Steal the Sky (19 page)

Before he could squeak any kind of response, any denial to collusion with the doppel, she pressed her hand over his mouth and gripped. Hard.

“You're clever, I'll grant you that. And I don't believe the rumors you've gone cracked in the head, not wholly. You're scared. I see it in the way you move, hands shaping half-formed thoughts, shoulders closed forward in defense even while your hips stay open, ready to run. I've made a study of it. The way people stand and the way they say what they want you to think they think. You jump from town to town, harassing anything with even the slightest stink of the empire on it but never, never, reaching your hand out to harangue the real seed of your terror.

“I don't know what happened to change you, Honding. I don't believe losing your sel-sense alone did it. Whatever happened to you, know this: that creature is little more than a murderer. Justified, possibly. I have no idea, nor do I care. But that thing has put terror in the hearts of the Aransan people. So you think real hard. Who's better for this city? The woman the people want to elect, or the choice of a man so addled he can't tell a flower from a thorn?”

“Mmmrpf,” he said.

“If it's the
Larkspur
you want to watch over, then you may have it.” She shoved him away and jerked her chin toward a militiaman. “Take them to the
Larkspur
. Let them be extra bait upon the trap. Do not, under any circumstances, allow them to leave the dock or this compound. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Heavy hands closed around Detan's arms, and he had to fight back an urge to jerk away. She turned her back on them, forgetting them the moment they were out of sight. But he saw the way her shoulders slumped, saw the subtle sigh leave her. The future warden, it seemed, was very tired indeed.

He frowned, mind racing as he was dragged back, Tibs hauled along beside him. Something she had said…
Extra
bait. But what was the original? The ship? Would she really risk her treasure just to capture one doppel?

“What's the hurry, Thratia?” he called, heels thumping against the stairs as he was dragged up them. She paused and turned back, face impassive. But her head was tilted forward, just the tiniest bit. She was listening.

“You worried it's your head she's coming for next?” His ankles burned as he dug his heels in, trying to slow the progress of his cursing captors. Thratia just smirked, an uncontrolled reaction. She didn't fear for her own life, then. But why the rush?

He recalled the shadow of the Valathean cruiser drifting overhead, mooring itself to one of the compound's less glamorous docks. Was she trying to clear away the problem before Valathea could instigate a purge? Had that been how she managed to maintain all her imperial connections, despite being expelled from the Fleet? A promise to clean up Aransa? If they performed a purge immediately after her taking the wardenship, the city would be paralyzed. Useless.

The doors to the dock opened behind him, the threshold loomed above his head. He cursed and lunged forward one last time against the arms that held him, desperate to catch a glimpse of her face. She stood in the center of the steam-filled room, arms crossed low over her ribs, head tilted back as she watched him being hauled away.

“Afraid of breaking contract?” he yelled. Her head tipped back, but her expression remained smooth. Placid. A mask locked into place. He smirked.

“Gotcha,” he whispered.

The militiamen threw him to the floor of the familiar u-dock. He landed hard on his side and grunted, little stars dancing before his eyes. The doors slammed shut, the sound of heavy metal gears echoing in the chamber as the locks were thrown.

Thratia'd made a deal with the empire that'd kicked her loose, and Detan reckoned he knew just what those terms were. They'd look the other way as she vaulted to power, perhaps provide some backing in the form of grain or steel, and she'd get those pesky rumors of a doppel run loose cleaned up. Trouble was, the doppel was proving too slippery even for Thratia's clutching hands. For the doppel's sake, he prayed to clear skies that the whitecoats hadn't caught wind of Thratia's little bargain.

Detan groaned and pushed himself to his feet, swaying a little as he waited for the dizziness to fade. Tibal sat on the ground, glaring at him. “Now what?” he said.

Shaking the fall from his head, Detan looked around. The dock was the same as he'd last seen it, the
Larkspur
anchored between the loving arms of the open-air dock. He peered over the edge, and swallowed at the drop to the ground below. No way either of them would survive that tumble, and the climb down was too sheer to risk.

“Don't suppose the servant's door is unlocked?” Detan asked.

Tibs grunted as he hauled himself to his feet. Though they both knew it'd lead nowhere, Tibs wandered over and gave the handle a twist, just in case. Nothing.

Detan heaved an exhausted sigh. “Well, we're here.”

“There is one way out,” Tibs said.

Their attention drifted to the
Larkspur
, hovering peacefully in the warm morning light.

Detan breathed deep, tamping down the urge to reach out with his sel-sense and feel the ship's buoyancy sacks.

“That ship,” he said as he licked his lips, “can only be flown by a crew of five. Or a very strong sel-sensitive.”

