Steal the Sky

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  He licked his lips, wondering where the doppel was now. Wondering what she had in store for the city – for him. He was tangled up real tight with that creature’s fate, whether he liked it or not. Detan frowned hard, digging through memory to try and see around her easy charm and pained eyes, trying to find the core of a woman who could have wrought such slaughter.

  It wasn’t there. All he saw was the doppel’s imitation of Ripka, all quick smiles and swaying hips. Not like the real thing at all.

  Once he was sure the place was empty, he stepped aside to let Ripka through. She shut the door behind them; not hard, leaving it just the tiniest bit ajar in the manner they had found it. He nodded. Good, she was a quick learner. In the unsteady candlelight he watched her eyes roam, making an account of what she saw now versus what she’d seen in the afternoon. She nodded once, tight and sharp. Her eyes only snagged on the stain against the wall a breath or two.

  “The files were back here.” Her voice was calm, sure.

  He followed her guidance into the stacks, both of them careful to step over the sticky puddles. Blood had a way of taking a while to lose its wetness. It clung to life, clotted and damp, even after the corpses had been carted away.

  While she found her place in the file boxes he stood an awkward kind of guard, keeping his eyes and ears fixed on the ajar door. One hand held the candle out for her to see by while the other cradled the handle of the knife tucked into his belt. It was a meat knife, but he figured it didn’t matter much to the man getting poked by it what its intended use was.

  Ripka flicked through the box with the exacting eye of a woman who worked in government. She pulled out a folder that looked like all the rest to him and laid it open over the top of the wooden crate, fanning the papers. With an irritated grunt she set them aside and went back to her rummaging.

  He sidled over, peering down at the discarded stack. A loading slip for a Valathean trader stared up at him, the ink already turning brown from time. A very small team had loaded the trader with just a few crates of local foodstuffs, and then off-loaded a single pallet of some local liqueur. Detan frowned, set down his knife and picked up the slip. Why bother sending a fully outfitted trader all the way out here for a couple of measly desert snacks? There was no way the mercer house involved made a profit on such a transaction.

  He searched for the mercer house’s name, and found Thratia’s bold signature instead.

  “Ripka…” he said, rereading the document to be sure.

  “What is it?” Her voice sounded strained. A pile of discarded files had grown on the floor to her left, her fingers moving faster as she flicked through the folders. Another, smaller pile had sprouted under her arm, the sheets jammed hastily between her tricep and side.

  “I think I’ve got it.” He thrust the sheet toward her. “Look here, Thratia signed off on this cargo – and there’s no way anyone involved made a profit with the quantities listed. This is proof of Thratia making shady deals with the empire! Nothing’s spelled out, of course, but with this I bet you could–”

  She wasn’t listening. Ripka spared the sheet a momentary glance and then went back to digging, her motions growing in agitation, her lips pressed tighter and tighter.

  “Ripka,” he repeated, setting the sheet back down. She didn’t even blink. “What are you doing?”

  She waved a hand through the air distractedly, the other still pawing through reports. “You know. Looking for evidence, of course.” A curl of hair worked its way free of her braid, falling across her cheek.

  It shimmered.

  Anger boiled within his chest so quickly he feared he’d release it upon the sel coating Ripka’s face. No. Not Ripka. He should have known – should have realized Ripka would never knock a guard out and leave him to the elements. Never go slinking about in the dark, breaking into houses and recruiting the aid of a known criminal. He’d been so blinded by the woman – this woman’s – control of her anger that he’d mistaken it for Ripka’s hard-wrought nature. Had seen discipline in her rage. Had let himself be wrapped around her spindly fingers.

  “You,” he hissed.

  She froze mid-shuffle, gaze sliding sideways to meet his, her body gone rigid with anticipation.

  “Yes?” she said, forcing her tone light.

  Without thinking, he snapped a hand out and grabbed the wrist nearest him, twisted. She let out a startled yelp, turning with his twist, her ankles tangling as the papers spilled from beneath her arm. He stepped into her, shoving her back against the shelf hard enough to make the structure creak.

