Steal the Sky

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  Gods below the dunes, he’d looked so blasted pleased when she’d had Ripka’s watchers arrest him. She’d been lucky, she knew, to find watchers nearby who were willing to follow her orders. Watchers too disconnected from their fellows to realize Ripka would be down by the Black Wash, preparing to put a man to death due to the depth of his talent.

  And now what? What was she supposed to do now that Galtro was dead – her self-appointed crusade complete? She felt the folded lump of paper in her pocket, the doctored report of her son’s deadly ‘accident’. Felt Thratia’s name burning a hole in her hip. Was she finished? Could it ever just end?

  What would she be, when this was over?

  She straightened, shoulders drawing back, jaw tightening as she pushed aside all self-pity. It did not matter what she became, it did not matter where she ended up. She’d set out to destroy those who’d contributed to Kel’s murder. So what if there were one more guilty soul to destroy? So what if there were dozens? Just because she had work yet to do did not mean she had failed. This was not over.

  The inn’s door burst inward, a flush-faced man stumbling as he tugged on a slate-grey jacket. Pelkaia went cold straight to her core, her whole body felt encased in amber as the man’s mouth began to move.

  “Galtro’s been murdered! Thratia’s warden now! City’s on lockdown until the sun-cursed sonuvawhore who did this can be found!” The man snapped his jacket straight and Pelkaia saw the crest whip-stitched to his sleeve: Thratia’s house sigil.

  The shockwave of his words spread syrup-slow throughout the room. Pelkaia watched in perverse fascination as eyebrows lifted, curses were uttered, and a few precious mugs were dashed against the floor. Men and women took to their feet, most a touch unsteady, hands reaching for hidden weapons. They cheered. Loud and bright and joyous.

  “Easy!” The barkeep, a man who had more muscle in his arms than hairs on his head cried out as he hauled himself up to stand on the bartop. “Steady, all of you bastards! We’re prepared for this.” He stabbed a finger at the regulars crowded around the bar. “Wait your cursed turns while Tik gets the goods ready!”

  Prepared for this? Pelkaia’s pulse hammered in her ears, her palms went cold and damp with newfound fear. Some detached part of her marveled that she could still feel fear, that she could still desire self-preservation. The rest of her began to move.

  Slowly as she could without being obvious, Pelkaia levered herself to her feet. The regulars reached over the bar, their backs to her, hands grasping for grey coats the barboy Tik was hauling out from the back room for them.

  No, more than coats. Weapons emerged from the false bottoms of transport crates, their clean metal gleaming in the dusty lamplight. Well-made weapons. Valathean weapons. Pelkaia swallowed hard. She stepped on the balls of her feet, felt the sway of booze in her limbs and decided she’d have to settle for mid-stepping. It was quiet enough. And they were being so loud, the metal clanging…

  “Hey.” Tik scrambled to the bartop and pointed her way, his other hand waving a grey coat like a flag. “You loyal?”

  “I just wanted a drink,” she blurted, then clamped her jaw shut and slapped a hand over her mouth in shock. Why had she said that? Oh, Gods below… Why had she touched her skin?

  Tik’s eyes nearly leapt from his tiny, perfectly smooth face. “Doppel!” he screeched.

  The mantle of her anguish was shattered by the crushing weight of her fear. Pelkaia bolted, ignoring the pain in her side, letting the alcohol numb her hurts and fuel her movement. She was lean, she was fast. But they were much, much closer to the door.

  She thundered into a burly man who, thank the stable sands, had been well into his cups by the time she’d arrived. Her shoulder clipped his, and though fiery lances of pain raced through her he spun away and twisted, toppling like a felled log before his rushing fellows. The first two tripped over their comrade, and Pelkaia’s fist closed on the doorknob. She yanked it open and her head snapped back, strange fingers tangled in her hair.

  Pelkaia threw her senses out for the bottle the boy had brought her, and found a dozen and a half on a shelf behind the bar. She yanked on the sel within the liquor, heard glass shattering amongst screams as her blind tug sent the bottles spinning into the regulars. Blood and honey perfumed the air. The fingers in her hair tightened their hold.

