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Authors: Megan E. O'Keefe

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BOOK: Steal the Sky
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Another crate burst upon the ground, just before her feet, and she flinched back into reality.

“Cease this immediately!” she demanded, keeping the man in her line of sight as she skirted the detritus, looking for her crossbow. Where were Banch and the others?

“Blasted skies he's strong!” Taellen called out as the man flung yet another crate one-handed without so much as a grunt. The heavy wooden box sailed through the air as if it were as light as a paper airship. Ripka froze, squinted down at the thick puddles, their surfaces pockmarked with tiny bubbles, and realized just why the man found the crates so light.

“Surrender!” Banch's voice echoed all around, the heavy tromp of the other five watchers hard on his heels.

The cart driver's eyes went wild – mad.

“He's sensitive! There's sel in the booze! 'Ware the crates!” Ripka yelled.

Too late. The man's hand shot out toward a pile opposite him, his fist clenched around empty air, and yanked. The crates groaned, shifted, wood cracking as the heavy contents pushed against the friction of being stacked one atop the other.

Ripka spun around, saw her watchers running her way, faces red with exertion and boots slamming the ground so hard they could scarcely hear the complaint of the wooden heap beside them. It twitched, leaned.

The face of the cart driver went red, sweat sluicing down his cheeks. Ripka made her decision, and sprinted.

Her knee complained, her shoulders burned, but still she flung herself at the pyramid the man had climbed and heaved herself upward. He saw her, his expression of intense concentration flickering only a moment as he catalogued this new threat. In that moment he lost his tug on the crates threatening her people. It was enough.

With a roar of effort she leapt upward and threw one arm out, cudgel raised high, and brought it down in a punishing arc against the side of the sweating cart driver's head. He slumped, a leaf cut free of its branch, and began to slide down the stacks. Ripka scrambled, gathering the fabric of his coat in one numb fist, and leaned her weight against the mountain, breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Captain!” Banch called from the ground below, his expression a mix of bewilderment and fear.

“Get ready to catch this sonuvabitch, because I can't hold him much longer,” she called back.

The five scrambled to get into position, and she tossed the cart driver so that he wouldn't bounce all the way down the sharp corners of the crates. When he was safely in hand, she let herself down with care. By the time her feet touched the ground they had bound the blasted man.

Taellen offered her an arm of support. She was grateful to take it.

“The others?” she asked Banch.

“Our rear guard detained the woman, but the man made it out.” Banch glanced away as he spoke, a flush of embarrassment mingling with the fresh bruise on his cheek.

“That will have to do.” Ripka ran her hand through her hair, then immediately regretted it as her hair stuck up in a mass of sticky spikes. She sighed. “I need a bath.”

Banch chuckled and clapped her on the shoulder. “I'll secure the area, don't you worry captain.”

Shrugging off Taellen's support, she directed the loading of the prisoners into the donkey cart, making sure to offload all the selium-enriched bottles of liqueur just in case the sensitive were to awaken. The last thing she needed was another avalanche of overly sweet booze coming her way.

Taellen grabbed the reins to the cart and she took up guard in the back with another of the Watch. Her sticky crossbow she kept close to hand, but it was one of the smuggled blades she held, turning it over in the slim light as Taellen drove the donkey back to the station house.

The metal was smooth, the forging done well enough to keep any pits from marring the surface of the blade. It had been oiled recently, an unctuous film coating her finger as she stroked the length of steel. Ripka sniffed the smear on her finger and frowned when she did not recognize the scent. Where had these weapons come from? And why so many? Importing weapons was not illegal in Aransa, but clearly someone wanted to avoid raising suspicions.

Someone. Hah. She knew full well who had done this, even if she couldn't prove it.

“Captain.” Taellen's voice drifted back, soft and uncertain.

“Yes, watcher?”

“How'd you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he was a sensitive… That there was even sel in the liquor.”

She smiled to herself. “Simple observation. As you commented yourself, the man was unusually strong.”

The watcher keeping guard alongside her snorted, shifted his weight. Ripka raised her brows at that, but the man didn't look at her, just kept his gaze tight on the prisoners. As he should. And yet… Something in the stance of his shoulders, in the purse of his lips, set her ill at ease. What was his name, Jetk? She shook her head. The Watch was getting too big – too fragmented.

“Oh. Thought you might be sensitive yourself,” Taellen said.