“Indeed.” Tibal sauntered toward the ship and crossed the gangplank. He stood upon the deck, casting an inquisitive eye over it. With an appreciative grunt he pulled out his notebook and charcoal pencil. “Too bad,” he said without taking his gaze from his notes, “we don't have either of those things.”

“Too bad,” Detan agreed. He shook himself and crossed the plank. After a few moments' rummaging he gathered up a stretch of spare sailcloth and a slender rope. He plunked these materials down in the center of the deck and pulled out the knife he didn't really know how to use, and the pot of sap glue he did know how to use.

Under a heated glare from Tibs he took his knife to the handrail of the ship and peeled off a thin strip of wood.

“Just what do you think you're doing?” Tibs said.

“I told you I wanted to get the ship for the doppel.”

The knot of Tibs's throat bobbed as he swallowed, the reason hanging between them. “And?”

“Well I sure as the pits can't just fly the thing to her. That would be… too risky.” He cleared his throat and sat down alongside the sailcloth and rope with his pilfered wood. “She called herself an illusionist. Was very clear on the point. I didn't think much of it at the time, but…”

“She keeps the old ways.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You're building a Catari signal kite?” Tibs said, and Detan was a little annoyed to hear his voice laced with skepticism.

“As close as I can get. It should be enough to get her attention.” He spread the sailcloth out and Tibs handed him his charcoal without asking. By pulling the rope tight between them, they managed to draw the straight lines of a diamond-shaped kite onto the cloth. Detan pursed his lips, poising the knife with care over the first mark.

“And once she shows?” Tibs said, kneeling down to hold the cloth steady as he cut.

“Then we get her the pits out of Aransa before Thratia can kill her, and hope her Valathean buddies consider her absence proof enough Aransa isn't in need of a purge.”

Tibs grimaced, but fell to the work in silence.

T
he patter
of soft-soled boots moving with military precision echoed down the once silent hall. Pelkaia stole away to the wall and pressed her back against it, trusting to the shadows as a small group of interlopers passed by. There were three of them, swords out and dark and wet.

A wave of heat breached her cocoon of shadows, the three close enough that the combined warmth of their bodies brushed against her. She stiffened, pressing her back tight as she could against the wall, struggling to quiet the runaway hammer of her heart. They passed through the entrance chamber without a glance back and turned into another leg of the Hub.

Pelkaia remembered to breathe.

Those were not watchers. They were not Hub workers. Their tight, slate-grey coats were unknown to her.

What would Galtro do, if his station were under attack? Outside of the selium containment chamber, the records room was the sturdiest in the place. It rested close to the heart of the Hub, its back wall shared with the containment itself. There, he could hunker down and hide amongst the shelves, or make his stand at the bottleneck of the room's single door. Yes, that's where he would be. Her fist tightened.
If he's still alive.

Taking a breath to steel herself, she flitted out into the hallway and began the circuitous path toward the records room. Insofar as she could discern, the three grey coats were the only other souls left standing. Her alertness ramped steadily into the realm of paranoia. Every intersection she triple-checked, every time she heard the softest of sounds she froze, slowing her breath, counting away a full hundred ticks of her frantic heart before she would move on.

She passed so very many of the dead. The administrative staff of the Hub, bleeding their last in the dark over a power squabble in which they held no sway. After the third, she stopped taking the time to check their faces, to look for some hint of familiarity that would allow her to carry the names and deeds of the deceased in her heart until her own time came. There were just too many, and she was well overdue.

The door to the records room was locked, but she hadn't expected it to be any other way. A soft light emanated from under it, throwing warm beams over her boots. A pair of feet cut through that welcoming light, casting sharp shadows.

She pitched her voice low enough to be mistaken for a man's and whispered against the door, “Sir? Are you in there, sir?”

As she watched, the shadows beneath the door shifted. The man behind ducked down, checking the boots of the voice at the door, and found them to be the footwear of a man who worked the line. State-issued and stained in black dust.

Galtro swung the door open and stepped aside. She hesitated, the faint light within enough to stun her eyes. “Hurry up, man.”

Pelkaia set her jaw and squeezed through the gap he allowed her. He eased the door shut and spun around, whatever he was about to say dying on his lips in a surprised grunt. Eyes wide, he brought up his bared length of steel, clutched in two steady hands.

“I know all my men, and I don't know you.”

With a twist of her wrist she dropped a throwing dagger into her waiting palm and sent the weapon spinning. It was really too bad for Galtro that he was a man of principles; a man who expected a foe to face him head on and play fair. Too bad, because Pelkaia didn't plan on doing any of that.