  She grunted, breath that smelled of iron wafting against his cheeks – had she bitten her tongue? The warm tinge of her haval spice perfume surrounded him, the scent faint, as if she had tried to scrub it away. No wonder. Ripka had worn cactus flower – the same his aunt favored. He’d never forget it.

  “Why hello, Honding,” she drawled, an irritatingly bemused smile turning up lips that suddenly appeared too plush to have ever been Ripka’s.

  “I touched your face,” he growled, pressing her tighter against the shelf though she did not squirm. “Nothing. There was no sign, I’m sure of it. How did you…?”

  She rolled a shoulder. “I’m afraid to tell you your actions have become predictable. Unlike my hair.” The doppel looked up and puffed out a breath, blowing away the betraying tendril. It settled right back against her cheek. This time, not so much as a flicker. The blasted woman was showing off.

  “We signaled for you. We had the ship! Why all of this subterfuge? Why waste time dragging me all the way to this rusted hole? Do you have any idea what’s waiting for you, if you’re captured? Walking the Black would be a damned holiday compared to what they’ll do to you. Do you have any sands-cursed fucking clue what I’ve risked for you?”

  “I wasn’t finished yet.” Her voice strained, her chin jutted upwards. Stubborn, stupid woman.

  “It’s over. I don’t know what’s kept you here. I don’t know why you’ve gone after Aransa like you have. But–”

  She twisted in his grip and panic shot through him, paralyzed him. Had she lured him out here to put a spike in his gut, too? Was it a belly full of selium for him? If he cried out he’d only draw Thratia’s thugs down on them, and then they’d both be sold out. Hog-tied and dragged off to that blisteringly white tower with its knives and its drugs and its impassive, bored faces making notes while he screamed his throat bloody.

  But he’d escaped that tower before. Harder thing to do, escaping a knife in the gut.

  Detan opened his mouth to scream, and she shoved a wad of paper in it.

  He staggered back a step, arms windmilling, and coughed the spittle-laden ball out into his hand.

  “Read it,” she ordered, then crouched down and began to gather her fallen collection of papers.

  Straightening his twisted lapels to recover some sense of dignity, Detan spread the crumpled sheet flat against his thigh and rubbed it smooth. A few of the marks were smeared, his own spit spreading the ink around, but he’d seen plenty of accident reports before to know what he was looking at. Seen plenty of ones where people had died.

  But the one he held had been doctored, made up. Every real report he’d seen before had been scribbled all over, bits crossed out and rewritten when the reporters finally got the story straight. This one was nice and neat, no corrections necessary. He’d only seen a report like it once before. Just once. When the empire had stepped in and provided their own explanation for what had happened to him.

  “It’s faked.”

  “Part of it.” She kept on collecting her fallen slips, not bothering to look his way. Probably not wanting to.

  He read it again. It’d been a simple landslide, or so the report claimed. A small group of men working on repairs for a damaged line had been crushed by those rocks. He scanned the list, absorbing every last syllable. More than likely that little list of names was the only true thing about the whole report. Names that matched the list of young sel workers who’
d handled Thratia’s profitless transaction.

  “Which one’s yours?” he asked.

  “Kel.”

  “Brother? Lover?”

  Paper crinkled between her fingers. “My son.”

  Detan let out a slow breath through his teeth. “I can’t possibly understand your pain. But what you’ve started here – it’s over. Thratia’s itching to sell you to the highest bidder so she can go about getting her new little fiefdom tucked tight under her thumb.”

  “Let her try.”

  “No.” He crouched across from her, rested his wrists against his knees and tried to make his voice gentle. Cajoling he could do – but kind, compassionate? All he could offer her was a slightly softer shade of himself. “What is all this, anyway? What’d you even need out here – and why drag me along for it? Can’t be anything here worth getting caught over.”

  “I knew Thratia’d lock it up. I needed you for the punchcode.”

