Steal the Sky (31 page)

There was a glow up ahead, warm and welcoming. The kind of glow only oil lamps and candle wicks could provide. He was surprised by how blinding the smear of light was, and squinted against the water in his eyes. It occurred to him that this couldn't be good for his poor peepers, going from naked sun to pitch black to light again, and he promised himself a good solid rest after this. The very idea of a pillow made his eyelids heavy.

The cave let out into the venting grounds, where Detan had burned his own trousers for the sake of winding up an irritating uppercrust. He wished he still had the fine, tailored coat he'd gotten from that game instead of the soiled and oversized miner's attire he'd pilfered from Pelkaia. Maybe Tibs had grabbed it on his way out, the man wasn't likely to leave anything of theirs behind.

He gave the little dunkeet bird-whistle he and Tibs used on occasion, and heard a rustling on one of the bathing platforms above. That rustle wasn't the only thing moving in the baths.

A figure leapt from behind one of the craggier vents, looking an awful lot like the dead men they'd already left behind – clothes black-red to blend with the rocks, sword out and ready.

Ripka stepped between Detan and the advancing assassin, sword drawn, and he felt a flush of embarrassment standing there with his little balloon. He could defend himself, it just wasn't always safe for those near to him.

The would-be murderer advanced, passing under one of the tub's ledges. Detan heard a whistle, bright and cheery, and the killer looked up just in time to see the shadow of the rock that'd been dumped down on his head.

Before Ripka could get her blade near him, the killer's face burst, easy as a rotting plum. He crumpled like a smashed buoyancy sack, and sent up wild sprays of blood from his ruined face.

“Oh good.” Tibs stuck his head over the side and squinted down at the crushed man. “That rat had been wandering around here staying under cover for a full half-mark. I thought you'd never get here to bait him out.”

“Happy to help, Tibs. Now where in the pits is my flier?”

“Get on up here and I'll take you to her.”

Detan led the way through the venting floor, making sure Ripka was mindful of the great bursts of mineralized steam that whuffed up from the ground at regular intervals. When they reached the upper levels, New Chum came to greet them, looking pristine in his beige uniform and crisp little hat. There was, annoyingly, not a drop of sweat on him. Tibal, on the other hand, looked like he'd taken a tumble down a sand dune into a mudpit, and that heartened Detan some.

“Good morning, Lord Honding, Captain Leshe. May I interest you two in a much-needed bath, and some fresh clothes?”

“No time for niceties. Thratia and her watchdog are going to start getting jumpy when her gallows men aren't back with us in a mark or so,” Detan said.

“Direct to the flier, then?”

“Onward, my good man.”

He let the steward lead the way amongst the winding platforms and in between the wide baths. Tibs dropped back beside him and whispered, “Thratia buying it?”

“Nope, and it seems she and the imperial have had a little chat about yours truly.”

“I see. I distinctly remember having warned you about this exact situation, sirra.”

“Are you rubbing it in?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

Tibs and New Chum had stashed the flier on a little outcropping on the back edge of the Salt Baths. Its buoyancy sacks bulged above it with fresh life, and an extra had been strapped to the bottom. He caught sight of the daisies and
Happy Birthday Virra
! scrawled all over the old leather in purple paint. His throat clotted, his chest clenched. He closed his eyes and drew a breath, focusing on keeping his selium ball still. He'd live with those daisies. For Bel.

The little craft floated just off the edge of the cliff, securely tied with two thick ropes. Down the side a rope ladder hung, its end trailing through the empty air at the height of Detan's hip. It was a welcome sight, his little bird all patched up and flying true. He just wished it were bigger.

“We're going to be real close to capacity now, so mind your movements,” he warned.

New Chum let out a polite
ahem
. “If you're overloaded, sir, I will volunteer to stay behind.”

“You sure as shit will not. Thratia will find her way here eventually and some sniveling rat will remember you were the only one in the baths when we escaped. And then what will you do? Run back to your old friends for protection?” New Chum winced, unconsciously covering his tattooed shoulder with one hand. “No,” Detan said. “No arguments. All of you up that rope, now.”

Tibs swung on first, scrambling up the ladder in a way that reminded Detan of a knobby-limbed lizard. He cringed, and waved Ripka ahead. She stored her knife-thing with care before climbing cautiously skyward. The steward went next, and Detan was proud of his vessel for not swaying in the slightest.

He checked the string securing the sel to his hand, and it was only his reaching to tighten the knot that kept his arm from being skewered by an arrow.

“Hurry!” someone yelled, probably Tibs by how exasperated the yell sounded. Detan lunged for the ladder but felt like he'd run smack-first into a wall instead. He went down hard, flat on his chest on the unforgiving rock, all the air knocked from his lungs. Cold shock seized him, radiating from his calf.

