Steal the Sky (34 page)

Figures swam into view before him. The attendant retreated from his side, an empty bucket in his hands. Callia strode forward with Thratia in her wake. The refined calm of the ex-commodore's face was lost under a storm cloud of anger. Detan forced the biggest, stupidest smile he could muster onto his face. They
were
still in Aransa.

“Hullo, commodore. Coming with us to Valathea?” The words raked hot coals over his throat, but it felt good anyway.

“Hardly. Is this yours, Honding?” Thratia stepped aside so that he could see the man who stood behind her.

“New Chum!”

“Good evening, Lord Honding.”

“What are you doing on this broken crate?”

“I've come to retrieve you.”

He rattled his chains. “I don't think these people push over for politeness, New Chum.”

“Your man here,” Thratia prodded New Chum in the side with the pommel of her blade, and Detan realized he'd never even seen her draw it, “is proposing a trade.”

“A trade? What for, a day pass to the Salt Baths?”

“For my ship.”

Detan swallowed, licked his lips. Was the steward here on Tibal's behalf, or had he turned over on them? With Detan's mind made sluggish by the golden needle he'd begged for, he couldn't make the pieces fit. Couldn't be sure.

New Chum had to be here with Tibal's consent –
had
to be. It wouldn't make any sense for him to come and trade for Detan if he were working on his own. He'd be after something more lucrative for himself.

“So, it occurred to me,” Thratia stepped forward and knelt before Detan. She lifted her blade and laid it, light as a feather, just against the underside of his chin. She tilted his head up, peering into his eyes so intently it made his skin crawl, “that you do know where my ship is.”

“As a matter of truth, I don't. In fact, it seems you and I are the only ones who don't know where the damned thing is hiding.”

She grinned, not a pleasant effect. “And what's that supposed to mean?”

“It's occurred to
me
that Tibal, the doppel, and quite probably Ripka all know where it is. What about you, Callia? You got a manger full of sensitives here. Can't you find a little ole ship? Or are you holding out on your bosom companion?”

Thratia stood and turned to the imperial, nothing at all friendly in her expression, which pleased Detan something fierce. Driving a wedge between those two was almost worth the scorched back. Almost.

“Can any of these husks sense my ship?” Thratia demanded.

Callia rolled her delicate shoulders. “We've tried, of course. We are still here because we suspect the doppel may have to move the vessel soon, and in doing so we will note its presence. But, for the time being, no, we do not know where it is.”

With Thratia's back turned and Callia's attention on her, Detan stole a glance at Aella. The cursed girl winked. He had no idea what to make of it.

“Very well.” Thratia sighed and turned back to Detan, waving her blade absently at New Chum. “What's to stop me cutting it out of your steward, then?”

New Chum cleared his throat for attention. “Foreseeing your conclusions, I've arranged for the ship to be destroyed if Detan and I are not both well and free when we arrive at the location.”

“Really now.” Thratia scowled. “And just what other arrangements have you made?”

“Our terms are quite simple. The commodore, Dignitary Callia, Detan, myself, and a single escort of your choice are to go to the location of the ship. Whereupon, if Detan and I are released unharmed, we will turn the vessel over to you and then leave Aransa in your capable hands.”

Detan tried to keep his face impassive, but that didn't sound right to him. It wasn't the way Tibal worked whenever he took the reins – a fair trade of hostages just wasn't his style. And there was, of course, no possible way Thratia or Callia would ever just hand him over. Not without blood. He shivered. Fortune was smiling on him though, because none of the involved parties saw the shadow of doubt worm its way across his face.

Thratia replaced her sword and crossed her arms. “And how will we get there?”

“I would assume on one of this vessel's fine emergency fliers.” The steward gestured toward the small dinghies tied to the rim of the deck.

“Fine. Pick someone useful to take with us, Callia.”

She pointed a slender finger to Aella. “Go prepare yourself, and a flier.”

The girl stood and bowed. “Yes, mistress.”

As she disappeared to the other side of the ship, Detan overheard Thratia whisper to Callia. “You sure you want that girl with us?”

“Oh, yes.”