A cold knot formed in Ripka's belly. “No. Not even a little bit. Don't forget it.”

Taellen grunted apology, but Ripka couldn't shake the serpents of dread worming their way into her thoughts. The last time someone had accused her of being sensitive she hadn't been able to prove otherwise. It was so obvious to her, the way sensitives worked. Illusions broke down under hard scrutiny, subtle movements gave away attempted mirror manipulations.

She never could understand how anyone else didn't see it. But after rumors began to spread through the Brown Wash that she was hiding sensitivity her fights had grown more violent, the crowd's taunts more pointed. No one had a kind word for the woman they thought was shirking the duty that bound their own loved ones.

The second night she'd left the ring to find some flea-bitten bastard waiting for her in the alley with a broken bottle and lungful of curses, she'd taken her prize purse and left the Brown Wash behind, joining Faud's mercenaries on the long caravan to Aransa.

She clenched her fist on the blade's grip, watching her knuckles grow so pale the scars didn't show. In Aransa, she was watch captain, not some cracked-toothed fighter living from purse to purse. She had sway here. Allies. And it was true, anyway – she was no sel-sensitive. They'd believe her.

Chapter 8

B
y the time
he returned to the bath their salt brick was halfway gone. Detan eased himself into the hot water and tipped his head back with a hearty sigh.

“You look right pleased with yourself.”

“I am right pleased, old chum. This is a lovely establishment Lord Tasay has left us. Shame his line died out, or Thratia wouldn't be able to muss it all up by angling to get herself elected warden.”

“Right,” Tibs drawled, “because the rule of heirship has worked out so well for the other landed families and their cities.”

Detan scowled and scratched the Honding brand seared into the flesh of the back of his neck, deciding to ignore Tibs's dig.

“Now,” he scooped up the little bell and gave it a good, bold ring, “where is that New Chum? Somebody drank all our booze and I've worked up quite a thirst.”

The steward came loping down the hallway, a bottle in one hand and a cheese plate in the other. Detan gave Tibs a triumphant grin, but the codger just rolled his eyes. Not a fan of subtlety, his wiry old mechanic.

“Would sirs care for another drink?”

“You're a wonder, New Chum, a wonder!”

The steward poured out the drams and, while Detan watched, the young man's nose began to wrinkle. “Do either of you sirs smell something burning?”

Tibs gave him a glare that could cut glass, but Detan ignored it and leaned forward over the edge of the tub, sniffing the air. “I do! Is that normal?”

With a face like an undercooked fish, the steward set the bottle and cheese down and scrambled to the end of the walkway. He stuck his head over the edge and peered about while Detan downed a few of the cheese bits. Tibs followed his lead. He'd never been the type to turn down a free plate.

“There's something burning on one of the vents!” The steward pointed and Detan dragged his gaze along the man's finger as if he hadn't known where he'd be pointing. He let loose with what he hoped was a heart-broken screech and leapt to his feet, sending bath water flying in all directions.

“My hat!”

Tibs got the picture then, and lurched to his feet. “
My
hat!” But his mouth was full of cheese, which rather ruined the effect.

Regardless, Detan thought they both looked positively dashing as they leapt from the bath and snatched up their towels. With a hasty wrap for modesty, they charged down the perilous steps, the steward nipping at their heels, and spilled out into the dangerous terrain of the venting ground. Detan hesitated, drawing back an anxious step and chewing on his lip.

“Follow me, sirs, the way is treacherous.”

The steward strode ahead, and Detan forced himself to check his pace as he scurried along behind. His legs were longer than the young man's, and he'd scouted the area ahead of time, but being first on the scene would let the sel out of the sack and bring the whole thing crashing down in a hurry.

When they finally made it to the vent in question, Detan pushed ahead of the steward and grabbed up his hat. Tibs's hat. Detan was rather fond of the old thing, so he'd left it sitting on the edge just close enough to give it a character-building singe.

“Someone has burned our clothes!”

“It must have been a mistake, sirs, I can't imagine that anyone here would do something like that.”

Detan floundered a little, but good old Tibs had caught up now and gotten all the gears of his mind grinding away.

“Whose vent is this?” Tibs demanded.

“Oh, well…” The steward flicked out the guest list folded in one pocket. Detan grinned, recognizing it from the pad the ticket-taker had written their names on. Perfect.

New Chum's face went fishy again. “This would be the vent below the bath of Renold Grandon and his party, sirs. The man with whom you had the small confrontation on the sel bridge.”

