Steal the Sky (14 page)

A little puff of dust wafted up. The proprietor didn't seem to notice.

“Excuse me.” Detan cleared his throat and the proprietor looked up from his accounts. He was a man of middling years with hair gone all to ash and his cheeks gaunt from a steady diet of spicewine and more spicewine, judging by the smell of him. He peered up at them from his little alcove, squinting against the low lamplight so that his brow and cheeks wrinkled right up and covered his eyes.

“What?” he said.

“Upon careful purview my companion and I have discovered that the contents of our acquired place of rest have gone missing.”

“
What
?”

“Our flier's gone.” Detan sighed and slapped the ticket stub for the pen on the desk. “And our account is paid in full, I assure you.”

The proprietor squinted over the desk at the stub and smacked his lips. “Number eight-six, eh. Yeah, your man came and picked that wreck up earlier today, round lunch hour. Said to thank you kindly fer it and give you this.”

Gnarled and smoke-stained fingers passed a folded slip of paper across the desk. Detan snatched it up and danced away from the proprietor, turning the paper over to make out the droopy wax seal. Despite an overabundance of wax muddying the details, the family crest was clear enough in the crimson globule. It was just too bad he hadn't a clue what it meant. Despite the intense education of his youth, Detan found all the iconography of the sigil a mystery to his eyes. He suspected Auntie Honding would turn her nose up at it as a gaudy example of the peacocky nature of the new-rich.

“Go on,” Tibs urged.

Detan broke the seal and flipped the thick, cream-hued paper open. Tibs crowded him, peering over his shoulder to get a better look.

Dear idiots,

I have taken your heap of a flier in trade for the clothes you wrongfully acquired this evening. The thing is such a wreck that I hardly think the trade fair, but I suspect you possess nothing of equal or greater value in all the world. I suppose after some much needed repair it will make a suitable gift for my daughter's birthday.

Regards,

Renold Grandon

A cold shiver of rage added a tremble to Detan's fingers, and he was annoyed to see the paper shake with it. As his anger mounted, his senses widened. Awareness of all local sources of sel bled into his mind. A little stash behind the proprietor's counter – probably infused in alcohol – a great pool of it in a nearby buoyancy sack, no doubt a part of a neighbor's flier. Their presence called to him, cloying and hot, an inviting outlet for his fury. Detan closed his eyes, willed cool sense into the blood pounding through his body.

Beside him, Tibs chuckled.

“What's so funny?” Detan snapped, though at the sound of Tibs's amusement the rising tide of his anger crested and broke.

“Well, it's a pretty good move, don't you think? I reckon you'd do the same, if you were him.”

“Pits below, Tibs, don't encourage the man.”

“Not like he's here to hear it.”

Detan scowled, but the raw edge of rage had gone out of him. His sense of sel closed, his heart slowed its frantic pace. It was, in fact, a tidy little move. Put in the same position, he probably would have pulled something similar.

He was going to enjoy ripping it all apart.

“I say.” He whirled back upon the proprietor. “Try not to let any more strangers walk off with our things while we're out, if it's not too much trouble.”

The wiry old bastard snorted and flipped a page on his ledger. “No promises, boys. No one in Aransa who's got all their sand between their ears is going to help you against Grandon. That man keeps a grudge closer than a lover and has the grains to back up anything he wants to do. He comes back asking for your shitshorts and I'll hand 'em over with a smile.”

“Charming,” Detan muttered.

Then brightened.

“There
is
one brave soul in all Aransa willing to stand with us against Grandon.”

“Oh,” Tibs groaned. “We're going back on the ferry again, aren't we?”

Detan threw an arm around Tibs's shoulders and ushered him back out into the street. “Didn't I tell you? A lifetime's worth of goodwill!”

R
ipka sat
in a creaking chair by Galtro's low fire, watching the man bumble about the place like he was the visitor. Between them was spread a selection of Aransan street-cart delicacies. As far as Ripka could tell, the mine master's hearth didn't even have a cooking pot.

But the mug in her hands was warm with thornbrush tea and, if she were being honest with herself, her own dinner would have been comprised of street-cart foods. In fact, she knew the morsels arrayed before her well. It was nice to know that Sala on the next level up was making his pulpleaf pastries again, sticky with agave syrup. Ripka picked up a spitted wing of shaleowl, breathing deep of the peppery spices rubbed into the crisp skin.

“Who needs a wife, eh?” Ripka said around a mouthful of crunchy meat, and suppressed a grin as she watched Galtro flush. The full saying was,
who needs a wife when you've got street-carts and whores.
Language like that was forbidden to Galtro's sel-sensitives, at least while they were Hubside. She'd heard a fair share of crude things leave the miners' lips once they were back in the city, and deep in their cups; usually directed at her, after she'd herded them into a cell for the night so they wouldn't be a danger to themselves or others.

“A wife's the last thing on my mind, captain.”

“Ripka,” she corrected.

“Names matter, lass.”

She wiped grease from her fingers on a small cloth napkin. “I know it well.”

A real smile flickered across his craggy features, but only for a moment. His eyes turned down to his folded hands, his own selection of foods left to go cold.