Detan frowned. He didn't like any of this at all. Not only was Tibal up to something, but Callia obviously had her own ideas about just how this was going to go. He bit his cheek and scowled at the empty air. He hated being left in the dark, but he could work with that. Most of all, he hated being useless.

“Hey,” he rattled his chains. “Can't take me there like this, can you?”

T
hey'd taken
the chains off, but Detan was not yet a free man. He stood on the deck of Callia's flier, a little dinghy used to shuttle a handful of people to and from the big ship when proper mooring was elusive. Wasn't nearly as big as his own flier, which he took a gleam of pride in. He had to find something to feel good about. Had to keep his head up.

Thratia kept tight to his right hand, her own hand never straying far from the grip of her cutlass. She kept throwing him glances the same way he reckoned she would throw knives. He kept his eyes skittering all over the place, never focusing on one spot in particular. Didn't stop him from feeling her presence, though. Didn't stop him from smelling the anise-spice she wore in her hair.

With Thratia so close, he could imagine she thought him dangerous. Which was nonsense, of course. Aella had his sel-sense crushed good and proper, and any attempt at physical resistance would get him quite literally crushed by Thratia. Still, it was good to be given the courtesy of being assumed a threat.

Aella piloted the flier, but not through any sel-manipulation. She kept him cut off, and he assumed that meant she was cut off too. She piloted it in the usual way, with fan and rudder and sail, her young face stern with concentration. Not for the first time he wondered just what, exactly, all these deviant sensitives were being trained for. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it.

New Chum was kept from him, clustered up toward the front of the dinghy where he could give directions to Aella. Which was a real frustration, because Detan would much rather be trading glances with that rascal than Thratia. Under New Chum's guidance, it wasn't long until it became clear to all aboard they were heading straight for the Smokestack. Detan grinned.

“My men have been all over the Hub and the baths,” Thratia said. “You're telling me she hid the damned thing there anyway? How?”

New Chum turned to her, gave a stiff bow from the waist. “My apologies, warden, but there are other places on the Fireline beside the baths and Hub.”

Callia chuckled, tried to stop it and ended up snorting. “Damn clever for a doppel.”

“Damn clever in general,” Detan snapped before he could stop himself. “She's not a creature, Callia. Unlike your lustrous self.”

Callia looked at him, slope-browed and bored. Like a rockcat who'd been insulted by a cockroach. Why would she care what he thought of her? Far as she was concerned, he was a creature, too. She turned away, dismissing him with her back. Detan sighed and tried to catch New Chum's eye, but the dour little man wasn't having any of it.

He'd never been so ignored in all his life.

Much to his relief, Aella brought the dinghy up at a sharp angle, making everyone scramble for a handhold, and crested the conical ring of the Smokestack's mouth. They hovered there a moment while Aella listened to New Chum give her directions to land. Detan strained forward, eager to see whatever Tibs had waiting for them.

It wasn't much. The flat bed of the firemount's plug was dusted over with fine ash, a few black rocks poking their thumbs up here and there. The great pipe mouths that fed into the lines draped over the sides of the cone, boring deep into the grey plug. Most had been burned to a crisp, leaving little more than smoldering heaps of rubble to block the bore mouths, but one or two were still operational. Detan shivered.

That was one job sensitives were too valued to be assigned. Diviners would find the pockets, sure, but it would be plain old laborers who cut through the crust with pick-axes and diamond-edged shovels, hoping they'd find the pocket before they found the magma. Hoping that when they did find the pocket it didn't blow itself out and fling them all from the top of the firemount.

Mine masters didn't mind a blowout. It made it easier to anchor the mouth of the pipeline. And anyway, selium pockets never ran dry so long as the firemount had any kick to it.

Detan allowed himself a conciliatory smile. It looked like they had experienced some trouble getting the lines set up. While the pipelines were draped over the conical ridge at regular intervals, there was one glaringly bald spot. He could only hope no one had died to find out that pocket wouldn't give.

The craft rocked as Aella brought it down. Apparently the firemount had its own ideas about air currents. Detan itched the palm of his good hand, wanting nothing more than to reach out and feel those strange eddies for himself. He'd never flown through a firemount's mouth before. If he lived through this, he'd have to make time for it.

Even if he'd probably get harpoons launched at him from the line defenders, it'd be worth it.

