Steal the Sky (12 page)

That startled him. He frowned at her, extending his senses. His knowledge of the way the doppels worked their illusions was rough at best. He knew any color could be pulled out of selium with careful manipulation, that furrows could be filled in and bulbous bits sculpted, but he was shocked to feel the impossibly thin layer of sel the doppel had coating her skin.

In his mind's eye, he could just see the topography of her real features beneath the veneer, an indistinct muddling under the fine manipulations of the sel. He came back to himself, panting.

“My control is complete, as you can see for yourself.”

“How…”

She shrugged. “It is natural for me. Manipulating the sel bladders of a ship is not such a difficult thing in comparison.”

“Fine, you can fly it. Marvelous for you, I'm sure, but that still doesn't mean I'm willing to get my head lopped off for your trouble.”

“Here's the deal, Honding. I'm not going to threaten you, I just want you to watch. Carefully.”

She stepped away from the desk and pulled a slender hand mirror from her pocket. She peered at herself, then her eyes looked a touch glassy and her face began to change. Detan scowled, struggling to see past the obscuring bars on his window and the eclipsing mirror.

Giving up on regular sight, he extended his sel-sense and focused on her minute movements, manipulations on a scale so small he was certain he could not see the effect with the naked eye.

Curious, he extended his own control of the substance and tried to pry a piece of it loose. She made a small grunting noise, annoyance, but nothing budged. She had mastered the selium she commanded, it was not for him to manipulate.

Her face seemed to lift off, the mask floating just before her real skin. He could not see her through it, and he gritted his teeth in frustration. As he watched, the elements rearranged themselves. Stretching, compressing, separating and joining at different angles. The hues changed. Now deeper, now bright, and when she pulled the mask taut against her skin he found himself looking straight into the eyes of Tibal.

“Now that's… That's just not right.”

Tibal's face, Ripka's body. The stuff of nightmares. He shuddered.

“You understand? I will see him walk the Black, just to spite you, if you do not do this thing for me.”

“Fine, yes, all right. Just please put the pretty face back on. Pits, woman, you have no idea what you've just done to my dreamscape.”

Tibal-Ripka rolled its eyes and the sel mask pushed away from it again. Hovering, reshaping, coming to settle back in an arrangement he was perversely glad to see.

“Better.”

“I will hear your plan now.”

He blinked, and laughed. “Plan? I don't make plans. I allow for options.”

“Fine, what are your options?”

“Not likely, lady. You got me on the leash to steal the
Larkspur
, fine. But how I go about doing it is my own business. If I need your assistance, I'll need a way to contact you.”

“Not going to happen. You do this without my hand in it, or not at all. I have other things worth doing for the moment. This is why I hired you, Honding. I suggest you live up to your name.”

She turned and snuffed one of the lamps, picked up the other one.

“You're going to leave me here?”

“Oh yes. The watch captain needs a reminder of my reach. Enjoy your night.”

She strode from the room, taking the lamp with her, and when the door clinked behind her Detan dropped his forehead against the metal bars. He did it again, harder, just for good measure. He really wished he'd eaten at Thratia's.

T
he doors
to the station house were opened as the sun climbed over Aransa, inviting the citizens inside to file their complaints and concerns. A long line had already formed, and many of them Ripka picked out as sympathizers of Thratia come to put in a good word for the would-be warden in an official manner.

Ripka grimaced and slowed her pace. She was in no mood to plaster on fake smiles for the sake of diplomacy. “Let's go around back.”

Banch heaved a relieved sigh and they skirted the sprawling building, coming up to the locked door through which prisoners cleared of their wrongdoings were spewed back into the city. Ripka produced the key and led Banch into a dark hallway. It was cool within, the yellowstone still holding onto the chill of night, and the cooking aromas of early morning Aransa had yet to penetrate. Ripka took a deep breath, felt some of the tension ease out of her temples.

They slogged past dozens of wood and iron doors, ignoring the plaintive voices behind them. Banch peeled away from her at the end of the hall, going to check his new notices, while Ripka followed the same weary path she did every morning to check on the late-night intakes. Drunks and domestic disturbers, mostly. The average scum of any city, skimmed from the top for the evening and dispersed back into the system the next morning.

She found Taellen on a stool beside the drunks' communal cell, his head lolling and his eyes forced wide as he fought off sleep.

“Morning, watcher,” she said, hiding her smile as he jerked upright and nearly kicked over his stool.

“Captain! I, uh, didn't hear you come in.” Taellen straightened his skewed seat and pulled the loose flaps of his coat tight.

“That's all right,” she said, and resisted the urge to tell him not to worry – that all of them had dozed off watching the night holds at least once. She'd leave that information for his colleagues to share when they were ready to accept him fully as one of their number. “Any standouts?”

