Break the Chains

Chapter Twelve

“This is a terrible idea.” Tibs slouched, hiding his whole body in the shadow of his hat.

“So you’ve expressed. But it seems we are committed for the time being, and as such must make the best of it.”

“I believe the best of it, in this instance, would be to run away and never look back.”

Detan scoffed, but couldn’t shake a suspicion that Tibs was right. They crouched in the shadow of an awning, pretending to be just another couple of drunks out in the cold night of Petrastad, chatting off their buzz or working out where to get another.

Petrastad’s nightlife pulsed around them – subdued, but not insubstantial. Unlike the inland cities of the Scorched, Petrastad didn’t have to wait until the harsh sun had set to get its vices out of its system, and as such the nightlife was quieter than most cities of the scrubland. Which was too bad, because Detan suspected that he and Tibs could use the extra cover of a rowdy crowd.

From within the unsettlingly tall building Detan rested his back against, soft music burbled forth. Some sort of rhythmic drum-and-pipe affair, and by the sounds of the hoots and whistles accompanying it there was at least one under-clothed person involved.

Truth be told, he’d much rather join them – even if it meant he’d be the one stripping to his smallclothes – than undertake this foolish plan. But these were Pelkaia’s terms for loaning him the use of the Larkspur to collect Ripka and New Chum and, with the monsoon season fast approaching, he couldn’t allow them to wait much longer. Ripka would no doubt hang Detan by his tonsils if he left her rotting in the Remnant any longer than required.

He tried to put Ripka out of his mind, though he imagined he could feel her narrow, almond eyes boring holes into the back of his neck. New Chum, at least, would have the decency to ask him which body part he wanted to be hung from.

Down the street a little ways the road widened, emptying out into a bulb-shaped courtyard. In the center a tiered fountain tooted dual jets of water, a gross display of Petrastad’s overabundance in that particular resource. A planter ringed the fountain, thick with flowers rare to the Scorched. The whole courtyard was dotted with trees and benches meant to shade weary citizens.

Detan eyed those trees, suspicious. Birds probably roosted in them, ready to shit on any unsuspecting shade-partaker. Not to mention the bugs. A tree like that could host an army of the crawling bastards. He’d much rather take his rest under the shade of a nice, wide awning. Or the shelter of a lovely woman’s shared parasol.

At the blunt end of the courtyard, a building hunkered. Its front portico was low and single-stepped, lined with fluted columns of grey stone that looked distinctly out of place amongst the muted browns and reds the Scorched usually had to offer. The sigil of the Imperial Fleet was carved in thick grooves above the building’s wide, double doors, the grooves themselves stained with black ink. The whole affair very nearly screamed municipal.

A single guard lounged outside the door. He leaned against the wall and smoked a rolled cigarillo, his shoulders hunched against the sea breeze. Detan could sympathize. The man’s job wasn’t an exciting one. The building he watched over was a Fleet administration office – containing records, maps, payment boxes for Fleeties too far afield to be given their pay directly.

And weapons. Lots and lots of weapons.

No one in their right mind would try breaking into a place like that. Unfortunately for Detan, Pelkaia had never seemed particularly in a healthy mental state of being. And he really, really needed the use of her airship.

“I could just steal the Larkspur again,” he muttered.

“That worked so well last time.”

A gust of wind snapped across his cheek, stinging it cold, as if the weather itself were urging him to hurry on. Ripka and New Chum were waiting.

“Shall we check round back, then?” Detan asked, shaking out his legs to get some warmth back into them. After all of this was done, he’d be finished with coastal cities for the rest of his life.

“I don’t know, shall we?” Tibs said, his voice raised with a mocking edge. Detan scowled at him and stalked off, wending his way to the back of the Fleet building without making the path look too direct.

