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Authors: Megan E. O'Keefe

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BOOK: Steal the Sky
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“It's crossed,” the steward blurted, shifting his shirt aside so they could see the thick black line running through the snake's body. “I'm not associated with them anymore.”

“Not a friendly bunch, Glasseaters,” Detan spoke with care, watching the muscles of the steward's back bunch with growing tension. “What do they control nowadays?” He looked at Tibs, brows raised. “Selling mudleaf?”

“And a handful of cardhouses,” Tibs amended.

“Not a lot of work there for a nice young man such as yourself.”

With a heady sigh the steward pulled the last stitch taut and rose, once more straightening his shirt and jacket. “My family–” He cleared his throat. “My family has long been in service as valets to bosses of a particular nature. I declined to continue that tradition.”

“I see. Delicate information, that. Why share it with yours truly?”

The steward shifted his gaze pointedly to Detan's new pockets – pockets he'd been attempting to pick when he'd tipped the walkway with the noblebones on board. “It had occurred to me that you might be sympathetic to certain aspects of my past occupation. Sir.”

Detan grinned and clapped once. “I knew I liked you! What's your name, New Chum?”

The lad actually flushed. “Enard Harwit, sir.”

“Oh. Ah. I see. Shall we stick with New Chum, then?”

“That would be acceptable.”

“Marvelous.” Detan jumped down from the dais and clapped him on the back. “You've been a treasure! Here you are.” He pressed some gold into his hand from the stash he'd taken out of Grandon's lady's pockets on the walkway. “Treat yourself, eh? And thank you for taking care of an old Honding.”

“It's been an honor, sirs.”

Detan could tell by the gleam in his eye the poor sod really meant that. He felt a twinge of guilt, then turned on his heel and hurried out.

When he and Tibs were back on the solid rock of Aransa, the old rat gave him a sturdy punch in the arm.

“You're a mad bastard, Honding.”

“Pits below!” He jumped and rubbed at the ache. “I was perfectly safe navigating the vents. I got a good look at them from above.”

“It's not the vents I'm on about,” Tibs said as he marched ahead, taking the lead back into the winding ways of the city. Detan reached up to ruff his hair in frustration, then shook himself and scurried to catch up. Dusk was descending over Aransa, the purple-mottled sky making Tibs little more than a silhouette before him. He stomped with every step he took, wiry fingers curled into knobby fists at his side. Detan slowed his steps and shoved his hands in his pockets, ducking his head down like a whipped dog.

“Is it the clothes?” Detan ventured, “Because, well, I figured that–”

“Nope, that ain't it either.”

“Er. Well…”

Tibs stopped cold, pinning Detan down with his gaze as easily as he'd drive a nail through a board. “Dame Honding is going to hang you from your toenails, using your name with just anyone like that.”

“Oh! That. Well, it is
my
name, Tibs.”

“You had better write her a letter, sirra, before the rumors get back.”

Detan sighed and sat down hard on the top of a low, stone fence, heedless of the dust that undoubtedly coated his backside now. “I suppose. Wouldn't want the old badger to worry, eh?”

“I suggest you do not address it to ‘the old badger'.”

“She'd laugh!”

“She'd fly right out here and beat you with her parasol.”

Detan broke a small rock from the fence and hucked it half-heartedly at Tibs, who stepped nimbly around it. There was still a bit of stiff anger in his posture, a crease of annoyance around his eyes. Detan took a slow breath, and probed.

“Isn't just the name, is it?”

Tibs stared at some distant point over his shoulder. “Grandon needled your temper, and your first instinct was to reach for
it
. You losing control?”

It. His sel-sense. Didn't need to say the words out loud – not on the street, anyway, not where they ran the risk of being overheard. Tibs's head tilted, his gaze skewing toward the edge of the city, toward the Smokestack, that great firemount from which Aransa mined all its selium gas. Whole lotta' sel in the city, and not just in ships. Walkways and jewelry, booze and fairycakes. All were laced with the stuff. He could feel its ubiquitous presence, if he let himself open his senses. A grey buzz in the back of his mind, like a swarming of locusts.

It'd be one thing, if he were just hiding his sensitivity to avoid working the mines or the ships. But his own flavor of sensitivity – deviant, as the empire and its whitecoats called it – could be just as destructive as that locust swarm, if he let his temper slip.

He slammed his senses shut, forcing mental barriers into place even as he plastered a goofy smirk onto his chapped lips and laid a hand against his collarbone as if deeply taken aback. “Me? Lose control over that worthless dune slide? Perish the thought!”

There was a smile back in the corner of Tibs's mouth, little more than a shriveled curl, but that was the best Detan could hope for.

“Now, let's go make use of these tickets, eh?” Detan ventured a grin.

“Tickets?”

“Check your interior breast pocket, my good man.”