“Move, Honding.” Thratia grabbed the back of his neck in one fist and shoved him forward, down the little gangplank Aella had extended for their egress. New pain seared down the fresh scabs of his back, and he hissed air through his teeth.

Detan looked at the girl, but she was busy making sure the burr-anchors bit snugly into the ground. He wondered if Callia ever did any of her own flying work. He glanced back at the imperial, with her singed and bloodied white coat, her nails lacquered the same blue as the sky, and decided that was very, very unlikely.

New Chum positioned himself at the spearhead of the group and motioned further down the wall, toward the bald patch of ground where there was no pipeline. “This way, if you please.”

Their morbid little party set out, traipsing across the belly of the firemount. Detan imagined he could feel it rumble in distaste beneath him, annoyed by the human presence using it as their own personal meeting place. He tried not to think about that too much.

As Thratia herded him across the sooty ground he tried to keep his head down while keeping his eyes up. He had a rather strong suspicion that unless he played scared senseless she wasn't going to be any nicer than she already was.

That made him dizzy, so he gave up and looked around brazenly instead. What was she going to do, blind him?

He swallowed, and went back to keeping his head down.

As he stole glances around the broken land, he noticed one distinct thing missing from the cracked landscape: the
Larkspur
. There were heaps of magma rock and dunes of ash, glittering blades of shattered obsidian, whirls of breath-stealing heat. But no ship.

Except, to their right, a little disturbance in the soot. A small smudge of irregularity that he recognized as the footprint of his own bedraggled flier. But the
Happy Birthday Virra!
 was nowhere to be found.

Thratia stopped their progress with a soft growl and shoved Detan forward. “To the pits with this,” she muttered, and Callia gave her a tight nod.

“Tibal!” she called above the gritty winds. “If you want this sorry sack of flesh back you show yourself!”

Detan stumbled, exaggerating his overbalance to get as far away from Thratia as possible, and rammed smack into Tibs as he stepped out from around a pillar of black stone. Detan froze, chest to chest with the man who might be his only friend in the world, heart hammering to wake the dead. He wanted nothing more than to grab Tibs by the arm and sprint for it.

But this wasn't his game. Not anymore. And he had no idea what good ole Tibs had in mind.

That rangy sonuvabitch put one hand on Detan's shoulder and shoved him back toward his captors. Detan staggered, this time doing his best to keep his balance in check, absolutely straining his core muscles to stay upright. To stay as close to freedom as possible. He glared as hard as he could at Tibs, knowing full well the freak show behind him couldn't see.

Oh shit. Was Tibs trying to piss him off to blow something up? If that was his plan, he was going to be disappointed in a hurry. Detan cursed Callia, Aella, and any other vowel-smashed imperial name he could think of. He could only hope Tibs and New Chum had worked out some sort of hand signal to let one another know something was amiss.

If only he had thought of that idea before, he could let Tibs know his own cursed self.

“Evening, warden.” Tibs tipped down the brim of his singed hat. “Nice of you to come see me.”

“Cut the shit.” Thratia's cutlass whipped over Detan's shoulder and pressed right up tight against Tibal's throat. Detan cringed, sweating himself slick in two thumps of his heart, but he held his ground.

“Where's my ship?”

“More to the point,” Callia said, slipping forward to stand on Detan's other side, making his skin crawl with mere proximity. “Where is my doppel? I know you could not possibly pilot the craft yourself, Tibal. Not even with your watch captain's aid.”

Tibs held his hands out and patted the air like he was calming an angry mule, his smile chock full of that rustic charm Detan damned well knew was an act. Worked on most ladies. Too bad these two sandvipers were nothing at all like ladies.

“Easy now.” Tibs placed a finger on the flat of Thratia's blade and nudged it out to the side, then took a step back. Putting more distance between himself and Detan. The prick. “Ship's coming round, though you'll have to check with Pelkaia regarding just where she intends on going. Doesn't have much love for your kind, understand.”

Tibs pointed behind them, and the ladies on the field turned as one to regard the tip of an all-too familiar mast creeping over the lip of the conical wall. Detan, however, kept his eyes squarely on Tibs's sour face and tried to mouth out: N-O S-E-L.

