Steal the Sky

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  She drifted through the darkened halls by rote, found the aisle of long-term inmates and reached for the lantern she knew would be there. It felt light in her hands, not much oil left. Not much time to burn.

  With care she struck her flint and lit the already charcoaled wick, coaxed a small flame into life. A few muted groans of protest sounded down the hall. The regulars, annoyed that their darkness was disturbed. She ignored their grumbles as she continued down the hall. She wasn’t here for the regulars. Ripka sought a much more recent addition.

  The unnamed woman’s cell was second to last, a palm-sized piece of wood with “Unknown #258” hastily tacked in place of a name placard. Ripka ran her fingertips over the number, wondering at the motives behind the two hundred and fifty seven who had come before this one. Most were long before Ripka’s time, but in her experience few kept their numbers long. The last, however, had kept his number until his death. Unknown #257. The doppel caught impersonating Mercer Agert.

  She resolved that this woman would not die in obscurity.

  Ripka hung her lantern from the hook above the small window in the wooden door, placed so that it was just out of reach of the inmate but still close enough to cast some light into the cell. Then she pulled a heavy metal key from her pocket, and stepped inside.

  Unknown lay on the bench opposite the door, curled on her side with her arms cushioning her head. Lank, greasy-brown hair streaked her cheeks, and the whites of her eyes glinted wide and wary as Ripka entered her world. Taking a deep breath of the fetid air, Ripka shut the cell door behind her.

  The woman swept her gaze over Ripka’s mourning clothes and raised her brows. “Is this a personal call, captain?”

  “I need answers from you. Evidence.”

  With a grunt the woman sat up. The chains binding her wrists together hissed against one another like a disturbed viper. “I’ve been through this about a half dozen times with your lackeys. I’ve got nothing to say, and you don’t have the spine to force it out of me.”

  Ripka eyed the woman with care. She was in good health, even if she could do with a bath. The records her watchers kept said she ate well, sending back empty platters after each meal time. Ripka made sure of it – she checked those reports every night, and did what she could in the morning to see to it that those who weren’t eating had their diets adjusted to please them. Ripka would never allow it to be said that her jail treated its inmates poorly.

  She could only hope her successor gave the same care.

  “You’re right.” She spun the cell door key around her finger. “We’re not interested in forcing answers from you. We’re not brutes. Though I’m sure if the situation was reversed Thratia would have cut the answers from you by now.”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Never said that’s who I worked for but, I’ll tell you this, I woulda’ cut the answers outta you myself if the tables were turned.”

  “Charming.” Ripka moved the key, very slowly, to her pocket and gave the button flap a hasty loop. She stood there alone, unarmed. The key to the cell protected by no more than a flimsy piece of cloth. The woman licked her lips, chains rustling as she leaned forward. Ripka’s heart stuttered with a burst of adrenaline, her muscles growing taut though she didn’t dare take a fighting stance.

  The woman’s eyes widened and she grinned to bare her teeth. “Why, Captain Leshe. You are the clever one.”

  “Does that mean you’ll answer my questions?” Ripka fought to keep her voice smooth, to keep her hands from twitching toward the empty holsters of the weapons she had set aside before entering this cell. The fight she sought would already be unfair. No need to make it worse.

  “Maybe. What it does mean, is, I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  A fierce grin split the woman’s face, and Ripka’s whole body thrummed with anticipation. Do it, then! She wanted to scream, but she bit back the words behind a falsely perplexed frown. “I’m not sure what you–”

  The woman lunged. Fierce joy shot through Ripka, the burst of elated strength so overwhelming she grabbed Unknown by her outstretched arms and pivoted at the hip, swinging the over-leveraged woman into the wall. Unknown’s hip and shoulder cracked against the hard stone, loud enough that Ripka feared for a fleeting moment that she’d overdone it, that she’d knocked the woman out in one blow.

  Luck was with her.

  Unknown turned to face her and lurched forward, fists raised, and forced Ripka to circle around lest she let the woman get within her guard. The woman grinned and wiped blood from her lip onto the back of her fist. “You surprise me, Leshe, an upstanding woman like you starting a fight with a prisoner.”