  She gripped the door with both fists and jerked herself to the side even as she flung the door wide. Roots ripped from her scalp as she hurtled out into the street, fingers too numb to maintain their hold. The ground bit her knees. She got her hands out and tucked her head, tumbled through the dust and the grit and slammed into something warm and hard and hoofed.

  The indignant honk of a cart donkey broke through the screams coming from the Blasted Rock, and she rolled just in time to avoid being trampled. She found herself in the gutter on the opposite side of the street, scrambled to her feet and took off running down the slope, pumping her legs as fast as she could to stay ahead of the forward tumble of gravity. If she lost her footing now…

  Something cracked against the ground beside her and she jumped aside, nearly tangled in her own feet as she slewed sideways into an alley. Pelkaia dropped her back against the alley’s wall, facing the way she’d come from, heaving in great gasps of air.

  In the street where she had stood rocks rained, pitched down by her pursuers. She snorted in derision, regretted it as snot dribbled over her lips. With a grunt she dragged the back of her hand across her mouth and spit. She was Catari. She should not run scared from a bunch of Aransan backwater drunkards.

  Neither would she risk any of them landing a lucky blow.

  Pelkaia peeled the sel from her body and stretched it as thin as she dared, covering the entrance to the alley, mimicking perfectly the obfuscation she left over the mouth to her own home’s alley. It was an easy shaping for her now, but she didn’t need it to be perfect. Those patrons of the Blasted Rock were too deep into their drink to notice any irregularities.

  As the thunder of their steps approached she forced herself to step away from the wall and stared through the thin membrane. The group approached the spot where the first rock had struck the road warily, peering all around. Pelkaia allowed herself a small smirk as the man who still held clumps of her hair glanced to the alleyway and then reached up to scratch the back of his head in confusion. Idiot.

  That’s what they got for breaking with the old terms. For insisting on calling her a doppel instead of an illusionist. What you called a thing carried weight, implied meaning. Doppels could change the appearance of themselves. Illusionists could change the appearance of anything. Names mattered.

  The group conferred in mutters too soft for Pelkaia to make out, then turned and started back up the slope. She suspected some of them must be relieved not to have to chase down something their mothers had told them scary stories of. Even the dullest of minds knew that being a member of a mob didn’t make one immune from harm.

  Pelkaia reached up to rub the back of her head, and hissed through her teeth as she touched the raw patch of her scalp. Bastards. Her fists clenched. She could not stay here. Not anymore. There were too many layers in this city – of pain and of memory. It was only a matter of time until she slipped again. Until she was too slow to escape the claws tightening around her.

  But there was no way out of the city, not tonight. Not with half the damned citizens donning Thratia’s grey uniform. There wouldn’t be any flights out. Monsoon season was coming – and Aransa was too far from anywhere else to risk the walk.

  Not that she could manage a walk like that in the state she was in now. Battered and exhausted, nothing but copper and a useless knot of paper in her pockets.

  Pelkaia massaged her face with both hands and groaned. She was marooned on this cursed hunk of dormant rock.

  But… She clenched her jaw, drummed her fingers against her thigh. There was still one element in play. The Honding lad was out there and, as far as he was concerned, their deal was still hot. S
he glanced in the direction of Thratia’s compound, and caught sight of a slip of sailcloth drifting on the evening breeze. She almost laughed aloud. Trap or not, the Larkspur was calling to her.

  And Pelkaia truly, desperately, did not want Thratia to have that airship.

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. Maybe Galtro was a mistake. Maybe the people responsible for her boy’s death were too far away for her to ever reach. But maybe not. If she had a fine vessel like the Larkspur, she could go anywhere. Once she had Thratia’s ship, she could lay low for a while; lick her wounds and court future allies. Wouldn’t it be fun to take one of Thratia’s toys away before crushing her? And wouldn’t Thratia keep her own records, peppered with other names for her to collect?

  But first. First she needed to get out of this blasted city, and leave its ghosts to rot.