The blade came in low – too fast for his eye to possibly follow – and buried itself to the guard in his guts. A momentary pang of guilt speared through her. It was a killing wound, which is what she was here for, but it was a slow kill, which wasn't what she'd had in mind.

He took one hand off the grip of his blade and reached down, his eyes gone round with shock. He touched the spot, lips twitching at the pain, and took his fingers away bloodied. Galtro stared at his red-smeared hand, sweat condensing on his brow.

“Was that really necessary?” he grunted.

She licked her lips and took a step away from him. Her back pressed up against the cold edge of a file shelf. Tangled in uncertainty, she drew her longknife and braced her stance. “It's what I came here to do.”

“I see.” He staggered backward and shot an arm out to lean his weight against the wall. His hand left a bloodied print, his palm began to slide. Tears glistened in his eyes, bright and unfallen. He let the blade slip his fingertips and it struck the ground with a clatter. She cringed, waiting for the sound of boots in the hall, but all was silent.

“You're not Thratia's, are you? You don't want those bastards in here any more than I do.”

“I care nothing for this city's politics. I came for myself. I work for no one.”

He slid down the wall until he sat with his legs straight out and his back propped up. He brought both his hands to bare on the wound, pressing down to staunch the flow of blood. He didn't remove the dagger. He wouldn't dare.

“Ah, I see it now. It's always in the eyes with the grieving.” His rueful smile twisted into a groan as he hunched forward, his breaths coming in slow gasps until he had remastered himself. “I've seen so many eyes like yours. Weighted down with grief so heavy they start to look empty, like all other emotion has been squeezed out. So, who did you lose?”

The fingers of one hand drummed on her thigh while she turned the blade over and over with the other. Before she could leave, he had to be dead. Should she hasten that? Or should she wait for the fatal wound to take its course? Sweet sands, why was he so calm?

“Come on now, mister.” He coughed, wiped pink-tinged foam on the back of his hand and sucked down a harsh, wheezing breath. “I don't recognize your face, that's true, but you must have lost someone here. This is revenge, isn't it? Well, that's all right. Really. I know I'm not leaving the Hub alive tonight, and I'd rather someone like you get me than Thratia's muscle. So, which is it? You lose someone on the line or in the mine-digging?”

“The line,” she said reflexively, unable to hide Kel's achievements, even if it did reveal a piece of herself.

“Ah. You're proud. You're right to be. It's a hard job, but I'm sure you're aware of that.” He shivered, lips turning purple as bruised violets, and spoke through half-clenched teeth. “Can you tell me something?”

“What?”

“The name. Who did you lose?”

She glowered at him, struggling to split her focus between his slight movement and her need to keep an ear to the door should Thratia's people decide to come this way. His question she ignored, turning her head away.

“Might as well tell me. I'm not leaving here tonight. I just want to know the name.”

“Why?”

“I want to know which ghost caught up to me after all these years. Haven't had a fatality in over a year now, so you must've been planning this a long while.”

“Kel,” she snapped, the name bitter on her lips. “His name was Kel.”

“Ah, well. Good lad, he was. I was sorry about what happened to his line, though I don't think it could have been helped.”

She held up a silencing hand. “Stop there, Galtro. I know it was an accident. But you put them in those conditions, you and Faud and your deals with Valathea–”

He erupted into a coughing fit, too-bright red flecking the corners of his lips. Had she nicked the bottom of his lung with her strike? When the coughing subsided, he tipped his head back against the wall and panted. “It's not kind to make a dying man laugh, you know. And no, I wasn't about to feed you any of that bullshit. Of course it wasn't an accident, whole lines of good workers don't get wiped out due to an oopsie.”

Cold raked her spine, fingers loosened on the grip of her longknife. “You're lying.”

“Shit, why would I bother? Kel and his line did some work loading a
special
ship bound for Valathea. You think that's a coincidence? And anyway, I told you I know my crews, and I know for a fact Kel didn't have any family in his life save his mother, so who in the pits are you? A lover?”

She licked her lips and twitched the blade in her hand. “None of your business.”

“Fine, fine, keep it to yourself. I don't need a guidepost to see it. The boy was talented, and now that I'm looking, well, I see where he gets it from, eh?” He spat blood. “That's fine work, but you better get the pits out of Aransa after this, lass. The Scorched's not friendly to your sort, and Thratia'd love to get her claws in you.”

“I consigned myself to death when I began this.”

“Death? You think they're just going to string you up? You think they'd really toss off such a valuable asset?”

“I've seen the executions over the years. Men and women I knew as illusionists beheaded on the guardhouse roof. They were as strong as I, if not stronger, and they were not preserved.”

