Steal the Sky (7 page)

Tibs followed him in, looking rather like a drowned sandrat. The steward placed a couple of glasses of cactus flower liqueur on the salt slab, delicate red buds perched on the rims of the glasses. Presumably, the idea was to drink them before the salt ran out, and that seemed like a grand old time to Detan.

“I'll return to check on you in a mark, sirs. Please do ring the bell if you require anything.”

“Will do, New Chum.”

The steward beamed at them, lingering a moment to see if he were needed further, then hurried back down the steps. Detan watched him go and let loose with a low whistle as soon as he was out of earshot. “Poor sod, I don't think he has a chum in the world.”

“Sorry luck he's found one in us then, eh?”

“If by sorry you mean marvelous, then yes. Did you see the ink? Methinks our stalwart steward is hiding a less than reputable past.”

“Something you'd be familiar with.”

“Oh, come off it. Ever seen anything like it?”

“You think the kid's got a crew?”

“He might have,
some
people are capable of making more than one friend. Didn't seem much impressed with the noblebones, come to think on it. Might be he's casing the place.”

Tibs let out a low and weary sigh. “Leave the lad be, not everyone's neck deep in conspiracies just because you are.”

“As you like. We really gonna sit round in this stew all day?”

“Long as they'll let me.”

Detan drained his glass and hiccupped. “Pah. You've no imagination. Did you see the cubbies where we put our things? No locks!”

“This is a respectable place. Things don't go missing.”

He slapped the water with his open palm. It was a meaty, satisfying slap. Then he snagged up Tibs's glass and downed that, too. The old fool was likely to get drunk and careless if Detan didn't get the good stuff out of the way for him.

“You heard the man, he's giving us a mark to have a look-see.”

“He's giving us a mark for the soak.”

“Nonsense. Let's go!”

Detan moved to the steps, but Tibs grabbed his arm so hard and fast he slipped and flopped face-first into the water. He came up sputtering, and gave Tibs a shove. “What was that for?”

“Just wanted to remind you, real clear, that the young Lord Honding is said to have lost his sel-sense in a
tragic
mining accident back in Hond Steading. Your freedom depends on that neat little rumor.”

He flushed. “Oh, come off it. That overinflated sack deserved it.”

“Might be, but Aransa isn't a friendly town for your type. Watch yourself. Sirra.”

Detan rolled his eyes and pulled himself out of the tub, sloshing water over the edge. An angry hiss issued from the vent far below, and he shuddered. It was one thing to work the firemounts for selium, there was just no other way to get it, but surely there were safer methods of taking a bath. He wrapped his towel round his hips and waited for Tibs to do likewise.

He did not.

“What's the problem now, Tibs?”

“I'm going to soak.”

“Huh. Well. I suppose it will improve your aroma. Carry on, good man, and look for me to return before the mark burns down.”

“Try not to get killed.”

Detan sniffed and set off, wet feet slap-slapping on the warm rock walkway. The amenable steward had done him the favor of showing him the most direct route between the lush baths and the men's cubby room, where the gentle guests left their outer shells for the duration of their luxury. Trusting lot, these bathgoers.

The way was clear as far as the cubby room, and there Detan hovered at the entrance for a good long while with his ear pressed up against the door to make sure there wasn't so much as a mouse-shuffle inside. Gauging the room empty, he slipped through the narrow door and shut it with a soft click behind him. He winced. The steward had been flapping his lips so much that Detan had missed that particular noise the first time through. Nothing for it, he decided. And anyway, there wasn't a soul around to hear it so far as he could tell.

He tiptoed down the row, peeking into the stuffed cubbies until he came across one that appeared more stuffed than most. Marking the spot, he doubled back to his own accoutrements and slipped his leather money pouch from the folds. It was his favorite pouch, it'd been the first thing he'd stolen when he returned to the Scorched, and he'd be sorry to lose it. But then, he was pretty sure he'd be seeing it again quite soon. He kissed the goatskin and tucked it in amongst the robust man's vestments. Then he shoved Tibs's into the cubby of the big man's friend for good measure.

