Steal the Sky (26 page)

T
hratia's compound
had gotten some life back in it, and Detan wasn't too sure that was a good thing. Fresh light speared bright and angry through all the windows, the silhouettes of armed men and women passing by them on the regular. There wasn't any pattern to it he could work out, just a frenetic sort of activity that lacked a focused, guiding hand. Just the kind of hand Thratia was supposed to be providing. Maybe he was lucky. Maybe she was still out.

“Keep your head down, eh?”

Not-Ripka nodded and turned up the collar of her shirt to hide her jawline. Not that it did her much good in being inconspicuous. Everything about the way she moved told the story of her confidence, that she was top-of-the-rock in any room she entered. The blasted woman had gotten far too good at playing the real Ripka.

Lucky for them both, the guards posted at the gate didn't seem to notice, and the guards usually posted at the big double doors weren't there at all. Once inside, they tore off down the hallway to the stairs which lead up to the dock. All the while Detan's heart thudded in his ears, warning him that they were moving too fast – someone was going to notice. Going to stop them. Going to ask questions.

Or they were expected.

Shit.

Just a few marks ago he'd have felt right at home in this sordid little game, but now that Tibs was mixed up tight in the danger all he could think about was getting gone. Shoulda' listened to Ripka the first time. Or had that been the doppel? He was starting to lose track himself.

“Whoa there.” As they topped the stairs, one of the guards he'd seen moping about the hallway earlier in the evening put an arm out, blocking his path.

Detan pulled himself up straight and tried to keep the doppel in his shadow. “What are you stopping me for? Thratia wants me locked up snug with her big balloon and if she finds me out here in the hallway pissing around with you I guarantee it'll be your nose that gets skinned.”

The sniveling little rat smirked and put his arm down. “Sure. My mistake. Allow me to escort you.”

Detan's neck went stiff and his fingertips twitched, little beads of sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. That bluster should
not
have worked. He couldn't bolt, not now, not with the doppel a step behind him and Tibs a door ahead. He tried to keep his chin up as he followed the strong-arm to the dock, but there was no keeping his gaze steady. His gaze darted around, trying to make sense of every shadow and coming up with nothing at all. He closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and stepped through to the dock.

Someone had had the fool idea of lighting lamps all around the place, and the whole thing was lit up so bright his eyes watered and his vision went muddy. While he was blinking the wet away, the strong-arm said, “I found the thieves, warden.”

They were swarmed. Before he could get his bearings straight he was thrown to the ground, the crack of his head against the floorboards bringing another burst of light to his eyes. Tears mingled with blood as he snorted and choked from a fresh nosebleed. His cheeks burned with angry heat when someone laughed.

As his vision cleared he saw the muscled hands holding him were sleeved in the slate-grey linen of Thratia's private militia, no mere thug was holding Detan pinioned against the deck. He couldn't see where the doppel had gone, but he figured she wasn't looking much better than him right now. He hoped she could keep her face together for their new company.

“I didn't steal a damned thing!” he called, blowing a rather undignified bubble of blood out of one nostril.

Someone's knee bit into his back and he grunted. With the side of his face pressed to the deck he couldn't see much of anything, but then a familiar black-dusted boot eclipsed his vision and he found himself wishing he could go back to not seeing anything at all.

“You're a thief and a liar, Honding, but you haven't stolen from me. Let him up.”

The knee disappeared and the meat-hook hands came off. He pushed himself up and wiped the smear of blood from his nose onto his sleeve. Thratia's lip curled in disgust at that, which gave him a little tingle of pleasure.

“What's this about, warden?” He laid all the saccharine respect he could over the word warden, but she was too cranked up to notice. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flush. She even had a strand of hair out of place, her knuckles gone rough and pulpy by a recent strike. He was, Detan realized, quite probably a dead man.

“What do you think?”

She pointed. Detan stared.

Out past the elegant shape of the
Larkspur
, the whole side of the Smokestack was glowing bright and angry. The flames must have gotten loose in the Hub, must have reached beyond the ready feed of wood and paper to rarer delicacies. Detan's throat went dry. Reaching up from the Hub, long arms of flame crept along the side of the Smokestack toward the divot of its mouth.