Tibs poked one finger into the fine linen, then hit him with another surly glare. They were fine tickets, he'd snuck a peek while changing. Thick paper with Thratia's name in big, embossed letters. There was no way Tibs could miss it.

“You expect me to believe you did all that for tickets?”

“Well, and the clothes. I did promise you a feast tonight.”

Tibs scowled. “And is there a reason you couldn't have just filched them when you were busy rummaging through their pockets on the walkway?”

Detan pulled open the breast of his jacket to display the inner pocket where the ticket was stowed and gestured to the oversized bone button holding it shut.

“They were kept behind buttons, Tibs. Buttons! Sweet sands, but I hate buttons.”

Tibs sighed as he turned to go. “You really are terrible at this,” he muttered under his breath. Detan smiled to himself as he followed his old friend out into the deepening dark.

Chapter 9

E
ven from their narrow vantage
, hunkered down under the shadow of a recessed doorway across the street, Detan could tell that Thratia was a woman of fine taste in parties and in guards. The whole of her compound was alight with oil lanterns slung from the eaves, hired hands keeping a careful eye on the flames as they wavered in the dry breeze. The great stone wall that encircled her abode had one side of its black iron gate propped open, three guards with seven facial scars between them keeping an eye on the ticket checkers and guests alike. It all would have been simple as sand in their new suits with their official tickets, if those rats weren't checking for family crests.

“Chances of admittance do not look good,” Tibs said. “There's no way Thratia put the Honding family on the nice list.”

“I'm aware of my familial peculiarity, old chum, but thanks for the chin-up.”

“My job's to keep the ship buoyant, not your spirits.”

“Oh? And where is this buoyant ship you speak of?”

Tibs went quiet, and that was all right by Detan's thinking. He was, after all, trying to concentrate, and the prattle of his erstwhile companion was most distracting. On the other side of the great wall, Detan's extended senses could just pick up hints of selium.

Thratia was a grand host, and she had provided floating dining tables for the favorites of her guests to dine upon. There appeared to be a few of the platforms meandering the garden, not yet burdened with the bustles and bootstraps of the noblebones, and he was having a pit of a time finagling one nearer. They remained stubbornly just beyond his natural reach. He could strain himself, but not without risking the fine edge of his control. He hissed through his teeth in frustration.

“Come on then, let us have a closer look at the festivities.” Detan tried to keep his voice light, but he knew Tibs would see through to the strain of his annoyance.

Tibs's face soured, but he fell in step and slunk along beside him. Thratia hadn't made any effort at all to blend in with the local residents. Her compound was bigger than any normal house had a right to be, and as such she'd had to stick it in amongst the warehouses, claiming their superior infrastructure better suited her needs. Clever little witch. It also put her stronghold right in the heart of the city's commerce, and Detan would bet his own shorthairs there wasn't a deal that went down in the whole of Aransa she didn't have her spidery eyes on.

Clever or not, the neighborhood was a right peach to sneak around in. Great shadows extended from the eaves of overlarge buildings, and as the sun was long since set the only establishments with any life and light in them were those who served cheap, hard brews. And what would you care about a couple of men slinking around in the dark if you had a pitcher of liquid fire to yourself?

Detan allowed his senses to guide him, homing in on the one dining platform that was set further off from the others. He only stepped in a foul puddle once.

Twice.

“Here's the place,” Detan said as he shook out a disturbingly damp pant leg.

It was a good spot, generally speaking, in that it was well shadowed and smelled of piss in the way only a secretive alley can. It was particularly good for him, because hovering on the other side of that thick stone wall was the object of his sensory affection. It occurred to him then, that even if he could get the thing to come up to them, they had no way of getting up to the top of the wall to meet it. He could bring it back down the other side to meet them, but that may just push his luck a tad too far.

“Huh.” He scowled at the wall, willing a solution to present itself.

Tibs cleared his throat. “Is sirra, perhaps, thinking we would have better luck if we were to climb the ladder there and join those few revelers on the roof of this establishment?”

Detan was more than a little abashed to find the roof Tibs indicated was just behind them. Its top was aglow with wavering beeswax light – the cheapest candles to be had on the Scorched – and a dozen or so malformed shadows danced and sang at the night. Not
to
the night. No, they were definitely singing
at
it. The aroma of cheap beer wafted down, along with another sickeningly familiar bouquet.

He then realized why the alley smelled of piss.

Detan grabbed Tibs's arm and hauled him out of the way just before they would have been anointed, and heard wild laughter from above.

“Hey, you two!”

Detan tipped his head up for a look, fearing another downpour, but it was only a face stuck over the edge. “Hullo!” Detan called.

“Got any beer?”

“We've got money!”

“That buys beer! Come on up!”

Detan scrambled up the ladder, Tibs quick on his heels. The rooftop party was stuffed with the type of folk Thratia might have hired to guard her doors or watch the lamps, but clearly their services had not been needed this night. The young man who'd called them up staggered over and shoved out a hand, snapping his fingers. “We don't take paper tickets here, you hear?”