“Feter told me nothing of worth,” he said, and the words fell like cage bars over any pleasure she had fostered.

“I see. Thank you for trying.” She swallowed hard, working the meat down a throat gone dry as the Black Wash. By the way he spoke – no preamble, straight to the point – she surmised that Feter's lack of professed knowledge was the last thing weighing down his mind. But it was, at the moment, the greatest weight upon hers.

Her whole tenure as watch captain had passed without the need of torture. Maybe the answers the woman held weren't that important. Maybe she could be left to stew in boredom on a poor bed. Maybe she'd eventually talk just to have something to do.

And maybe that would take months, and they'd all be ground under Thratia's boot by then.

After a moment's pause, Galtro rose and paced to the window. Ripka did not bother to look at the view, she knew he'd stare straight across the Black to the faint lights of the Hub clinging to the Smokestack beyond. Even at night, watchfires were left lit and guards lingered against the slim possibility of a selium thief.

No, the view wasn't what was interesting. Galtro kept his shoulder blades angled inward, his hands clasped tight at the small of his back. His chin was downcast, his gaze flitting erratically. He could not be still. His fingers fidgeted, twisting a ring on his right hand around and around. If he were in her interrogation room, she would expect a full confession any moment. And so, she did what every good investigator does. She chewed her food, and waited for someone else to fill the silence.

“Do you know why I decided to run for the wardenship?”

She had thought she did, but the reedy tone of his voice told her the answer would not be what she expected. “No.”

“I know I won't win, of course.”

“There's always a chance.”

“No, my dear. Even if the people were to vote for me en masse, it would only be a matter of time before an accident befell me. It is safer, for me, to be the clear loser, I think. That way Thratia will not fear reprisal from my supporters, because there won't be enough to pack a ferry.”

“Then why bother?” The words came out bitter and clipped. He
should
want to win. If Thratia took power, there was no telling which path Aransa would march down. Ripka was certain Thratia would be quick to dissolve the Watch and fill it with her own people. Or worse, threaten those already wearing the blues into marching to her beat. She'd already made it clear she'd raise the Hub's production quotas, putting the line workers at risk for the sake of surplus. Galtro's lack of care needled Ripka, pushed the fine edge of her temper.

Fearing what she might say next, she pressed her mug to her lips and sipped slowly, carefully, breathing deep of the steam. Giving Galtro a chance to make himself heard while she settled her irritation.

“So that the sensitives will understand that they have an advocate, a voice. Someone willing to stand up and speak for them, even if they won't be heard.”

She sat the mug down with as much care as she had used when sipping from it, and allowed her hands to curl into fists against her thighs. “The miners are the most cared-for people of any Scorched city. Food, housing, it's all seen to. Why would they need an advocate beyond what they already have?”

“They have those things because they are press-ganged.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he turned from the window and cut a hand through the air to silence her before she could begin. She sat, dumbfounded, strangely relieved. She hadn't even known what she was going to say.

“Sel-sensitives are born with a gift, yes, but due to the nature of their inheritance they are stripped of their futures. Yes, they will be cared for. Only the finest of apothiks, and the best pick of food for them. But that is a small prize in exchange for the possibilities lost. The sensitives spend their lives moving selium around, or scouting for it in the deep caves, or else traveling as diviners, rarely pilots. And that is all they will do.

“Those who spent childhoods dreaming of following in their mother's or father's stead? Forget it – it's the mines, or the ships, nothing else. Whole mercer houses have collapsed, dissolved and been divided, because all the heirs were sensitives. Pits below, Ripka, some of the more influential houses vacation back in Valathea now, to conceive their children, lest they risk birthing sensitives.

“And so they are prized, yes, but also oppressed. What do you think will happen, when Commodore Throatslitter takes control of Aransa? She has no connection to the miners herself, and she will demand higher production to help secure her position. Her blade at our throats is inevitable.”

Ripka leaned forward, dragged her fingers through her hair.

“What do you expect me to do about it? We've outlawed private militias, but some allowance must be made for personal guards. And so she keeps them, dozens of groups of armed men and women. All with different colors on their vests, sure, but all holding out their hands to the same boss. That is why I wanted… I wanted you to try. To show the city that it has other options; that it doesn't have to bow to brute power. Everyone here respects the miners, there'd be no Aransa without them and so, as the mine master–”

“Hush, girl.”

She clamped her mouth shut with a click, breaking off the rambling flow of words midstream. When had she become so needy? If Galtro didn't want this, if he feared it would bring him harm, it was not her place to thrust him forward.

“Forgive me.” She stood, back stiff despite the warmth of the hearth beside her. “I did not mean to invalidate your concerns.”

“The safety of the miners is my primary duty.”

And the safety of the entire city is mine
. She forced herself to smile, the same tight little expression she used on whining uppercrusts, and held her hand out to him. Galtro eyed it, clearly unsure of the meaning. Ripka remained still as a boulder, arm unwavering, until his cold fingers curled around hers. Cold, like hers. Some chills even the warmest of fires couldn't shake loose.