  “You attacked me,” she said, too fast, but she didn’t care. It was done. Now she needed to press her advantage, to keep Unknown off guard. “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, is that how this works? Blow for blow, eh? I guess you earned it. Name’s Dekka.”

  Before she’d finished her sentence she lunged, landed a jab on Ripka’s right side so hard she spluttered and stumbled back. The great wooden door of the cell slammed into her back, and her lungs burned as she strained to retrieve the breath she’d lost. Dekka stepped into it, turning her body wide to come across with an uppercut.

  But Dekka hadn’t been locked up long enough to know the cells as well as Ripka.

  Ripka shoved her hands down and grabbed the iron loops protruding from the door at hip-height. Bracing herself, she drew her knees into her chest and kicked out with both feet. The connection sent Dekka reeling, but Ripka was too busy trying to quiet the rattle of her own teeth to see where she went. Ripka dropped the loops, her fingers too numb and her shoulders too jarred to keep on holding them, and fell into an awkward crouch.

  Dekka lurched to her feet and let loose with a roar as she charged with both her hands held up in a hammer blow. Ripka scurried away, crawl-hopping like a rabbit, and grabbed the bench Dekka had just abandoned to pull herself to her feet.

  Dark compacted around her eyes just a breath before the pain reached her, lancing up from somewhere about her lower back. Damn woman was blasted strong. Ripka whirled, teeth clenched, and somehow managed to get the chain that bound Dekka’s wrists caught in one hand. She swung her around and then pulled, Dekka’s back slamming into her chest, and they went staggering backward until Ripka’s back slapped the wall.

  Gasping, snorting, they fumbled and grabbed and twisted until Ripka had one elbow snapped tight around Dekka’s throat and the other pinioned her arms. The blasted woman’s legs flailed, clubbing Ripka’s shins with her heels. Ripka screamed against the pain, screamed against her loss, then pushed forward and spun around, slamming the woman face-first into the wall.

  Her chest heaved, her knees threatened to quake, but still Ripka held the squirming, cursing, agent of Thratia against the cold yellowstone and fought back an urge to break the woman’s neck.

  “Who is supplying Thratia’s weapons?” Ripka growled, her throat raw from her gasping.

  “Fuck yourself,” Dekka hissed.

  Ripka tightened her elbow, felt the woman spasm as she struggled for air, then eased the pressure. “Again.”

  “Some bitch-faced imperial.” Dekka spat a wad of blood and spittle against the wall, wheezing as she drank down the air.

  Callia. “Why? What’s the imperial get?”

  “I don’t–”

  Ripka squeezed. Galtro’s rotting body floated before her mind’s eye, rank and discarded. Tossed against the wall like a broken toy. She gasped and eased her hold.

  “Shit!” Dekka fell into a coughing fit, and Ripka let her heave until it passed. “Freaks, all right? Any weirdo fucking sensitive she can round up. But she’s not happy about it, she wants to keep one for herself.”

  A smile broke across Ripka’s face, and she closed her eyes for a moment in rapture. Perfect. If Thratia wasn’t happy, that meant somewhere she was keeping records. Keeping notes that could be used to turn against the imperial should the need ever arise. If Ripka cou
ld use them to destroy the imperial’s authority, then Thratia would have no official backing. No claim to make on the wardenship… And the people wouldn’t be too pleased, either, to hear proof she dealt in human trafficking. Even if the poor souls being bought and sold were deviant sensitives. But first she’d have to prove to Callia that Thratia was planning on holding out on her, drive a wedge between them so she could investigate deeper.

  “The records of these shipments, where are they kept?”

  “I don–”

  She squeezed, and Dekka thrashed so hard Ripka nearly lost her grip.

  “Where–”

  “I really don’t know! Shit! The compound, probably, where else?”