“Splendid!” Detan dropped a full silver grain into the man's hand.

He squinted at it.

“This real?”

“Yup.”

“Whoo! Hey, guys! We're going to Milky's tonight!”

A cheer went up, but it wasn't for Detan, it was for Milky's. Which he supposed was well deserved, as he had yet to meet a harder working bunch of girls. With the revelers' time committed for their immediate future, Detan grabbed Tibs's arm and dragged him to the edge of the roof nearest the wall.

From this new perch, he could make out the extravagant garden Thratia kept with the extra water rations she no doubt paid an exorbitant sum for, and he cursed her for having the forethought to plant a variety of thick-canopied trees just on the other side of her long wall.

“It seems Thratia was aware of this fortuitous proximity, old chum.”

“It does indeed.”

“No matter. Allow me to concentrate.”

He closed his eyes, ignoring the reek wafting up from the alley and the jeering of the revelers. He expanded his senses just to the selium in the immediate area, and found his floating dining station with ease. He nudged it, just a touch, to see if anyone had already come aboard, and found it delightfully without passengers.

“Uh, sirra…”

“Let me concentrate.”

Emboldened, he tipped the platform so that anything not anchored would slide off, and was rewarded with the platform's sudden but invigorating lift. He subdued it, listening for a cry of alarm, but heard none.

Tibs tugged on his sleeve, and he swore as he nearly lost control of the platform. He shook the old lizard off and scowled into the dark, “Keep your pants on, old fool.”

Guessing the area to be empty for the time being, he allowed the platform to drift upward until it rested just beneath the treetops and then leveled it with care. He opened his eyes and squinted into the brush.

There, he could see it. A bit of yellow-painted wood peeking between the branches.

He could also feel something rather sharp pressed against the small of his back.

“Seems to us.” Beer-laden breath wafted over Detan's shoulder. “That men in such fancy clothes would have more than one silver grain. Eh lads?”

A grumble of consent was raised behind him, a few hoots thrown in for good measure. With his hands up to show they were empty, Detan turned around very, very slowly. It was no less unsettling to have a knife pointed at your front than to have it sneak up behind you. He tried an affable grin. The young man appeared rather unimpressed.

“Hand it over.”

Detan edged back a step, sweat dampening his back while he strained to hold the platform and keep his guts in his belly. “Now, now, we're all reasonable gentlemen here, and I've got it ready, Tibs.”

“Don't you fucking talk to him! Hand it over!”

“'Bout time,” Tibs said.

He grabbed the front of Detan's shirt and shoved.

For a moment, he thought this was the best idea Tibs'd ever had. He arced backward, huffing in fresh air while his body floated free in the endless sky. To be without tether, even without a selium craft, was beyond his imagination.

He was quickly reminded why he didn't do this kind of thing very often.

The treetops rushed up to meet him, slapping his cheeks and twisting his limbs. He wanted to cry out, but all the air whooshed from his lungs as he thunked into the selium-floated platform. In the moment of impact he almost released his hold on the craft, but pain kept him sharp and he held on.

Tibs landed beside him with a grunt, looking quite a bit better for having suffered the same experience. Detan rolled to his back with a groan and glared up at him.

“How'd you avoid the branches, Tibs?”

“I let you go first.”

Tibs gave him a hand up, and Detan grinned as he gave him a playful slug in the shoulder. Crafty bastard.

Refocusing his sel-sense, he forced the platform down, drifting lazily toward ground. As they drew closer, he could make out patterns in the rocks below, different colors of stones raked with care. Well, except for the spot where he'd dumped the platform's table and other accoutrements. Broken wood marred the design, twisting what he thought might have been a fish into some sort of nightmare creature.

When he heard guards start to raise the alarm nearby, he let his control drop and nearly let his stomach slip his lips as the whole thing clattered to the ground faster than he'd expected. Must have damaged one of the buoyancy sacks in the process, he thought, as very angry men with very long swords came rushing up.

Still better than being knifed in the gut by a petty thief.

“I say!” He leapt to his feet and shook leaves from his hair, hiding a grimace as pain lanced through his growing collection of bruises. “What sort of deathtrap is this? Can't a man have a drink with his friend without fearing mutilation? By the pits!” He swung around and hauled Tibs to his feet. “Get these blasted things fixed, you swine, or I'll report this!”

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Detan finished brushing off his stolen suit and strode right through their line as if they bothered him not a whit in all the world. In truth, his skin was crawling with the proximity of so much fine, sharp steel, but they responded to his confidence with rushed apology.

Once safely away from the guards and the wrecked platform they paused, breathed deep, then shook themselves and stood up a little straighter.

“That was a might close, sirra.”

“I felt the press myself. Shall we?”

He gestured toward the wide open doors to Thratia's compound, and they sauntered inside.

BOOK: Steal the Sky
7.42Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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