“I will see to it that the Hub receives a fresh batch of watchers in the morning. The city has been quiet, we can spare them until this is over.”

“Ripka…” He frowned at her, her transition into stiff formality placing him ill at ease. So be it.

“I will oversee the selection of personnel myself. Now, it is late, and I must see to other matters. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Before he could protest, she dropped his hand and crossed the small sitting room, out into the harsh desert night. The door snicked shut behind her, old hinges moaning their complaints. They hadn't been oiled in years, she was sure of it. She was also sure Galtro rarely slept in his state-issued home. No surprise, that. He was obviously bonded more deeply to the Hub than she had ever imagined.

Ripka glanced to the sky, trying to estimate the angle of the red face of the moon. How long had she been behind those little-used doors? The red moon's fatter, silvery sister would not rise until the monsoon season began, but that was creeping ever closer now. She had never been good at guessing the mark with only one moon to go by.

With a sigh she set off down the narrow road, residential windows black all around her. This was the level on which the miners themselves lived, their provided homes rolled into neat little lanes with uniform boxes stuffed with flowering succulents set outside each door.

But theirs were not the only state-issued homes on this level.

Ripka turned, the soft soles of her boots crunching over sandy dirt. Here and there she caught the aroma of a supper long-past lingering by darkened doorways, a sign of those few in this level who preferred to go to their rest later in the evening.

Another choice, stripped from them, just as Galtro had said. Mine work was early work, no exceptions. And so those who preferred the nights suffered, or changed. It was just too dangerous to work the lines by lamplight, and so every daylight hour became precious.

She caught herself gritting her teeth, grinding the back molars until her jaw ached. Pausing, she pulled another lump of barksap from her pocket and popped it into her mouth. It was faintly sweet and resinous, but the taste was of little consequence. She chewed the lump, working it around the back of her mouth. It was better than grinding her teeth to stubs.

At the end of the lane a house slightly larger than the others sat, its squat frame hunkered down with its back to the edge of the level. There were fantastic views from the windows in the back of that house. She'd spent many an evening holding a winecup, gazing out of those windows while Warden Faud regaled her with stories of his mercer days during the Catari war.

Complete tosh, all of it. But it had been interesting. Safe.

A ribbon of thin cloth was wound round the front gate, marking it as a crime scene forbidden to public entrance. They needn't have bothered. The story of what had become of the old warden was impossible to keep quiet. The whole city knew of Faud's dreadful end. And the whole city assumed the place haunted. Cursed.

Ripka undid the knots her own fingers had tied, and pushed the gate open. It did not squeal. Faud had been a fastidious man when it came to the upkeep of his property, and he hadn't been gone that long. Not yet.

The little front garden consisted of labyrinths laid in multi-hued stones, their winding ways punched through here and there by a stubborn succulent. Native gravel crunched under her feet. The door slipped open, the sweep of its arc clearing away a fan of dust. Faint light from the red moon filtered through the windows, casting a sickly glow over dust-smeared furniture. In Aransa, it was never long before the dust returned.

She took two steps into the sitting room and stopped. What was she doing here, anyway? They had scoured the place for any hint of the murderer's identity and motive. At will she could close her eyes and conjure up the image of Faud's sitting room, just as it was now, each detail immaculate.

Ripka let her eyes drift over the room, comparing what she saw with what she had committed to memory. A wine amphora tipped over by the couch, its contents long since spilled and sunk into the porous floor beneath the rugs. The dark stain was already moldering, making the air sour and tart. When she had first found Faud she had thought that stain was blood, but, no. There was very little blood for a murder scene.

A few droplets were sprayed across a high-backed chair. Had he been struck while sitting still, the other half of the wine already in his belly, weighing down his mind and limbs? There was no way to be sure, but the warden's lip had definitely been split. That could have been from the bellows used to force the selium down his throat, though.

She glanced to the side, allowing her gaze to linger on the murder weapon. They'd left it there after a brief examination. There was no sense taking it to a specialist to be examined. It was Faud's own bellows, kept for breathing fresh life into the fire. There was no way he could have known it would mean the end of him, those accordion wings pumping lighter-than-air gas into his steadily distending belly.

Ripka's hands clenched at her sides. If the weapon had been brought from elsewhere, then maybe…
Click.

“Easy, now.”  The voice was an eerie echo of her own. Similar, and yet richer somehow. Deeper, weary. Maybe what she would sound like in ten, twenty years' time.

She froze, fighting every instinct she'd ever cultivated to keep from diving and rolling to the side. You didn't live long in the Watch without coming to recognize the well-oiled click of a wristbow being primed. In her mind's eye a parade of every wristbow she'd ever seen rolled along, each one deadlier than the next. Compact weapons, not much for distance. The bolts were small by necessity, not allowing much tension, which made them hard to kill with.

Which meant they were usually poisoned.

Ripka held her hands out to her sides and raised them, slowly, her fingers spread.

“Move forward three steps and hold,” the woman said, her voice calm and without the slightest hint of accent.

Ripka obeyed, gaze flitting around the room to find some sort of reflective surface that might give her a hint of the woman's position. There was nothing. And even if there was, it would be dulled in dust by now.