Detan pumped his fists in the air in victory, but he hoped it looked more like anger to the young steward. Either way, it was energetic enough to set the man reeling. “That mounded ass! Come, Tibal, let us go claim our compensation. Quickly, to the cubbies, before that demon can make off with any more of our personals!”

Allowing the steward to presume he had learned the way from their walk to the vent, Detan shoved the singed hat on his head and charged off through the craggy ground after the culprits.

The timing was sweet as sel wine. Just as Grandon and his group arrived and began to attire themselves, Detan and his entourage of two burst in upon them.

“You!” He pointed a quavering finger at the man, making his eyes wild and wide.

Grandon looked up, yawned, and began toweling off his feet. Detan rather wished he'd left the towel where it was, but he was on a roll now and not about to stop for modesty's sake.

“You bulbous, petty thief!”

That got his attention. The granite-fleshed man secured his towel and crossed his arms under what, Detan was disturbed to realize, were the male equivalent of bosoms.

“Are you accusing me of something, little man?”

“You and your foul aficionados stole my and my man's clothes and tossed them to the vents!” He pointed at the singed edge of his hat. “This dear old thing barely escaped your brutality.”

Grandon grunted. “If your clothes were burned it was probably because the cleaning staff thought they were rags. You have no proof.”

“Proof! I have all I need!” He took the hat off and waggled it at Grandon. “No one would be stupid enough to go to the vents without a guide.”

“A terribly stupid thing to do indeed, sirra.”

“Yes. As I was saying, no one would
brave
the danger of the vents alone, and therefore you and your gaggle are the only ones who had access to the thing! A simple task, to tip them over the edge from your tub.”

“He does have a point, sir,” the steward said, and Detan jumped a bit because he'd damned near forgotten New Chum was standing right smack beside him.

“A point? That rat? Do you have any idea who I am?” Grandon hauled himself up to his full height and pinched his face in a way that might have looked hawkish on a narrower man, but in truth just ended up looking constipated.

“I reckon you're Renold Grandon.” Detan tapped the guest list poking out of the steward's breast pocket. “Like the paper says.”

“You're blasted straight I am! Got a ten percent ownership in Aransa's selium mine, and I will not be treated like this by some withered example of wormwood.”

Detan re-adjusted his slipping towel. He was not about to back down on account of an accurate insult.

“And do you have any idea who I am, Grandon?”

“Oh, sirra, I don't think that's really nec–”

He shushed Tibs with a wave of his hand. His heat was up again, something about this fellow just didn't sit right in Detan's mind, and some things were worth sticking your neck out over. Things like his own sorry pride.

“Yes, I do.” Grandon smirked.

He swallowed. Had he miscalculated? Had he swindled this overinflated sack in the past? Is that why he got his goat up so easily?

“Oh yes.” Grandon trudged forward and stabbed a finger at Detan's chest. “I know your type, boy. You spend your time slithering about the downcrust scraping together coin from sap to sap until you've got enough in your filthy fist to think you can make it up here with the Right Sort. Well, you've pushed the buttons on the wrong man, you swine. I will have you run out on the Black Wash with the morning sun for the mild inconvenience you've caused me and mine. You understand? I will see you
burn
for wasting my time.”

Detan put his hand out and laid it flat on the big man's chest. He quirked a smile, saw Grandon's confusion, and gave him a light shove. Grandon had to either take a step back, or topple.

He stepped back.

“So. You don't know who I am.”

Grandon opened his mouth, but Detan stepped toward him and Grandon gulped air as he took another step back to avoid coming chest-to-chest with him. Rage colored his cheeks and chest like an allergic reaction. Detan pressed on before he could recover his momentum.

“My name is Detan Honding.” He shoved a hand out. “And the pleasure's all mine, Grandon.”

The big man narrowed his eyes at the extended hand. His friends went quiet. “You're not a Honding.”

“Check the guest list.”

“You lied on it.”

Detan sighed and turned around. He caught Tibs's eye as he turned, and he had his lips pressed together like it was the only thing keeping him from using some mighty cruel words. Oh well. He was in it now.

He reached back and lifted the hair that hung above the nape of his neck. There, burned in white scar flesh with puckered pink edges, was his family crest. A pickaxe and sword, crossed over the full sail of an old sea ship with the three stars of the landed below. A bit redundant, those landed stars, as the Honding family had been the first of them all to claim land rights on the Scorched. They'd earned it, the whole damned continent, by finding the secret veins of selium gas with sensitives they didn't even know they had.