If he was going to stick his neck out, he'd be fried if he wasn't going to invite ole Tibs along for the ride. It wasn't right, leaving your friend out of things just because he was a mechanic. And anyway, Tibs's clothes were reeking just as much as his own were.

Doubling back to his cubby, he scooped up both his and Tibs's clothes, then fled the scene.

T
he warehouse district
had always been dark, but now that Thratia's compound loomed above the wide mud-brick buildings, the once familiar streets seemed to grow seedier in her shadow. Somewhere from within the compound the thready whisper of music struck up. Soft, but growing. Thratia's entertainment getting ready for her guests tonight.

Ripka bit her lip, forcing herself to ignore the swathe of excess shade laid over the building she was reconnoitering now. She could not let her prejudices against the ex-commodore cloud her judgment; make her rash. Not tonight.

She crouched alongside Banch and their newest recruit, Taellen, relying upon a hip-high stack of ruined crates to obscure their presence. On the opposite side of the targeted warehouse five other watchers lurked, awaiting her signal.

The cold of the desert night bit into her flexed knees, stiffened her tensed back. She shifted her weight, pretending to adjust the angle she held her crossbow at, but found no relief. They had been a half-mark lurking behind that pile of detritus, and the sour stench of alley garbage was growing disturbingly less noticeable. Ripka resolved to give herself a full, hot bath just as soon as she got home.

“That's the place, I'm sure of it,” Taellen murmured and gestured with his charcoal-blackened crossbow.

“So you've said,” she whispered, nudging his weapon back below the line of the broken crates. “Now hush.”

He grunted, sullen, and she bit her tongue to keep from reprimanding him further. This had been his find, and she was grateful for it, but the lad was too eager to lay claim. Too eager, she suspected, to prove he served Aransa. He'd only moved to the Scorched a single moonturn ago and still carried a Valathean accent – and a Valathean name, despite her urging to change it. Aransa may be governed by Valathea, but the people of the Scorched liked their names harsh as the landscape that housed them.

Banch lifted a hand in the air, his finger extended, circled it, then pointed. Setting aside her annoyance, she squinted through the dark at the window he indicated. The curtain flicked aside, the edge of a man's face peering out into the dark. Ripka held her breath as he scanned the area beyond, then let the curtain fall back into place. Had he seen them? Heard them? She cursed her inability to communicate with her other team.

A rumbling echoed down the street. She tensed, straining to make out the details. The sound was a dull, rhythmic clunk punctuated by two soft thumps.
Clunk-thump-thump-clunk.
Ripka raised her brows at Banch, a silent question, but he only shrugged.

Something dark moved down the street, the finer details of it erased by the shadow of Thratia's compound. Ripka made a note to later insist that these streets were kept bright by the lamplighter children. It was well past time to chase the shadows out of Aransan commerce and she, quite frankly, would be delighted to light some fires under the hides of those mucking about with shady dealings.

A wide cargo door slid open on the face of the warehouse, its hinges so well greased she would have missed it if she weren't looking right at it in that moment.

Faint light spilled from the door, illuminating a small section of the road. Plodding toward the opened door was a cart pulled by the slow trod of a hump-backed donkey. Ripka squinted, and saw that both the creature's hooves and the wheels of the cart had been wrapped in thick cloth. Shady dealings, indeed. Enough to reasonably demand the right to search them. She smothered a hungry grin and put on a smooth, professional expression.

“You see?” Taellen hissed, his voice high and eager.

Ripka cringed and grabbed the lad's arm, dragging him back down as his head popped up. “Quiet,” she whispered. “Wait until we have a better idea of what it is they mean to do.”
And to see if they do anything obviously incriminating
, she thought, but Taellen was too young for that train of thought just yet. Too green.

Green things did not last long on the Scorched.

Taellen grunted but ducked his head, annoyance simmering in the set of his shoulders. Banch caught her eye over the lad's bowed head, one brow arched in amusement. To keep from grinding her teeth she pulled a pinch of barksap from her pocket and popped it into her mouth, rolling the sticky, resinous heap around until it was narrow enough to fit down one row of molars. The sharp flavor calmed her, the viscous lump gave her tongue something to worry over, something to do while she waited for an opening.

