Steal the Sky (36 page)

The weight of holding the cloud bore down on his mind; his fingers took up a tremble not even the deepest of breaths could still.

“Time to go,” Tibs said, impossibly calm. Familiar hands grabbed Detan's armpits and hauled him upward but he lurched forward, stayed on his knees, unable to peel his gaze away from the blurs of sel and steel.

What Pelkaia lacked in native talent, she sure as shit made up for it in ingenuity. The sel cloud around her she manipulated into sparks of light, threw up tiny walls to cover her feints. He'd never seen anything like it. And he was pretty sure Thratia hadn't either – otherwise Pelkaia'd be skewered by now.

Thratia parried a thrust hard, twisting so that Pelkaia jerked sideways. The doppel stumbled over ash-slick ground, her side wide open to Thratia's leisure. Detan called out a warning, but he knew it was no good. Thratia's blade swung in, almost lazy in its arc, and opened the side of Pelkaia's hip.

Somehow Pelkaia got a blast of sel between them, bright as day, and shoved it straight in Thratia's eyes.

“Catari bitch!” Thratia barked.

Pelkaia whirled. The sleek outline of Thratia drew Pelkaia's blade as a magnet pulls north. The blade skimmed off boiled leather, bit down and caught in thick padding. Detan held his breath as Thratia's armor peeled open. Before Pelkaia could press her strike Thratia sidestepped and snapped her blade down, batting Pelkaia's wide.

Pelkaia swore, her shoulder overextended, body pivoting as it moved with the steel. She stumbled, fell hard to one side – hard enough to pop the blade from her grasp.

Trembling, she levered herself to an elbow, reached – scrambling through the scorched dirt – for her weapon. Thratia's boot pressed into the small of Pelkaia's back.

“Enough,” Ripka said, taking a halting step toward the fallen doppel.

Thratia looked up. Smirked. “Maybe I will find a use for her alive after all.”

Detan got an idea.

“New Chum,” Detan rasped as quietly as he could. “Be a dear and hold our virtuous watch captain, will you?”

The blessed little steward bowed his head and took a half-step forward to grab Ripka's arm. It was no great struggle to hold her in place, she was worn through.

Detan caught Aella's eye, and understanding passed between them. The girl's face was red, her hair hanging limp and sweaty around her child-pudgy cheeks, but she was ready.

Aella shifted her stance, palms held up toward the skies. She could keep them clear of the backlash – could deaden even the reach of flaming sel. He hoped.

Aella nodded.

“Hey, Thratia! Thratttiiiaaaaa!” Detan raised his voice, praying for all he was worth that Pelkaia would catch his meaning, that she'd ditch what little sel she was still holding onto before he let loose.  

“What?” Thratia snarled.

“I suggest you cover your eyes!”

High above, he blew the sel.

A flash so white its very light burned him filled the crater. People cried out all around him, voices so wild with panic he couldn't tell them apart. Fire boiled in the cloudless sky, great roiling waves of it. Flaming corpses rained down all around them, chitinous bodies turning to charcoal long before they broke upon the ground.

At the moment of ignition he collapsed, Tibs's grasp doing nothing at all to keep him upright. He laid there for a moment, stunned, drained, watching colors like sunset blossom and blister the sky above. People screamed their fear and their anger all around him, familiar voices merging into one great crescendo of what-the-fuck-did-you-do-Honding. He grunted, unable and unwilling to explain himself.

His anger was gone. He felt… Light. Free.

“Get up, damn you!”

Tibs, good ole Tibs, grabbed him by the wrists and yanked him to his feet. He staggered, his leg reminding him it was in worse shape than his back felt. Tibal shouldered his weight and began to drag him off. He dug his heels in.

“The others!”

“Are fine!” Tibs shoved him forward, the bastard. He was too weak by far to attempt any kind of protest. He tried to turn his head, tried to see what had become of Pelkaia. Of Thratia. But Tibs just kept shoving him along, straight toward the flier's dangling ladder.

“Sandsdamnit Tibs, let me see!”

Tibs growled low in his throat, a sound so rare that it made Detan's knees go weaker than they already were. He was about to mutter some apology when Tibs jerked him around, pointing him straight at the scene of the fight. Pelkaia was still on the ground, but she was pushed to her knees and elbows, New Chum and Ripka closing on her fast. Thratia – where? He couldn't see… oh.

The warden lay on the ground a good ten paces from Pelkaia, curled on her side with one arm flung out. Her chest rose and fell in a reliable rhythm, but that didn't stop Detan's stomach from lurching at the sight of the smoke curls peeling away from her, at the scorched mass of her hair. Pelkaia had found something to do with the sel she held, all right.

If Thratia survived this, Detan was a dead man. It might take her a while, but Thratia'd make sure of it. The knowledge settled around him like a mantle, just as heavy as his anger had been. He shuddered.

Thratia's leg twitched, her head turned.

“Time to fucking go,” Tibs said.