  That would have to do. Ripka dropped her hold on the woman’s chained arms and shoved her against the wall as hard as she could. Dekka struggled, sensing an opportunity, but Ripka leaned the whole of her weight against the weakened woman and was able to pin her in place. She fumbled one hand through a pocket and pulled out a small clay bottle. Its contents were heavy, familiar. She’d used similar bottles a hundred times or more in her line of work. So many that she had a standing account at the nearest apothik.

  Ripka broke the clay bottle against the wall, felt the sticky resin of golden needle extract smear over her hand. The cloth folded within the jar she palmed, shook open, and crammed into Dekka’s mouth. It only took a few breaths before the woman went limp.

  After waiting a few frantic heartbeats to be sure the woman wasn’t faking, Ripka eased her into a looser hold and half-dragged, half-carried her over to the bench. With care she arranged Dekka’s arms and legs, making sure none were folded in such a way as to cut off circulation. Ripka peeled the cloth from her mouth, yellow-stained linen flecked with pink blossoms of Dekka’s blood.

  Her fist clenched, squeezing bitter droplets from the rag to the blood-spattered floor. It was done. The woman took no permanent damage. Ripka closed her eyes and tipped her head back, baring her face to the unfinished stone ceiling as if expecting a bolt of lightning to burst through the dry desert air and cleanse her of her crime.

  Yes. Crime. She trembled as she stepped away from Dekka, shut and locked the cell door with care. Even Dekka had known what she intended. Worse, the woman had welcomed the chance. Ripka half-staggered as she walked down the hallway, the sharp absence of adrenaline causing her knees to quake. She paused, took a breath, steadied the lantern she carried.

  It was not torture.

  But that didn’t mean it was right.

  Ripka clenched her jaw and turned, striding towards her office. Her weapons were there – cudgel, cutlass, dagger – and her files. She flung open the door, heedless of the noise, and crouched before an overburdened file box. Even Thratia would have had to file building plans when she constructed her compound. Ripka flicked through the years, found the yellowed edge of paper she sought and tugged it free.

  The lines of the plan were still bold and clear, even if the black ink was fading to brown. Ripka brushed the scent of dust from her nose and cringed as she smeared blood from the back of her hand against her lips. No matter. There would be time to clean herself later. If she survived.

  She had to keep moving. If she lost momentum, she feared she would collapse under the weight of what she carried. Faud. Galtro.

  Dekka.

  Before she set out, she wrote Dekka’s release papers and left them signed on Banch’s desk. If it all went sideways, he at least would recognize her authority come the morning.

  Chapter 23

  Pelkaia stood across the street from the Blasted Rock Inn, wearing her mother’s face for comfort. It was not precisely how her mother had been. She’d had to darken the shade of her skin to a more Valathean-mingled hue, had to lift and sharpen the sand-dune smooth planes of Catari cheeks. She doubted any Aransan would recognize a full-blooded Catari anymore, but still she feared her mother’s original countenance would be too exotic. Too worthy of notice.

  The first time she had come here it had been after another murder, her first in more years than she cared to dwell upon, to drink to her sordid little victory. The memory of warm pride swelled within her and soured, the faces of those strangers she had bought drinks for just to hear them cheer blurred. Now… Now she came to drink smooth the ragged edges of her anger.

  The chill of the desert night seeped through her clothes and prickled across her skin. Pelkaia flinched away from the emptiness. The cold reminded her of Galtro’s blood, the heat of it turning bitter as it clung to her clothes, separate from the living vessel. She’d left her son’s sullied vestments behind at her apartment before coming here – scrubbed her skin raw and red with sand and oils. But still she felt the shape of the stains, spread like guilty handprints across her body.

  Pelkaia ducked her head, let lank hair frame the sharp edge of her false cheeks, and slunk into the Blasted Rock.

  There was no celebration this night, no raucous gambling. The long bar to her left was elbow-to-elbow with regulars, the little square tables made of old shipping pallets occupied by bent-headed locals. A crude block print of Thratia’s face hung on the wall across from the door, her sharp eyes the first thing to greet any who entered.