  He rocked back on his heels and squinted at her. “You musta worked here, once, knowing your way around the files like you do. They haven’t changed that code since I was a babe – why don’t you know it?”

  “I knew it once. Then they changed it.”

  “But–”

  She snapped her head up, scowling. “I’m older than you’d think, Honding. Now help me get these together.”

  “This is worth your life? We’ve got the Larkspur, you’ve got your revenge, and now we’ve got to go.” He snatched a paper from her hand. She lunged at him, her swipe going wide, and he popped back to his feet, skittering away a few steps as he scanned the information she risked her freedom for.

  It was a personnel file. The name meant nothing to him, but the man’s profession was clear enough: a regular deckhand on Valathean traders. He stared, bewildered, as realization crept slow as a summer rain into his mind.

  She’d said she wasn’t finished yet, he just hadn’t understood her meaning.

  “You can’t.” He crumpled the paper and shoved it into his pocket, then kicked the scattered sheets nearest her away. “These people, they had no hand in your son’s harm!”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She stretched to snatch up the papers he’d kicked and he grabbed her arm without thinking, lurching her to her feet. With a hiss she twisted, slithering away from his grasp. He snapped a hand out to steal away the papers she held but she danced back, deeper into the shelving.

  “Leave me to my work,” she growled, her tone low and rumbling.

  “This is murder.” He thrust a finger toward the sticky stain she’d said was Galtro’s. “Folk like that – those with real knowledge of what was happening – I’ll grant you may have deserved what you brought them. But deckhands?” He peered at one of the papers fallen to the floor. “Stewards? They don’t deserve your hate, any more than Kel deserved Thratia’s.”

  She reared back like a cobra bracing to strike. “You dustswallowing–”

  Footsteps thundered down the hall. A voice called out, “You hear that?”

  Someone else answered, “Probably a rat.”

  “Big fucking rat. Come on, we’d better do a sweep to be sure. Boss’ll skin us if we botch this.”

  “Time’s up,” Detan hissed and grabbed the doppel’s arm. She stumbled behind him as he hustled toward the door, careful not to disturb the thickening pools of blood. Keeping his grip tight so she wouldn’t go and gather up more personnel files, he pressed his ear against the cold door.

  Footsteps echoed toward him, softer than before, as their owner crept down the hall.

  He swore under his breath and pulled away.

  “How many?” she asked, all the anger gone from her eyes, her expression drawn and focused. Their argument forgotten, for now.

  “Just one coming this way. We have to count on at least one more being within shouting range. I don’t suppose Aransa took to installing back exits or sneaky escape tunnels in their records room, eh?”

  She snorted. “The back wall is up against the central containment and is reinforced with steel, bolted to the bedrock to keep the whole Hub from floating away. But by all means, try to break through.”

  “Real helpful.” He glanced around the darkened room, looking for anything at all he could put to use. The lone candle guttered on the shelf he’d left it on, the wick growing clogged by the deep pool of wax yet to spill over its side.

  “Huh,” he said.

  The doppel scowled at him. “What?”

  “I think I have an idea.”

  “Really, and what would that be?”

  “Stay put. I’m going to put out the lights.”

  Chapter 27

  Detan crouched beside the records room door, wondering just why he’d thought this damn fool of an idea was a good one. He had paced out the distance just right so he wouldn’t get slapped with the door when it opened, but that didn’t ease his nerves any. Facing the door dead center, the doppel stood, the soft hiss of her longknife leaving its sheath the only proof of her presence.

  As soon as he’d blown out their little candle, the world had gone black fast enough to make him think it’d been missing the dark. Should have just stayed with Tibs, he thought, rubbing sweaty palms against his knees. This was work for those who knew their way around a piece of steel. People like Ripka, Thratia. The doppel too, he supposed.

  He hoped she wouldn’t have to prove her competency.

  As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light he watched her straighten, square her shoulders and slide her dominant foot – Ripka’s dominant foot, at least – forward. She’d kept the good watch captain’s face on, and as he watched her slip deeper into the character he realized why it’d been such a simple thing for her to fool them all.