“Wait, the girl!”

“No more waiting!”

“But–!”

Aella pushed herself to her knees and glared at him. “Go, you idiot.”

“I thought–?”

“I didn't want you around.”

“
What
?”

She stood and smiled, brushing grey ash from her blue dress. “Callia was always going to fail, Honding. Her circus is all she's ever cared about – tunnel vision, she can't see beyond it. And I need her alive, you understand? Alive to stand judgment for her failures. And then, well, I'm the only Valathean-bred and trained body positioned to take the reins she's dropped. Her manicured heir – everyone knows it. I'm her ward! But you, Lord Honding, could have made things very difficult for me if you'd come around. You and your sour, noble blood.”

“But you–”

“I just didn't want the competition!”

New Chum staggered over to them, missing his eyebrows, with Pelkaia held upright between himself and Ripka. Without another word they hurried as best they could toward the ships while Thratia and Callia were laid out flat.

Happy Birthday Virra!
and
Larkspur
were in excellent shape, not even a singe on their gleaming hulls. The bubble of air around them was strangely cool despite the raging inferno of the sky above. He glanced over his shoulder at Aella.

She winked.

T
he dinghy had been too damaged
to return them to the compound, and so they took the ferry, and wound their slow way up the cursed levels of Aransa. With every step Aella took fresh agony wormed its way into her arms, her chest, her legs. A great welt on her throat flared each time she breathed, and though the air was hot and her body exhausted she forced herself to take only the shallowest of breaths.

Sweat did not pour from her, it simply emerged, a glistening sheen from head to foot that did little to cool her in the stale air and instead served only to increase the stinging of her wounds.

And yet Aella smiled. It was tight, controlled, not enough to give away her joy, but she had to do something – something beyond trudging through the heat with her head down – to express her triumph. Not that Callia would have noticed.

Aella spared a glance for her mistress. Callia was carried ahead of her on a shaded palanquin, the curtains snapped tight to hide her from the sun. Well, that's what she'd said. Aella suspected that she just didn't want the people of Aransa to see her in her defeat. In her pain.

Which was probably wise. The people had certainly come out to see whatever there was to see.

They lined the streets, peered through half-shuttered windows. Each and every one struggled to pick a direction in which to look. Either at the strange procession making its way before them, or at the fire in the sky.

Most looked up. Aella did, when she was sure she wouldn't lose her footing.

The clouds had long since boiled off, and the empty blue vault was smeared in flame. Sourceless, relentless, flame. Every breath she took smelled of the chalk-dirt aroma of cracked stone and gristle roasting over hot coals. Great swathes of sunset colors roiled out of control, on occasion mingling with the selium in such a way as to draw out its opalescent streaks of iridescence.

Those streaks never lasted long. The fire was ravenous for them.

Aella began to lift her stinging arm, to hold her hand palm out to the flaming sky in supplication. She stopped herself just in time, but still let slip a dreamy sigh. If she had known Detan was capable of such beauty, she might have contrived to keep him.

Pretending to duck her head once more, she looked through her lashes to be sure that Thratia had not seen her moment of weakness. The warden strode before Callia's palanquin, head straight, jaw set. Though her body was scattered with welts and the skin of her left side was scorched red and raw she moved with determined calm, her eyes roving over those who had gathered to watch her pass.

She looked proud, confident despite her injuries. As if the fire in the sky were her own doing, and everything was as it should be. Aella found herself wondering just what that showmanship cost her. Just how deeply would the new warden sleep tonight?

She caught herself sneering at the back of Callia's palanquin and bit her lip, tucking the expression away. Everyone had their own weaknesses and strengths, she reminded herself.

The doors to Thratia's compound were thrown open for them, all the second and third-ranked of Thratia's little militia spilling over themselves to offer assistance. The laborers who Thratia had pressed into carrying Callia were released and replaced by guards with fresh backs. Apothiks appeared carrying trays of salves and teas and other accoutrements of their business.

Aella nearly jumped out of her tenderized skin as a stranger tugged gently on her sleeve for attention. The man was rough of face, handsome in his own way, and carried the most disarming smile she'd ever seen. He proffered a wooden tray to her, strange jars splayed over its surface.

“This balm,” he pointed to a jar of green soapstone, “will ease the sting, miss.”

“Thank you.” She snatched it from the tray and then attempted an encumbered half-bow over a palm laid open to the sweet skies. The man smiled, bobbed his head, and moved along. Apparently a simple jar of goop was all the care she was going to get.

“Enough of this circus.” Thratia's voice, stern despite her exhaustion, froze in place every soul within the room. “It is time for the empire to leave Aransa.”

A little trickle of dread excitement wormed its way into Aella's heart. She shifted, trying to get a good view of Callia's palanquin through the press of servants. A bruised-plum hand nudged a curtain aside, and Callia leaned her head out. “The empire will forever be in Aransa, warden. It is the way of things.”