“And these strong doppels you watched die, don't you think they could whip up a mask? Cover a tramp's face with their own, so the cruel and unsavory die while the valuable are whisked away into obscurity?”

She shivered, sent a nervous glance toward the closed door. Were those steps she heard? Or the startled leaping of her own heart? “No illusionist would agree to such a thing.”

“They have no choice, woman, this is what I am trying to tell you. Once in Valathea, sel cannot be simply found or siphoned. It is tightly controlled, and the doppels even more so. Stronger the power, stronger the need, or so I'm told. How long do you think you could stand it, not touching sel?”

Her stomach knotted, her skin grew clammy. After only a week without coming in contact with selium she began to get headaches. Headaches that grew and darkened her vision as time went by. She remembered days sweating alone in bed, pain in every leaking pore until sustenance was returned. Her fingers trembled with the memory of it.

“I see you understand. Look, let me cut to it. You don't want Thratia getting her hands on you, and I need a favor.”

“What makes you think you're in any position to bargain with me?”

He snorted and spat blood. “Lady, you know full well those are Thratia's thugs out there looking for me. They'll kill everyone who steps foot in this place while they're here, stomping out possible witnesses. And for what, do you think? She's got the wardenship bagged, I'd never win it.”

Pelkaia licked her false lips. “She wants an excuse to seize control immediately.”

“Right-o. She's convinced there's a live-blooded doppel in this city, and she wants you for herself. So she'll frame you for tonight's slaughter. Use it as an excuse to clamp down and start a hunt for you. You won't make it through that net, lass. When the folk of Aransa see some of their mining boys and girls dead, well, they won't care too much about my hide, but that'll hit home.”

Pelkaia paced, pressed her ear against the door and heard nothing – a false silence? There was no way to be sure. Thratia's people could be out there now, listening as she was, hoping to glean some small facet of information. She clenched her jaw, rested her temple against the cool pane of wood.

“What can I do?” she asked, and as the silence stretched she began to fear Galtro had died. Then his voice came to her, reedy and soft.

“You make damned sure the corpses of Thratia's men are found with the others, you understand? Rat out her little game. Can you do that?”

It'd been a long time since a smile touched her eyes, but she felt the corners of them crinkle all the same. “It'll be a pleasure.”

When the old mine master's eyes emptied of life, she stepped forward and took back her dagger, spilling clotting blood upon the floor. She cleaned the blade against his shirt and brushed his eyes closed with her fingertips.

Regret formed a lump in her throat, but she choked it down. He was a clever old man, and so far as she could tell he cared about his people. Cared, but not enough to stay the hand of the empire when it came to her son's life. She scolded herself for her moment of regret. Whatever Galtro had said at the end, it wasn't enough. Would never be enough to absolve him of what he'd done. Not even his blood, pooling now, could cleanse the crime he'd committed in being complicit in Kel's death.

Fists clenched, she stood and surveyed the records room. Somewhere in the bureaucratic minutiae was evidence of Valathea's treachery. An order for Kel's line to load the
special
ship, an order for the very same line to meet its end.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, drawing to a stop by the door. She grabbed Galtro's fallen blade and stole away into the shelves to crouch behind a thick wooden crate stuffed full with yellowing paper.

The interlopers made quick, quiet work of breaking the door in. She stole a glance while they were still getting their bearings and saw the three that had passed her in the hall earlier. Two swordsmen and another with a crossbow out. Pelkaia hefted the weight of her throwing dagger in her hand, imagining the metal still thirsty for life, and marked it for the crossbowman. She tucked her head down and listened.

“Fucker's already dead.”

“Makes our job easy.”

“No it fucking doesn't. Who killed him?”

“I don't know, maybe he pissed off one of his people.”

“Whatever, let's just stuff him with sel and get out of here.”

“Ugh, we'll have to patch that new hole he's got.”

“Shut up, both of you. The door was locked from inside.”

They fell silent, and Pelkaia found it hard to concentrate on the sounds of their steps over the beating of her own heart. She ducked her head down low to peek through a tiny crack in the shelving and saw the crossbowman step closer to Galtro, putting his back against the wall as he surveyed the cluttered shelving. The other two fanned out, advancing, not yet close enough to get within reach of her. She took a deep breath, settled her nerves, and let the first dagger fly.

A scream and a clatter. The heavy thud of dying meat smacked into the unbending ground. His colleagues swore, rushed forward. Pelkaia sprung to her feet and the second dagger whipped free. It went wide, opening the sword arm of the trailing man. He dropped his blade and cried out, grasping at his opened flesh with his working hand. The fingers at the end of his wounded arm flicked and flexed, dancing to their own impulses now.