By the time Detan had gotten some air back in and the white light left his eyes alone he could see boots – far, far too close – charging up the walkway toward him. Nice boots. Imperial boots.

They'd take him alive. Not so much the others.

Ignoring the fire in his leg he surged sideways and pulled the slip-knots on the flier's tie lines. Someone screamed above him, a lot of someones, but the words didn't make much sense. Tamping down his fear and his anger at having been caught he reached his senses out, felt for the sel in the sack of his flier, and shoved. The craft lurched away, fearful cries turning into frantic yelps, and the shadow of the flier that had lain over him slipped off into the blue, leaving him to face the sun alone.

Something tugged on his fingers. He looked up, saw the ball of sel escaping from under the cover of Ripka's coat. His attention had waned too much, he'd been lazy. Undisciplined. Auntie Honding would have skinned him for such a mistake. But he still had some sel left.

Still had his anger.

Refocusing, he gathered together what was left outside of the coat, let the blue cloth slump to a heap by his head. He reshaped it, making it a glittering, hovering windowpane. Just like he had when he'd made the imitation doppel mask. At least he could still count himself a quick learner.

The man leading the imperial troops smirked at it, suspecting it a doppel's trick.  “It's a little late to try and hide your face from us.”

Trembling, sweating, Detan bent all his will to keeping that sheet as wide as he could. The imperial waved his men forward, and just as they stepped through the membrane of sel, Detan let loose.

He didn't get to see the looks on their faces, the flash was too bright, but from the sound of their screaming, Detan knew he'd done real damage.

But not enough. More imperials emerged from the baths, little more than a line of smudged silhouettes before his fading gaze. They were hesitant, coming slow and scared. Wasn't much he could do now, but he hoped that display had at least made one of them wet themselves.

He was grinning when unconsciousness took him.

I
t was
all she could do to keep from falling over the edge as the flier shot through the empty air. Tibal stood – how, she had no idea – swearing his mouth bloody as he worked the craft's rigging in a desperate attempt to slow their flight. She wanted to help, but she didn't have a clue how to go about it. And anyway, if she let go of the railing both her arms were wrapped around she was certain she'd go spinning off into oblivion.

“That's it! Pull it round!” Tibal screamed above the rush of wind.

Ripka went red in the cheeks as she realized the steward was on his feet, working the mess of rope and pulleys as if it were the easiest thing in the world for him. Whatever they were up to, it must have worked, because the flier shuddered and swayed, slaloming to a stop so sudden she wondered for a brief second if she'd died and landed in the sweet skies.

After making sure whatever they'd done was secure, Tibal and the steward abandoned their posts and raced towards her end of the flier. It wasn't a very large craft, just a dozen or so long strides across, but still they came hurrying. She was relieved to find out it wasn't due to worry over her.

“I can't see any detail from this far off, but the cliff is definitely blackened,” the steward said, holding up a hand to guard his eyes against the sun's glare.

“I can't see much better myself, damned man must have blown us halfway across the Scorched. Sometimes I think there's nothing between his ears but grit and piss.”

“Shall we go back?” The steward was already edging toward the helm.

“Sure, but just to make sure he's still alive. I reckon they'll be gone by the time we get there. Detan will have left a handprint for me if he's still kicking,” Tibal's voice rasped. He shook his head and plastered on a fake smile. “And anyway, it's on the way.”

Ripka managed to pull herself to her feet and straighten her wind-twisted shirt. The men were polite enough to pretend not to notice. “On the way to where?” she asked.

“To see that damned doppel, of course. I'm thinking she's the only one who can lend us a hand getting Detan out of the chop.”

Ripka's gut clenched, she busied her hands straightening her hair while she spoke. “She's a murderer, Tibal. Killed a good man. Maybe two.”

He huffed and hawked over the side of the flier. “Yeah, well, she can join the club. You can't tell me you're not a member yourself. No one is a watcher long without taking a life that deserves to be left alone.”

Her fingers froze in their fussing, claw-like and petrified. She swallowed, forced herself to draw her hands away and rest them easy at her sides. “I'm just saying she can't be trusted.”

“No one can, captain. No one at all.”

“And just how in the pits do you know where she is? She has the
Larkspur
, doesn't she? Could very well be halfway to the ass-end of the world by now and we wouldn't know it.” She snapped, then cursed herself for losing her temper. This wasn't Tibal's fault. None of it was. He just wanted his friend back. And so did she, truth be told. Honding was a mad moron, but he'd risked himself to come to her aid. She couldn't let him fall into Thratia's clutches, not now. Still, the thought of working side by side with the doppel made her skin crawl, her irritation mount.