The freshly minted warden pulled herself up to her full height, and Aella felt a thrill buzz through her mind and heart. Whatever was about to happen here was new. After a lifetime of laboring silently in Callia's lean shadow, anything new was a crisp delight.

“Escort Dignitary Callia and her charge to their ship.” Thratia spoke to her militia, but her eyes did not leave Callia's. Much to Aella's disappointment, Callia snapped her curtain shut and ended the confrontation in silence.

Aella sighed. Change was sometimes too much to hope for.

Guards armed with weapons Callia had helped smuggle into Aransa herded them up the stairs, and Aella allowed herself a slim smile at Callia's lack of power. Even if the dignitary wanted to protest, she was being carried on the shoulders of Thratia's people. Her autonomy had been revoked.

As Aella trudged up the steps she smeared the salve from the green jar across her wounds, savoring the cool tingle that radiated from whatever herbs had been mashed into the concoction. She spared a glance for the apothik who had brought it for her, but his balding pate was lost in the press all around. She stopped looking the second she stepped onto the dock.

Their cruiser was gone.

A midsized barge hung in the empty space of the u-dock, its overhead buoyancy sacks bulging against the ropes that held them in place. Stabilizing wings hung half open from the front and back, and all of Callia's attendants were crowded into the center of the ship, held in an uneasy cluster by a line of crossbowmen spread out around the curve of the dock. Of the deviant sensitives, there was no sign. Along the ship's rectangular haul,
The Crested Fool
was painted in gilded yellow.

Aella was forced to stifle a giggle.

With utmost care, the guards eased Callia's palanquin to the ground and pulled away her sheltering curtains. From amongst her cushions the battered whitecoat leaned forward, fists clenching the front poles of the palanquin so tight Aella suspected the flimsy, Scorched-grown, wood would snap.

“What is the meaning of this?” Callia grated.

Thratia gestured with a wide sweep of her arm. “You promised me a ship, and weapons. Now I have everything we agreed upon.”

With a grunt of pain-mingled rage Callia jerked herself to her feet and thrust a finger Thratia's way, her other hand drifting for the grip of her saber. Aella cringed, hoping her mistress would not be so stupid as to get them all slaughtered to assuage her indignity.

“You lost the ship we sent you, and you have your weapons. Return my craft and my specimens to me immediately.”

Thratia gave a slow, slow shake of her head. “Now I have a ship. Now I have weapons. Your
specimens
–” she spit over the rail of the dock, “–have already been bathed, fed, and sent to their own private rooms. Under guard, of course, but with time,” she shrugged, “I do not think I will have need of guards for them. You're free to go, Callia. Right now. Don't test me again.”

On unsteady feet Callia stepped toward the gangplank, her eyes as wide and rolling as a startled horse. Aella sighed and started forward, offering her arm to the whitecoat. Callia took it, and Aella was surprised by how much weight she allowed her to carry.

“You,” Thratia pointed a finger Aella's way, “have a choice. You may stay with me, or not. I will not force you either way.”

Aella pretended to take a moment to mull over the offer, then bowed her head in deference. “I will go with the woman who raised me.”

Callia snorted pride, lifted her chin with smug satisfaction. Which was, of course, precisely the reaction Aella had wanted her to have. When Callia returned to the Valathean court in disgrace, Aella would be ready. She'd have plenty of time to plan, crossing the sea on such a slow vessel.

And if Callia proved too much a terror on the ship, well then. She had her new little jar of salve, tucked safely in the loose folds of her pocket. A great many dangerous herbs could be blended in to such a base. Aella touched the jar in her pocket, treasuring it, and felt smooth letters and numbers carved, ever so tiny, into its base. She swallowed, following that little string with the edge of her thumb. A cipher. A way to communicate with Thratia in secret, if she so chose.

Aella did not dare look the warden's way. She was too afraid she would smile.

As they crossed onto the deck of the new ship, Callia's attendants took over, shifting her weight onto their trembling shoulders. Aella sighed. The walk had rubbed some of the salve off her arms. She opened the jar, oblivious to the threat of crossbows all around her. Thratia would not fire if there was no need of it.

“You've made a grave mistake,” Callia called as her men unmoored the ship. “Valathea will hear of your betrayal.”

Aella picked her head up just in time to catch a satisfied smile dance across Thratia's tired, soot-smeared face.

“Good,” the warden said.

Aella fought down a grin, bending her head over the open jar of salve to hide it. Thratia was baiting the empire to war… She would have to work that into the plans she made as they crossed the sea.

The Crested Fool
slithered out into the open sky, rising to clear the craft from the line of crossbows. Despite their haste to be away, the ship stayed lower than its preferred cruising height, wary of the fires boiling the sky above. Heat sharper than any sunlight bathed Aella's head and arms, and in a moment of recklessness she lifted her face to that fire and closed her eyes.

“Aella!” Callia called, snapping her back to herself.

It was all she could do to keep from humming a merry tune as she returned to her mistress's side.