The selium pipelines were made of leather. Leather smeared with fat to proof it against the monsoon season. Ready fuel for a hungry inferno. Aransa's whole economy – done in by the flash of one measly little lantern.

“Wasn't me,” he blurted.

“Clearly.”

“Warden,” the strong-arm interjected. “It may be he was involved. Those who came across on the ferry said the watch captain had an accomplice, a lanky man. And here he has just now returned with her.”

Thratia moved so fast Detan barely saw it. She spun around and brought her hand up and down, one swift axe-blow, on the back of the strong-arm's neck. He grunted and staggered forward, eyes rolling up. The militiaman beside him grabbed him just in time to keep him from going full over the edge of the dock. Thratia didn't seem to notice the assistance. Or at least, she didn't care.

“Idiot.” There was no malice in her voice, just motherly disappointment. “This man here may be a scoundrel, but he wouldn't set light to the whole of the Hub on purpose. His heart's too soft to doom a whole city like that.” She scowled, rubbing the side of her hand. “And he wouldn't have done such a fool thing on purpose and leave his partner to rot. No, if he'd planned this little disaster he and Tibal would be halfway across the Scorched by now.”

Thratia turned away, her victim forgotten. She tucked a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear and gestured toward the ground, where a bit of not-Ripka was visible underneath the knees and elbows of a half-dozen of Thratia's people. Detan tried to muster up the nerve to be offended that Thratia had thought her the bigger physical threat, but didn't have it in him at the moment.

Tibs was still here, then. But where?

The militiamen dragged the doppel to her feet, and he was a little irritated to see that she had escaped without a nosebleed to match his own. Women, always getting unfair treatment. Her jaw was set tighter than he'd ever seen it, the tendons on either side of her neck sticking out from the strain, but she kept her mouth shut, which Detan reckoned was the wise choice given the current mood of the room.

Detan cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone light. “Speaking of that old rock, where is Tibs?”

Thratia smiled. It was horrible.

“Bring her out.”

“Her? Now, Tibs may be a little slender about the waist, but–” He swallowed his own rebuke. From amongst the crates Lady Grandon was shuffled forward, her lips hidden beneath a spit-wet rag. The lady's delicate wrists had been tied together with supple leather, her ankles little more than a hand's width apart. Her hair, so perfectly coiffed upon their last meeting, was skewed and skirling in the open air of the dock.

She held her chin high, but… her eyes. Those were terrified. Detan opened his mouth, and found no words worth saying.

“Did you think you wandered my city completely unwatched?” Thratia tsked. “Every soul you've shared more than a passing glance with, I've had noted. Every time you've exchanged words with a cart-vendor, ears I own have written them down.”

“Why?” he said, voice coming out higher than he'd intended. This wasn't right. And where was Tibs? Did he make it out?

“You carry quite the reputation. But then, so do I. Or have you forgotten?”

“Release her.” He found old strength in his voice, lost the flippant roll of syllables he employed to pull people along whatever nonsense train of thought he wanted them to follow. He knew that wouldn't work here. Not now. Not with her.

“Ah, so you do remember your teeth, lordling. I will, however, have to decline your request. You see, you've allowed me a handful of opportunities. I'm going to craft you an enemy tonight, Honding.”

“There's nothing that says we have to be enemies, Thratia, just–”

“Not us, you empty sack.”

Lady Grandon closed her eyes, gave a subtle shake of her head. Detan hadn't the slightest clue what it meant. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, physically grasping for some sort of solution, for some path out of the mire. Desperate for an option that didn't end in blood. He glanced to the doppel, found her face unreadable.

“Bel's husband is an ambitious man, I can respect that,” Thratia said, but all Detan really heard was the woman's name. Bel. Bel Grandon. He cursed himself for not knowing her better, for not understanding any of what he'd just stepped in.

Played it too loose, Honding.

The warden paced before Bel, tapping the flat of a longknife against her thigh with each step. It was the vilest weapon Detan had ever seen. Long and fire-blackened, the tip swooping up in a wicked curve. He swallowed, forcing himself to watch her face, not her blade.