  Their bodies were similar, sure, and the color of their hair being damned near identical certainly helped, but it wasn’t the physical touch that sold the deception. It was all in her posture. Rigid, certain, with something withheld. Something coiled down deep and tight. It was her restraint that made it all ring true, her hesitance to be herself. He could guess why the doppel moved like that. He could only wonder why Ripka did, too. He wondered if that line the doppel had fed him about Ripka stealing food as a kid was bullshit, and decided it probably was. Shoulda’ been his first clue something was wrong.

  As the footsteps in the hall drew closer, his palms grew sweatier. He held his breath, counting each step to help himself focus. To stay calm.

  It didn’t help. If steel started ringing, he was a dead man. Or worse.

  As the steps drew up alongside the door the doppel stepped forward, grabbed the door, and yanked it open.

  The guard let loose an undignified yelp, and before he or she could get turned around to face the doppel she spoke in Ripka’s strong, authoritative voice.

  “By the pits, man, get a hold of yourself. Do you want to alert everyone within a stone’s throw to your location? Idiots.”

  Huddled in the shadow of the door, Detan saw the doppel tilt her head, scanning the guard. She clucked her tongue.

  “I see,” she said. “You’re one of Thratia’s hires. Well. I suppose it can’t be helped that her people aren’t properly trained. Now, report.” She gestured with her unsheathed saber. “Have you found sign of any intruder?”

  A sliver of light outlined the doppel’s silhouette as the guard brought his lantern around to bear on her, no doubt wondering just who this woman was who was ordering him about. Detan held his breath, hands clenched at his sides. The simple fact the guard hadn’t immediately tried to run not-Ripka through was a good sign.

  “Watch captain?” The guard’s voice was low, male, and deeply incredulous. “Warden Ganal didn’t mention anything about you assisting tonight.”

  She took a step back, the guard followed. “Why would she? Of course I’m assisting. She wouldn’t have to tell you the sky is blue, either, would she? Or how to wipe your ass perhaps?”

  Another step back, a dance of retreat. Detan tensed, readying himself to
spring.

  “I’m sorry, watch captain. But rules are rules and you aren’t on the list. Put that blade away now and come with me, we’ll get it cleared up and you can go back to your patrol.”

  Another step. With an affable little chuckle she sheathed the blade and held her palms open to the sky in mock surrender. The guard followed, drawn by the pull of her retreat. The doppel had reached the end of her task. It was up to Detan, now.

  He swallowed hard, and lunged at the door.

  It slammed shut, old metal hinges groaning out a protest. The guard yelped again – poor habit, that – and whirled on Detan, one hand all tangled up in his lantern, the other half-heartedly brandishing a sword.

  Not-Ripka got her elbow around the lad’s neck before Detan could see his face.

  The guard squawked and squirmed. A little worm of distaste wound through Detan’s guts. These weren’t real soldiers. Not fleetmen, not watchers. Just poor, scared local toughs Thratia had strong-armed into her service.

  Before Detan could get a hand into things, the idiot dropped his blasted lantern. Detan froze as the crack of glass and hiss of igniting oil muted the guard’s cursing. He watched in mounting horror as the slick, glassy puddle spread its fingers over the smooth floor, reaching for the eager tinder of the shelves and files.

  He locked gazes with not-Ripka, saw a flicker of uncertainty there.

  “Run!” he yelled.

  She twisted away from the still-squirming guard and Detan grabbed her forearm, jerking her towards the door. He heard the guard swear, heard a hollow thump as the man wrenched his coat off and set to slapping the mounting inferno into submission.

  Heard the delicate swoosh of flames finding fuel enough to feed their hunger.

  Warmth slapped his back as they tumbled out into the hall, boots ringing loud as alarm bells on the steel floor. He heard swears all around – hers, the guard’s. He prayed to the blue skies that the guards would be more concerned with being found responsible for burning down Thratia’s shiny new Hub than letting a couple of intruders escape.