  Chapter 24

  Something jarred Detan’s foot, thrusting him back into wakefulness. He snapped upright, half-tangled in the mass of excess sailcloth and rope he’d been dozing on, eyes blurry as they adjusted to the gathering dark.

  “What?” he muttered, wiping crusted sleep from his eyes.

  “Don’t you hear that?” Tibs said, crouched at his side. “Sands below, you’d sleep through monsoon season.”

  Exhaustion had driven them both to rest, and now it seemed night had well and truly come to Aransa. The lanterns ringed round the u-dock gave him just enough light to see by, and Detan couldn’t help but wonder who’d come along and lit them while he dozed. The little kite still drifted in the wind, tied to the rail at the aft of the ship, fluttering like a forgotten party streamer. He closed his eyes against distraction, trying to hear whatever it was Tibs had picked up on.

  The deck below him smelled of sharp Valathean teakwood and warm wax, the ropes holding the ship to its mooring posts creaked with subtle swaying. Tibs’s breath was soft beside him, calm but wary. His own heart thumped in his ears… and someone was scraping at the lock on the door to the servant’s entrance.

  He snapped his eyes open and scrambled to his feet. “You think it’s the doppel?” he whispered.

  Tibs shrugged, but had a small knife in his hand. “Let’s find out.”

  As Tibs loped across the gangplank, Detan cast around for a weapon of his own – and came up with nothing. He had his knife, sure, but he was more danger to himself with it than anyone else. With a shrug he snatched up the leftover sap-glue pot and hurried after Tibs. The least he could do was confuse the creature, if it came to it.

  They crouched behind a stack of cargo crates that rested near the door, listening to the faint click of thin metal picks moving within the lock. After what felt like half a lifetime, the door swung inwards and a slender woman stepped through, dressed all in black. The way the lantern was angled he could only see her silhouette, but he felt certain from the confidence of her steps it must be the doppel at last.

  “Hullo!” Detan called.

  The shadowed woman dropped into a ready stance, head swiveling as she searched for the source of Detan’s voice. They were well hidden – he’d made sure of it – and the woman didn’t have anywhere to go that he wouldn’t see her. The shade of the door obscured detail, but if she took a step in any direction she’d reveal her face to the light. Judging by the sigh he heard, he figured the owner of said shadow had just arrived at the same conclusion.

  “Come on out now, into the light. No use mucking about in the dark,” he said.

  The shadow moved closer in hesitant, stop-start movements that belied the owner’s consternation. A sun-dark face emerged, and he whistled good and low.

  “Well I’ll be spit and roasted, it’s the good watch captain herself. No, wait.” He slipped out from behind the crates and crossed to her in a few long strides. She flinched back as he approached – not at all something the doppel would do – and he reached out and poked her in the forehead. There was no telltale ripple of sel. He nodded to himself, even as she scowled at him. “Yup, the lady is in the flesh.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t do that,” she growled.

  He looked her up and down, real slow so she knew he was getting the detail of it all filed away. The upstanding watch captain did not appear before him in her blues, oh no sir, she was tipped from top to toe in black and had her hair pulled back so tight he thought it might pull her eyes to slits.

  But then the finer details settled into his mind, and his skin went cold.

  A crimson smear marred her lips, the knuckles of both hands ruddy and raw. Dark purple bloomed over the ridge of her jaw, and she stood with her weight shifted to one side to ease some unseen pain. A garnet splotch had settled upon her shoulder. Detan felt as if spiderwebs were clogging his throat. The watch captain had been in a real, honest-to-skies fight.

  “I’m going to have a hard time forgetting I saw this,” he said.

  “I suggest you do. I was just passing through, anyway.”

  “Now, my dear captain, this is in fact private property, and while usually one would not bar the door to such an honorable slave of the common citizen as yourself, I must insist that you cannot go slinking about in the shadows of any private residence you so choose. Great dunes, woman, the violation is unfathomable.”

  “I’m not here in any official capacity.”

  “A social call between the crates, then?”