“Thought all but Dame Honding died off. Thought her nephew died in a mining accident,” Grandon croaked. It was a lame protest. There were people who would fake a crest, sure, but not a Honding one. There were easier things in the world to pretend to be.

“Sorry to disappoint you then, Grandon, but here I am.”

Grandon wasn't a landed man, but he knew his manners. He backed off with a grumbled apology.

“Now, the steward here is going to have a look around your cubbies. If you're clean, then we'll forget about all this. If not, well, we'll work that out when we come to it.”

The steward glided forward as if shaking down one of the wealthiest men in all Aransa was just another daily toil, and gave a good and thorough search of Grandon's cubbies and all his accomplices. Out came Detan's fine leather money pouch, and then Tibs's cloth pouch stuffed with Ripka's.

Tibs gave him a hard look as he took his pouch back, no doubt wondering just what in the fiery pits Detan's plan had been if they'd ended up losing all their money and the stall tab for their flier. It seemed to Detan he couldn't rightly complain. They'd gotten it back, after all.

“We have robes you can borrow,” the steward said. “Until the watch captain gets here to take your statements. I will order some new clothes for you right away, sirs.”

“No need to get the Watch involved, but I won't be the one wearing the loaner robe.” He grinned over at the steward. “You handy with a needle and thread, New Chum?”

“Yes, sir.”

T
he steward sent
Grandon and his companions on their merry way with nothing more than a thin robe each to their names. At least they smelled fresh, and Detan figured they might think twice before messing with a dirty sod next chance they got. He sighed. More than likely they'd go whining to their friends about those bully Hondings. He clenched his jaw. It's not like his aunt would ever hear about it, and people probably wouldn't believe them anyway. They'd think he'd just gone and got himself swindled by an imposter.

Which was half right.

“Hold still, sir.”

Detan grumbled as he forced himself to stand still. It wasn't easy with Tibs glaring at him like that, but even old Tibs had to admit he looked good in his new ensemble. Grandon's friends had sported some pretty refined taste, and one had been remarkably close to Tibs's measurements. Only Detan needed the adjusting – he'd always been weirdly narrow in the shoulders compared to other men his size. He figured it made him better at getting out of tight spots. Or into them.

“You know we can take your measurements and send for a whole new set of clothes, sir,” the steward mumbled around the pins held between his lips.

“It's the principle of the thing, New Chum. I want Grandon and his pals to see me strutting about in their own suits. Serves 'em right. And anyway, these seem fresh made.”

And their inner pockets were stuffed with tickets to Thratia's fete. Tickets Grandon and his chums had gone and forgotten all about when they'd realized they'd be marching home in loaner robes.

“I suppose they were made for the party tonight, sir. We've been busy all day with people coming in to get cleaned up for it.”

“It's a fete, New Chum. Parties are for toddlers and drunk academy kids.”

“I'm afraid I don't see the difference, sir.”

“Fancier booze.”

The steward's smile was dangerously wide, pins drooping from the corners. “Will you be going, sir?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Tibs crossed his arms and snorted. As the steward leaned downward to pull a stitch tight on the cuff of Detan's new trousers, his shirt slipped, once more revealing the hint of a snake's back wending its way over the steward's shoulder. He bit his tongue, recalling Tibs's admonishment to let the poor lad be, then said anyway, “What's with the pet viper, New Chum?”

The poor steward jerked upright, sticking his thumb with the needle, and scurried back a step. Eyes darting, he shoved his thumb in his mouth to suck the blood – or, no, Detan realized. The man wasn't licking his wounds, he was using the prick as an excuse to stall for time while he thought through what to say. Detan grinned.

“Come now, what's a reptile between friends?”

New Chum straightened his collar and regained his composure so quickly it made Detan dizzy. “It is the mark of poor decisions in my past,” the steward said as he floated forward to take up the hem once more, studiously avoiding all eye contact.

“That's a Glasseater's mark,” Tibs drawled, and Detan watched in amazement as the steward's shoulders drew in with shame. Detan scowled across the steward's bent back at Tibs. Curse him and his leave-the-lad-be nonsense, he'd been holding out on Detan – had known all along the lad was sporting criminal ink.

BOOK: Steal the Sky
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