in Tolem's eye spoke volumes: grim fatalism, disappointment, fear. “Let's get this huge fucking mistake over and done with,” Tolem's eyes seemed to say.
Seeing that, Devan stiffened, his eyes narrowed. You fucking snob, he wanted to say. You fucking coward, with your small-minded arrogance. You don’t deserve to be a part of this. When this is all done, the best part will be laughing in your stupid, stupid face.
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