  She clenched her jaw and drummed her fingers against her thigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, Honding, but I have personal matters to see to here tonight.”

  “Got a date, eh?”

  “I can, and will, throw you off this dock.”

  He held up both hands, palms out. “Fine, fine, suit yourself. But I just cannot let you be seen running about the place at all hours in a getup like that. It’s ungentlemanly.”

  “Pardon me, but–” Tibal said so damned close to his ear Detan jumped half his own height and nearly went sprawling amongst the crates.

  “Sweet skies, Tibs! You cannot do that to a man!”

  “Apologies, but as I was saying, it may be prudent for you and the watch captain to discuss matters somewhere a bit more secure. There was a guard making a regular patrol of this door.”

  Ripka half-turned and opened the door behind her a little wider. Detan peered into the shadows, and was surprised to see a slumped man leaning against the wall just outside. The man was breathing, real slow, a long line of drool wetting his twisted collar.

  “Thank you, Tibal, but the discussion is over anyway,” Ripka said.

  “Fiery skies it is!” Detan grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her away from the door. “Why are you here, watch captain? Specifically. And keep in mind I’m on the security detail here tonight, I got rights enough to be asking. Rights Thratia’d be pleased as punch to back up.”

  “Really?” she drawled. “Thratia often keep her security personnel under guard behind locked doors?”

  He scowled. “Fine. Then why don’t you just tell me out of the goodness of your lawful little heart?”

  She shook off his grip and glanced about her new location, checking the shadows, but poorly. Detan grit his teeth in frustration as he watched her. All frontal assault, pride and bluster. The blue hand of justice. She had no business skulking about anywhere, let alone in Thratia’s compound.

  Pits below, didn’t she know you had to let your eyes adjust to the light before you picked the shadows to check? All she was seeing was shapeless dark, but he saw the barrels and the dust bunnies. The loose floorboards and the stray ropes. A breeze picked up across the dock and Ripka folded her arms over her chest in response.

  “Blasted skies, woman, you’re damn near freezing and it’s clear as quartz you don’t know a thing about sneaking.”

  She sucked her lips back until they were a hair-thin line, her brows pushing together in irritation. “Look, Honding, just let me do what I came here to do. Then I’ll get you two out of here.”

  Tibs slithered forward, dropping his voice into the same, smooth pitch D
etan had once heard him use to calm an angry donkey. “It would perhaps help, watch captain, if you were to inform us of what exactly it is you came here to do.”

  Detan stared in amazement as she gave Tibs’s question serious consideration. The same damned question he’d put to her not more than a dozen heartbeats ago. Well, he supposed it didn’t much matter how the information came to light, just so long as it did. Still, his ego ached that she would answer Tibs’s queries and not his. Maybe she was just thick and needed to be told things twice.

  When she spoke it was with a drawl born of hesitation, lips turned down as if each word offended her so grievously she had no choice but to make the appropriate expression. “You are aware that Mine Master Galtro was found murdered this afternoon?”

  Detan sucked air through his teeth in shock. “Sorry to hear it, captain. He was a fine man, even a lout like me saw as much.”

  “Well.” She sniffed and shifted her weight. “I appreciate the sentiment, but what I need now is action. The scene of the crime looked wrong, and I’m certain there were some files missing. Since it’s clear enough you won’t stop chewing my ear unless I tell you, well, I’m here to see if Thratia’s got those files squirreled away anywhere.”

  “Wrong how?”

  “Honding, I really don’t have the time for this.”

  “Come on, just walk me through it.”

  Ripka rolled her eyes but she did it, walking him through the place with her words just as she’d done with her own sore feet. Through the front door of the Hub and there’s dead blues on the ground, laid to rest with swords and crossbows. Into the records room and the shelves have been tossed. There’s Galtro, back against the wall in a pool of his own vitals, with a poke hole in his belly. Three dead men in the room, all Thratia’s, and they’d been done in with a mix of daggers and Galtro’s sword, which she found further off than he’d ever be able to chuck it.

  “Wait, now, what weapons had Thratia’s men got?”

  “Swords and a crossbow.”