  She took a deep breath to steady the frightened-rabbit thump of her heart, scented the grainmash molder of poorly filtered whiskey and the stale dust of wooden floorboards long unswept. Pelkaia found an empty table and shuffled to it, keeping her head tucked down and her back hunched. She sat, and the weight on her shoulders grew heavier.

  The tense atmosphere was partly her doing. If she had not killed Faud then there would be no election, no dark shadow spreading across Aransa from a compound built high above. Pelkaia set her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands, then realized anyone looking at her would see the pearlescent ripple of sel around her fingers. She slid her hands up to tangle in her hair. Her real hair. She clenched her jaw and pulled.

  “Gotta buy something to sit here, ma’am.”

  Pelkaia glanced up into the face of a barboy, no more than fourteen monsoons old, chewing a lump of barksap with such vigor it crackled each time he opened his mouth.

  “Strongest thing you got,” she said as she tugged a copper grain from her pocket and pressed it into the palm of his outstretched hand.

  The boy shrugged, flipped the grain through the air and caught it in one fist. “You got it, lady.”

  He disappeared behind the bar, the sandy curls of his hair lost behind the sloped backs of those patrons seated closest to the booze. While Pelkaia waited she did her best not to feel anything. To think anything. To focus only on the burning in her hastily stitched shoulder, the throbbing ache in her side which rose with every beat of her heart.

  The boy returned with a squat brown bottle, its label block-stamped with a spindly black bee. The bottle wasn’t for her – she hadn’t paid him nearly enough – but he brought it to show her what she paid for. Pelkaia wanted to smile at him for his honesty, but the muscles around her lips were beyond her reach.

  He pulled a wide-mouthed glass from his pocket, flipped it around as he had the grain, then caught it and set it on the table. With care he poured out a draught three fingers thick. He then paused, winked at her, and dribbled in a few more drops. She blinked, recognizing the charm of a showman for what it was. If this lad had poured her drinks the night she killed Faud, she might have given him her whole purse.

  “Here.” She shoved another copper into his little hand and waved him away. The boy hesitated, a furrow working its way between his brows, but soon his forehead returned to smooth youthfulness and he cut her a quick bow before rushing off.

  Pelkaia sighed. He was probably used to a lot more tips and attention than he was getting tonight. No matter, he was still young enough that his forehead could abandon its wrinkles with nothing more than a shift of mood. He’d be fine.

  She drank. The liquor was sweet with honey and effervescent, tingling bubbles of selium erupted against the rough surface of her tongue. P
elkaia flinched back, wrinkling her nose in surprise. This was the strongest they had? This sugary… concoction? She hazarded a glance over at the barboy who gave her nothing more than another wink in return. She swallowed hard around empty air. Did he know she was sensitive? Had he thought that a selium-laden drink would help soothe her nerves?

  Did it matter?

  With a shrug she tossed back the rest of the drink and waved him over for another. And another.

  The pain in her shoulder receded, the weight on her heart lessened. She looked up, surveying the room, grinning to herself as she recalled that first time she’d come here. It had been lively then, with the card players worked up into a lather over some Valathean game that was supposed to be new – fresh in from the Imperial Isles, the greatest game behind the Century Gates. Of course it wasn’t anything of the sort. It was Detan Honding’s game, and the only winner was the man himself.

  Pelkaia stared at the empty table, conjuring him in her mind’s eye as she’d first seen him.

  He’d had his back to her, head bent down over a pile of cards so that his hair slipped up and his collar slipped down just enough to reveal his Honding family crest.

  The Honding wanderer. A conman and burnout. The only sorry sack of flesh on all of the Scorched to have lost his sel-sense to trauma. Some accident on his line back in Hond Steading, an explosion or a fire, and he was done. The only survivor – left useless by his survivorship. They’d even taken him back to Valathea for a while, tried to cure his inability. Or so the rumors of the uppercrust went.

  Pelkaia had suspected otherwise. The Catari had stories, stories her mother had sung to her at night in their filth-encrusted cave at the fringe of the Brown Wash. Stories of men and women who could make the firemounts roar to life. If the rumors about the Honding lad were even half true, then the only thing he was running from was whatever had been done to him in Valathea.