He handed her a stack of files with far more care than was necessary and gave her a tight, albeit belated, salute. “Nothing too out of the ordinary. More than usual, due to Commodore Ganal's party. The guards down at Milky's had a rough night, seemed the clients were more interested in fighting than fucking.” A sunset spectrum of embarrassment painted Taellen's cheeks. “I mean, uh, they were a rowdy lot. Ma'am. Uh. Sir.”

Ripka hid her grin behind an opened folder. “Sir is appropriate, watcher. And as for Thratia, remember she carries no title here. She is no longer a commodore.”

While Taellen stammered an apology she took the intake sheets to a nearby desk, dipped a pen, and began the wrist-aching process of signing off on each morning release. If she got them all out before the eighth mark of the morning, the Watch wouldn't be obliged to supply their breakfast.

Rabble released, she abandoned Taellen to the task of ushering them back to the street and turned toward the station's meager break room. There she found a cup of thick black tea fresh from Mercer Agert's purloined ship awaiting her, curls of steam wafting from the anise-dark surface.
Thank you, Banch
. She scooped it up and stole into the interrogation room to drink it in silence before anyone else had need of her.

A single lamp was left from the night before, the second missing. Sighing at the negligence of her staff, she struck it to life with her flint and then settled back into one of the two thick chairs. The one with considerably less bloodstains.

Ripka eyed the other, her thoughts drifting to the woman they'd arrested at the warehouse. Banch seemed convinced they would have to make her questioning hard to extract anything of value.

The rusty stains on the back of that chair turned her stomach. Ripka glanced away, pushing such unpleasantness from her mind. Those stains were old, from a time well before her tenure as watch captain. She would not add to them. It would not come to that. They had the sensitive, and he had already proven anxious to be free. It wouldn't be long before he talked. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and sighed.

“Hullo, Rip old girl.”

She bolted upright, upending her tea, and whirled on the holding chamber door. There, framed in iron and oak, was a face familiar enough to make her whole body tense with tightly reined-in rage.

“What in the sweet skies are you doing in my holding cell, Honding?”

“Why, you put me here last night. Funny, you never did tell me what I was charged with. Mind giving me a recap?”

She scowled and righted the still dribbling teacup, gave the wood a perfunctory swipe with her sleeve, then abandoned the effort. Another stain on the desk wouldn't matter. “I did no such thing. How did you get in here? If one of my watchers brought you in they'd throw you in with the rest of the night intakes.”

“Special treatment just for me? Oh Rip, you shouldn't have.”

“I
didn't
.”

A heavy knock sounded on the door, followed by an equally heavyset watcher. Ripka clenched her teeth. It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing – Belit was heavy with child, the sharp edges of her coat pushed wide by the swell of new life. How long had Belit been working like that? Ripka had known the woman was pregnant, but things had clearly progressed faster than she'd anticipated. Or had she simply forgotten? Blue skies, she really was losing her connection with the Watch as a whole. Ripka forced herself to calm.

“What is it, Belit?”

“Pardon, captain, I didn't know you had a man in the box.”

“Neither did I.”

Belit frowned at that, confusion wrinkling her forehead. Ripka sighed and snapped her fingers twice to move her along. “What do you need?”

“Banch sent me to warn you that Mine Master Galtro demands you speak with him right away.”

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

“Do you need anything, captain?”

She scowled at Detan. “Yes. The intake records for
this room
from last night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Belit?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Talk to Banch and arrange for someone else to take over your patrols until well after the child is born – whatever you need.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” A real smile flitted across the woman's face as she saluted and stepped back into the hallway.

“Nice lass. Bit big for the ole uniform though, don't you think? I bet it costs the city extra, all the fabric.”

“None of your business, Honding. Now tell me what happened last night.”

“Why? You know it! You picked me up on Thratia's airship and marched me in here like a common crook.”

“You are a common crook.”

“I am not
common
.”

She was considering the merits of throwing her teacup at him when Belit returned with the files. She shooed Belit away and flipped through, looking for the number of Detan's current cell. Sure enough, there was his name neat and clear, and on the appropriate line a signature that looked very much like her own, but most certainly wasn't. Her jaw clenched. She snapped the folder shut and strode closer to the cell door.

“I'm afraid you were detained by an imposter.”

His brows furrowed. “Are you sure? She looked an awful lot like you. Well, she smiled more, but I just figured you were drunk.”

“That. Was. Not. Me.” She slammed her palm against the door, the impact startling her back into calm. Detan just blinked at her.

“Oh!” He slumped forward and let his forehead rest against the bars, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Was it the doppel?”

“Quite possi– wait. Who told you about a doppel?”

Detan poked her in the face.

She jumped back a step and brought her hand up to her cheek, feeling the spot, and found nothing at all changed. “What in the pits was that for?”

He shrugged. “Just making sure. And rumors are wild about a doppel loose in the city, haven't you heard them?”

“More than rumors, I'm afraid.”