Tibs blinked at him, big brows drawing together.

I C-A-N-T…er… B-O-O-M.

The idiot just shrugged. Detan clenched his fists, shuffled a step towards Tibs and gathered his breath to get his voice as low as possible.

The
Larkspur
crested the rise, big enough to cast a shadow over their little party. A surprisingly small shadow. Detan blinked, distracted, tried to work it through but–

“That's not the
Larkspur
,” Aella said.

Detan spun around, let himself take a step back towards Tibs as he did it. Hovering above the firemount's rim was the
Larkspur
as he'd known it, sails full and stabilizing wings spread wide in the afternoon light. Pelkaia stood on the deck alongside Ripka, both waving with big stupid grins. The exact same wave. The exact same grin.

He half-turned, saw Aella's small face pinched with focus, sweat sluicing off her scrunched brow. Her fists were clenched at her sides, making her look even smaller for how tiny they were. Her jaw jutted forward with strain.

The
Larkspur
vanished. So did Pelkaia.

Aella staggered, all the color draining from her small cheeks. Detan reached for her but she swatted him back, forcing herself upright. Too damned proud to seek out help when she needed it.

She caught his eye and jerked her chin. He blinked, turned back toward the place where the
Larkspur
had been.

Selium rushed toward the blue vault of the sky, a reverse opalescent rain. Glimmering droplets raced away from their armature, his own sad little flier with a rather shocked Ripka standing alone on deck. The stitched-together contraption still had
Happy Birthday Virra!
Painted in purple along the side of one buoyancy sack. Detan thought he'd faint.

No time for that. Aella had dropped her hold.

He let the sel rise, higher and higher, straining himself until he feared it would escape his grasp. Once it had melded with the streaky white of wind-battered clouds he reached out for all he was worth and held. Binding, binding, smashing it all together until it was one massive globule.

He swayed, sick with the immensity of it, felt a familiar hand grip his arm and prop him upright. Tibs, that old bastard, grinning like an idiot. Probably because he was one. There was no way he could have seen Aella coming.

“Who the fuck is Virra, and where is my pits-damned ship?” Thratia spun on Detan and Tibal, cutlass lashing out. He was straining himself too hard to pay any real attention, but he thought he heard the telltale squeal of Callia drawing her own blade. Looked like the imperial was up to doing her own work after all.

“Over there,” Tibs said, voice relentlessly chipper as he stepped out of reach of Thratia's blade, this time dragging Detan along with him. Thank the sweet skies. At least Tibs hadn't gone completely mad.

Callia strode toward Aella, grabbed the girl by the front of her blouse and hauled her upright, vein throbbing in the center of her forehead. “Take down all illusions in this area. Now.”

The girl's eyes went wide enough that Detan could see the gleam of the sun glancing off the whites of them. He wanted to scurry over there, to bravely shove Callia aside and tell her that was no way to treat a young lady, especially one in her charge. But he was weak and he was tired, and he didn't have a thing in the world to answer for the length of steel in Callia's hand.

Well, he had the sel. Too unwieldy to risk using. As always.

Callia let the girl go, shoving her forward. Aella turned in a slow circle, eyes narrowed.

“I told you–” Tibs began, but Thratia lunged and cracked the pommel of her cutlass against his temple hard enough to split skin and send the poor devil reeling. Detan forced himself forward, grabbed his friend by the shirt and held him up, tried to drag him back a step but was halted by Thratia placing the edge of her blade against his own scrawny neck. Detan froze, tangled up with Tibs, heart trying to escape through his throat.

“Everyone's staying right here until I get my ship. Understand?”

Aella hissed through her teeth, drawing Thratia and Callia's attention. She pointed straight behind their little group, eyes wide with wonder.

“It wasn't there before!” she insisted to no one in particular as she held both hands out, so tired she needed the assistance of mirror-movement to make her powers work. Just like the weaker sods working the line, Detan thought.

The empty air just a few paces behind them rippled, shimmered, then fell away in tatters, ribbons of sel peeling off like rotten fruit. Testament to the girl's exhaustion – she was only able to rip it at the seams, not shatter it whole. Detan let that sel go. There was no way he could hold so much.