A man in a tight-fitted, slate-grey coat drove the cart, his narrow back slumped over the slack reins. He leapt from his perch as a man and a woman in matching grey coats stepped into the light from within the warehouse. Their hands hovered at their hips, though Ripka could see no weapons on them. She bit her lip, thought better of it and shifted the sap so that she could chew it instead. The three peeked beneath the mottled cloth covering the cart's contents, nodded to themselves and waved the donkey-driver in.

“What do you think?” Banch whispered.

“I think a few questions wouldn't go amiss.” She pursed her lips, stroking the forward curve of her crossbow. “But let's keep the others in reserve, for now.”

Ripka stood, straight as an arrow, the blue coat of the Watch comfortably snug about her waist and shoulders. The weight of the cudgel at her hip brought her confidence, the shadows of her colleagues rising beside her strength. Chin up, crossbow leveled, she strode through the dark toward the warehouse, trying to smooth the eager thumping of her heart, the heady twitch of her fingers toward the bolt trigger.

The scene felt sharper, brighter. Her past as a prizefighter raised its head, calculating how fast she could close on the big man, judging the reach of the woman's legs. She licked her lips and twisted a manic grin into something like an affable smile. It was a relief to be effectual, to put the shade of the doppel out of her mind for a while. Even if she couldn't, ethically, come in swinging.

The two leading the cart stopped cold upon sighting them, hands disappearing beneath their coats to seek weapons until the color of the Watch blues took root in their minds. A thrum of excitement tingled over Ripka's skin as recognition settled, their eyes narrowing and their lips thinning with irritation. The cart driver disappeared within the wide cargo door, so she tipped her chin to Taellen, motioning him to circle them at a wider berth and keep an eye on the door.

“Evening, watch captain,” the woman drawled as she raised her hands into the air. The man followed her lead, taking a half-step back. “Come to help us unload this delivery?”

“I'd sure like to have a look at it,” Ripka said, keeping her bow trained on the woman while Banch and Taellen fanned out around her. She drew up within five paces of the woman, close enough to see the wrinkles like cracked mud around her eyes. The woman's face twitched, her lips fighting down a scowl.

“We're not doing anything illegal, now, we got our paperwork in order.”

“Then you wouldn't mind Sergeant Banch here having a look at it.”

Banch stepped forward, one hand held out expectantly while the other propped the butt of his crossbow against his shoulder. The woman pulled a sheaf of papers from a leather satchel strapped to the donkey's side, each movement orchestrated with such precision that Ripka wondered if she'd rehearsed the motions. If she'd been anticipating the Watch's interference all along.

A tickle of worry scratched at the back of Ripka's mind, and she flicked her gaze to the side just as Taellen loped further inward, drawing in towards the warehouse door. What was that fresh-blooded idiot thinking? He was meant to watch the door, not enter it. There could be a dozen or more of the thugs lurking beyond, and though they would be wary of attacking a watcher, Ripka had made it a habit not to rely on someone else's fear to keep her skin intact.

“Distribution approval here says for honey liqueur, though the house importing isn't noted.” Banch handed the papers back to the woman.

“Difficult to get distribution in Aransa without a mercer house to back you.” Ripka raised her brows in innocent question at the woman. “How'd you manage it?”

The woman took back the papers and spread her arms wide as she shrugged. “The Mercer Collective has become amenable to independent enterprise as of late.”

“Lucky for you.” Ripka motioned toward the cloth-covered cart. “I'm sure you won't mind if we check the goods against the manifest, then.”

The woman's expression rippled, a subtle disturbance, but enough to put Ripka on sharper guard. She swallowed her barksap and stepped toward the cart, sparing a glance to make sure Banch had her covered. With one hand she peeled back the cover to reveal a mound of stacked crates, each one no bigger than the length of her forearm on each side. She tipped her head to the man. “Open it.”

He glanced at the woman, got a nod of approval and shrugged. From somewhere on the cart he grabbed a pry bar and heaved the crate's lid open, wood and metal groaning with each tug. The man tossed the levered top to the ground and nudged aside a fistful of straw packing. Between the dried grasses Ripka could just make out the deep amber of liqueur bottles, their tops sealed by red wax stamped with the shape of a bee.

“Remove one,” Ripka ordered.