“It
is
true then! Marvelous! I can't believe I met one and never knew it. She was
just
like you Ripka, all pissy and… er, nevermind.”

Tapping the folder against her thigh, she crossed back to the desk and sat on the edge, facing him. He smirked a little, privately amused by some trivial nonsense, and she ignored it. What did the doppel hope to accomplish, putting this rat in her nest? Was it just out to prove it could do what it liked, or was it a personal threat? She frowned while she thought, wondering if she'd rustled the creature with her interviews the previous morning.

“Did she say anything at all to you?” Ripka asked.

“Not much, just the usual niceties of being arrested. Speaking of, can I get some breakfast?”

“Not now.”

He looked positively defeated by that, and she wondered at the depth of the stomachs of men.

“She's the suspect in the warden's murder, isn't she?”

“It's possible. It's a she? Are you sure of that?”

Detan deliberated for an infuriating moment. “Yes. Well, she looked very womanly… It's possible otherwise, but I would lean toward it being a woman. Why? Have you interviewed anyone?”

“Too many. The whole seventh level is filled with retired sel workers and none of them have seen anything at all. Not that they'd tell me about it if they did.” She caught herself before she could divulge more information. Detan may sport a charming demeanor, but he was a scoundrel of the highest order. For all she knew, he was working in league with the doppel and his presence in her cell was a plant to squeeze Ripka's knowledge level from her. The thought rankled.

She stood, squaring her shoulders. The early hour and comfort of the station house had made her sloppy, it wouldn't happen again. She flicked the folder to the desk and stalked forward, shutting down her expression, drawing her thin brows into a sharp angle. The knot of his throat bobbed as she approached.

“Tell me,” she said, pressing her palms against either side of the window that framed Detan's face. She leaned forward, giving him no room in which to hide his expression, his tells. A small muscle at the corner of his lips twitched in surprise. She suppressed a smile. “When did my impersonator first make contact with you?”

She kept her voice stern, leaving no room for argument.

He glanced sideways and down, searching for the right answer. She slid a hand over to clutch one of the bars in his tiny window, let him see her knuckles go white from the strength of her grip. Let him believe she was just barely keeping a handle on her anger and liable to take her frustrations out on him at any moment.

“Er,” he stammered, flicking his gaze to her hold on the bar. “I was speaking to Thratia on the deck of the
Larkspur
when you – I mean she – so rudely interrupted. Had a coupla' your blues with her, too. Were a bit rough with the old ties.”

This time she did smile. “Describe them.”

“They, uh, weren't Banch? Pits below, Ripka, all you blue coats look the same to me – no offense. The one who had my lead was a bit shorter, slender, male. Younger lad was trailing him, pimples about the lips. We didn't exactly exchange family histories, you take my meaning.”

“The imposter,” she pressed before he could gather his wits. “Tell me what she said. Leave nothing out.”

His face scrunched in genuine thought. “Went on about the weather–”

“No she didn't,” she cut him off, recognizing the slight rambling lilt his tone adopted when he meant to distract. “Try again.”

A flush crested his cheeks. She allowed herself a moment to savor having flustered him. “I confess to being in a state where my memory was somewhat lacking. Thratia was not cheap with the booze. I might, have, ah, made a comment or two about your – that is to say
her
– legs. Though I hardly see how you can hold that against me.”

“That is what
you
said. What did the imposter say? Stall once more and I'll lock you up until the next new moon.”

He blanched, then pursed his lips, as if tasting what he were about to say next. “She said some people needed a reminder of her reach. I didn't understand it at the time, but I'm starting to see the reason now. That is all I can recall, captain, I swear it.”

That, at the very least, had the ring of truth about it. “Very well. If anything else comes to that selium-filled head of yours, report to me immediately.”

He looked thoughtful, and for one mad, desperate moment she considered asking him what he thought of the whole mess. Luckily for her pride, Banch interrupted and poked his head into the room.

“Someone to see you, sir.”

“Galtro can wait.”

“It's not Galtro. I've got a man here who says you have his friend locked up somewhere, but I can't find him in the files.”

She crossed back to the desk with an exasperated sigh. “That's because I have them. Send him in.”

Banch stepped aside, and Tibal shuffled into the room, looking scruffier than ever now that he was out of his fete attire. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but I think you have my friend somewhere in your holdings.”

“Tibs!”

Detan stretched his arms out between the bars and waved them about. “Save me, Tibs, they're starving me!”

“I rather think you should be familiar with that notion, sirra.”

Ripka plunked down in the clean chair and flipped the file open. She sought out the appropriate release paper and signed it with a flourish. “Take this and get him out of my sight.”

Tibal took the paper and bowed as Banch came over to unlock the cell.

“Honding,” she said.

He froze in the open cell door, eking his foot forward so that it couldn't be closed again without trouble. “Yes, watch captain?”

“You see any sign of the doppel, you come to me.
Immediately
.”