“But his ambitions have led him astray. He snuggles up with the empire, giving the Valathean mercers prices he doesn't share with the Scorched. Now, I can't have that. I need his distribution network. Especially after tonight's… setbacks. And so–” She turned, pressed the tip of her knife beneath Bel's chin. “You're going to have to go my dear. I am quite sorry, but it accomplishes two purposes I cannot overlook.”

Detan lurched forward, the movement pure instinct, and found his upper arms held fast by two iron-handed men. He thrashed against them, knowing it was useless. Knowing he didn't have a chance against common street toughs in a fair fight, let alone against trained men of the commodore. Better not make it fair, then.

He opened his sel-sense wide, casting about for the tiniest sliver of the gas.
Something
he could use. The
Larkspur
's laden buoyancy sacks filled his mind, crowding out all finer sense. He couldn't even detect the thin film laid over the doppel's face. In the shadow of such a presence, he could sense nothing small enough to use. And if he reached for the
Larkspur
itself… He shivered. It hadn't come to that. Not yet.

“I will make damned sure Grandon knows whose hand murdered his wife. I will do everything in my power to turn this against you!”

Tears slipped down Bel's cheeks, her lips moved, murmuring beneath the gag. Thratia cocked her head, listening, and Detan's heart leapt. Did Bel have something to bargain with, something worth her life? She was landed by birth. It was possible.

“No, my dear. That would never work.”

Thratia leaned forward, held Bel's cheek in her empty hand, and pressed her lips to the trembling woman's forehead.

Blood erupted. Detan hadn't even seen the knife move.

Thratia stepped back, wrenched her blade free. The only sound was that of metal scraping bone. Catching, snapping. Bel's eyes rolled up, she tried to scream and a meek gurgle bubbled out of the raw maw that had been her tanned throat.

He wanted to scream for her, but he forced himself not to react. To stand still. To breathe easy. He couldn't do it, not all the way. While his legs stayed anchored and his lips slammed shut he couldn't dampen the thunder of his heart, the panting need of his breath. As if he could suck down enough air for himself and Bel both.

She fell to the ground, curled around herself. It took longer than he would have deemed possible.

“Now.” Thratia wiped her blade on a cloth a militiaman handed her. All business. “Two purposes. The first, of course, is to place her murder in your hands. My people and I will attest that Bel came over for tea and company, and got tangled up in your arrest for the arson. I will confide in Grandon that the empire knows you are dangerous, and has let you run loose too long. With his help, I will vow to hunt you down. Thus we will be united in purpose, and his love for Valathea will fade.”

Trembling shook his voice. “Two. You said two.”
Please let her death be worth more than that.

“Ah, yes. The second, is so that you will understand that I am
quite
serious.”

She waved a hand and her militia spread out, making way for poor Tibs to be brought forward. His eyes were tired, bloodshot, and he was sporting a rather fresh bruise on his right temple, but otherwise he was looking all right.

All right for a man with his wrists and ankles bound up in rope. No nice, soft leather for Tibs. Detan grimaced. Of course, Thratia wouldn't want rope to have left a mark on the lady's skin.

Tibs glanced at Bel, pressed his lips together, and nodded to himself. When he looked at Detan, his expression was smooth as obsidian, and revealed just as much.

“Hullo, sirra.”

“Hey, Tibs.” He forced his tone light, forced his eyes away from the spreading pool. “What's with the jewelry?”

“I need to make something clear.” Thratia pushed past Detan, smearing Bel's blood against his side. He turned to watch her, caught a subtle shift in her posture, a press of the side of her hand against her thigh. Against her pocket. He flicked his gaze away before she could catch him watching. He concentrated on that movement, on the position of her hand. Reached instinctively as she strode past him once more, pacing.

She was wound up so tight she failed to notice his fingers dipping into her pocket. A piece of metal. A slip of paper. Nothing obvious, nothing of use to him now. He shoved his pilfered gains into his own pocket. Tibs caught his eye. He was clearly unamused.