“Here to levy a tax, watch captain?” the woman said, this time not bothering to hide her smirk.

Ripka ignored her, instead keeping her gaze on the bottle the man removed. It was in the round-bottomed style currently fashionable, made possible by funneling sel into the glass during the manufacturing process. She frowned, something not quite right about the shape of it twisting through her mind.

“You see?” the woman said. “Nothing strange about a bottle.”

Except that it was too short to fill the crate. Ripka returned the woman's smirk. “True, but I'm more interested in what's in the crate's false bottom.”

The woman's grin lost its mirth, her eyes went hard as flint. “I don't know what you mean, captain. Perhaps you'd like to take a bottle to try? To make sure the quality is up to the standards you expect for Aransa.”

“Bribes?” Ripka clucked her tongue. “You must think you're talking to someone else.” She caught the man's gaze and flicked her eyes to the crate. “Break that open completely. Now.”

The man shifted his weight, fingers going white around the neck of the bottle he'd presented to her. The woman chewed her lip, and Ripka allowed herself a small smile at the recognition of nervousness, of distress.

“Scatter!” the woman yelled loud as her lungs would let her.

Before Ripka could get a shot off, the man threw the bottle at her feet, a foamy explosion of alcohol-drenched honey sweetening the air. She swore and fired at the woman, swore again when she saw the bolt skim off the woman's cheek without causing more damage than a rockcat scratch.

Banch loosed his shot, missed, then leap-tackled the man who had thrown the bottle as he bolted right by him. Ripka jumped over the tangled pair, reloading her bow with practiced ease as she ducked into the warehouse after the woman.

Mountains of identical crates dotted the warehouse, great stepped pyramids of them rising up on all sides. Ripka spared them only the briefest of glances. Some part of her couldn't help but register the expense involved in such an operation. Her steps were silent, the dirt-packed floor smoothed by the passing of many feet. Half of the wall sconces had been lit in anticipation of the night's work, the flickering flames throwing strange shadows in her path.

“Turn yourselves over, and we won't use force,” Ripka called, though the words felt pointless, perfunctory. These people, whoever they were, had been ordered to run. Which meant that they more than likely had orders to keep themselves out of official hands at all costs.

“Captain!” Taellen yelped from around a pile of crates to her right, his voice high with surprise.

Before she could move two steps in his direction a crash broke through the night, the splintering of wood and shattering of glass louder to her overstrained senses than any crack of thunder.

Rounding the crate-pile, her foot went out from under her. The world skewed as she crashed down hard on one knee, bright spikes of pain lancing up her leg. Ripka got a hand down to steady herself, old instincts overriding momentary terror. The floor was sticky mush, sugared mud. She peeled her hand free and glared down at the syrupy muck coating her palm. Tried to ignore the needles of pain radiating from the knee she had fallen on.

“Look out!” Taellen barreled into her from the side just as a crate went flying through the air where her head would have been. Ripka grunted and gasped once, quick to recapture the air that had been driven from her lungs. Taellen rolled away from her and sprang up, the easy agility of youth driving his knees. He dragged his cudgel free and brandished it, the crossbow lost.

Ripka heaved herself upright with, she supposed, far less grace but just as much effectiveness. The cart driver was opposite them, his scrawny arms flailing like a broken windmill as he clambered up the stepped mountain of crates. Where in the pits did he think he was going? The ceiling?

“Easy now,” she called, reining in her anger. “That's not the most stable of locations.”

“To the pits with you!” he screeched and whirled around. Ripka blinked, slow as honey rolling downhill, as the driver grabbed a crate from the pile he was climbing and flung it one-handed straight at her. She skittered away and the cheap wood crashed into dozens of pieces, throwing its delicate cargo high into the air.

The crate's bottom broke, spilling weapons onto the liqueur-drenched ground. They gleamed in the flickering light, wicked expanses of steel winking at her out of the dark. She took a half-step back and scanned the mountains of crates all around her once more.

There were thousands. Did they each carry a deadly gift?

And how had he managed such a ferocious throw? The crates weren't big – they barely came up to her knee – but they were laden with thick glass bottles, liqueur, and steel. Too heavy by far to pitch around like toys.