He gave her a small, weary smile. “Had a lot of time to think, captain, while you two were busy trying to get yourselves killed. We'll find her. Only one place she could be, truth be told.” He brushed past her and went about resetting the rigging.

She wanted to ask, but her pride wouldn't let her. One place she could be… But where? Ripka's head ached, and she couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion, dehydration, or just plain frustration. She should be able to come to whatever conclusion Tibal had.
Should
be able to see it. Pits below, hadn't her perception gotten her accused of hiding sel-sensitivity?

Tibal pulled and slung ropes, heaved on gear handles and swiveled strange levers as if they were extensions of himself. Ripka went cross-eyed watching him, and resisted an urge to bury her face her hands.

“Help me with this thing, will you, New Chum?” he said.

The steward, who had been watching their argument in placid silence, bowed stiffly to her and moved to crank a gear shaft which seemed to be connected to one of the flier's rear propellers.

She had little knowledge of selium ships of any sort. Her closest experience was riding along the anchored back of the city's ferries. At the front, back, and center edges large, fan-blade propellers were mounted. Ripka followed the contraptions as best she could, and guessed that they were connected to a singular drive shaft just behind the helm where a dashboard of cranks and levers were. It just looked like gibberish to her.

Feeling useless, she watched as Tibal made way for the steward to join him at the helm and both of them heaved to. The fans thrummed to life, spinning far faster than Tibal and the steward were turning the cranks. The flier slid forward, smooth as silk. Once they fell into a rhythm the land began to slip by in a rush, the wind whipping her hair into her face relentlessly.

“Can I help?” she called above the cry of the wind to the steward. He looked around the flier and pursed his lips.

“Sure, you can haul up the tie lines.”

“Right,” she said, but it stung. She had hoped he'd chalk up her flustered expression to the effect of the wind, because she was feeling significantly unmoored and had no desire to explain herself. Watch Captain Leshe, only good for hauling up ropes. Just her luck.

She tried to look confident as she made her way to the first rope, but the flier had a bit of a wobble in its movement that made her knees feel like jelly. By her fourth step, Tibal was chuckling. She glared at him, and tried to stride firmly the rest of the way. It just made matters worse.

“You get used to it,” he called. “I'd let you get your legs at a slower speed but we don't have much time to mess around here.”

“I'll adjust,” she said with a forced grin and a little sting of water in her eyes. Tibal just nodded. Ignoring the eyes on her back as she knelt beside the edge of the ship and began hauling up the dangling rope. By the third loop, she wished she hadn't volunteered herself at all. She was not finished by the time they reached the cliff side. The flier slowed in smooth increments, giving her the sensation that they were all sliding to a stop.

Ripka stared at the half-coiled rope in her hands and grunted. She tossed what she held aside and shoved herself to unsteady feet. Under Tibal's watchful eye she scrambled back to the dangling rope ladder and climbed down, desperate for solid land beneath her feet.

As soon as her toes touched down, she nearly sprawled straight onto her face. Down here the ground seemed absurdly still, and she had to grip the ladder to keep from pitching over the edge of the cliff.

“You all right, captain?” Tibal poked his head over the edge and squinted down at her.

“Oh, just wonderful.” She heard laughter above, but chose to ignore it. She'd pay them back later.

“See any signs of him? Any, you know… bits?”

The slight catch to Tibal's tone stilled her indignant anger. There weren't any bits belonging to Detan that she could see, but there was a whole pit-full of blood splashed around. Someone had fallen and rolled in it, smearing it across half the ledge. The stench of charred flesh and burned hair still clung to the open air, making her stomach lurch.

Wary of toppling into the mess, she took a step forward, still clinging to the ladder, and approached her crumpled coat. Detan's singed hat lay beside it. She knelt, clenching her jaw as she let the ladder go, and examined the ruddy ground.

In this spot, the blood was minimal. A small pool had spread down where his calf might have been, but there was nothing up above, where an injury might have meant death. She reached out and scooped up the limp and filthy hat. Beneath it, the bloody print of a man's hand was splayed. Bright and rusty and primal.

“He's all right! He left a print!”

She heard a whoop of relief from above and stood, not bothering to disguise the shake in her legs. It had been a long, long, morning, and some things her pride was just going to have to forget about. Things like going to the doppel who killed Galtro and Faud and asking for help.

Hobbling back to the ladder, hat tucked under one arm, she wondered if Detan would understand if she killed the doppel instead. She reckoned he would.

She just wasn't sure if she could forgive herself after that.