Sneaking, misdirection. These were things he could do. Had done a hundred times a hundred over. They strolled up alongside a residential building. All the shutters were drawn and thin cracks of light leaked out like tears along the rough walls. A broad road separated the back of the Fleet building from the residential block, its face worn through with countless crisscrossing wheel ruts. A heavy, metal set of double doors faced them, a single guard looking as bored as the first lingering beside them. The door’s hinges were large, but supported by wood framing. A weak point. If he could wedge some sel in there he could blow them wide. Just as Pelkaia had said.

Trouble was, he didn’t trust himself to just blow the hinges, let alone the doors, and with the guards involved… He wasn’t a fighting man, and he’d never been one to bloody a nose that didn’t earn it. Maybe they could distract the guard, draw him away before the fireworks started.

“Tibs, could you–”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

Tibs yanked his hat down to hide his eyes. “Don’t need to. I know what you’re thinking. I go cause a ruckus off on some side street and that guard, bored as he is, figures he better go check it out. And then you shift a little sel over there, blow the hinges, run in and… what? You don’t know what’s on the other side. Could be nothing. Could be a person. Could be the weapons are behind another locked door and you’ll have to blow that, too. And then you’ve used the power twice and I pitsdamned know how hard it is for you to keep it under wraps once. And the guards will come running at the noise – and then what? Going to blow your way free of them, too? And how are you going to get the weapons out, just on your lonesome? Even if they’re conveniently loaded on a cart, you got arms like toothpicks and legs to match. You’re not haulin’ ’em anywhere on your own.”

Detan gripped the air, as if he could grasp an idea out of the chilly night. “Pelkaia said this was the way – that her people would come at the sound of the explosion and load it all out. We don’t do this, we don’t get the ship, and Ripka–”

“Ripka would take your eyes out through your mouth for what you’re planning on.” Tibs jabbed Detan’s forehead with his finger and scowled. “You spent years keeping that sands-cursed power of yours under wraps, and just because Pelkaia told you to use it you’re going to hop to it? When you’re at your most unstable? She said get the weapons. Said her people would come when they heard a blast to help load ’em out. That is what you have to work with, and this plan ain’t what we do. So you best figure out another way, because I’m mighty thin of patience.”

Detan’s temper flared, rage bubbling up through his veins like a kettle ready to blow its lid and hiss at the world at large. He became acutely aware of the pouch of selium Pelkaia had given him to do the work with. The shape of it, the bloated cloud contained within a thin leather sack tied to his belt and the inside of his jacket to keep it from floating off or wrenching his clothes askew.

Maybe it was his imagination – he hoped it was – but the substance called to him, luring, siren in its possibilities. Its potentiality. It would be so easy to give up his anger, to shunt it aside into that cloud of gas and watch it tear itself apart. The impending satisfaction of that moment thrilled through him, tingling him straight down to his toes.

He wouldn’t be able to control it. It would rend both he and Tibs – and the whole of the apartment building behind them – to dust and ashes.

Tibs flicked him between the eyes.

“Right…” He breathed out the word, relaxing his fists. Awareness of the bladder of selium faded. “Right.”

“Good.” Tibs stepped back, folding his arms. “So, what’s it going to be?”

“Tibs, my old chum.” Detan slung an arm around the dusty man’s shoulders. “We’re going to need some new coats, and I know just the place.”

Their new uniforms stank of stale ale and some pungent smokable that appeared to be all the rage amongst the Remnant guards. Detan hoped it would at least add an air of authenticity to their costumes, because it wasn’t doing anything at all to help the air in general.

“You reek,” Tibs said, plucking at Detan’s sleeve with a grotesque curl to his lip.

“You reek.”

“I think you reek enough for the both of us.” Tibs shoved his hands in his pockets. His expression twisted. Slowly, he drew one hand out and held it up to the faint streetlight. His fingers were coated in something brown and sticky, twisted filaments sticking up in all directions. A distinct aroma clouded around his fingers, mimicking the char-and-smoke scent that already clung to the coats. The source of the guards’ new smokable.

Slowly, deliberately, he wiped his fingers off on the hem of his coat. Detan’s lunch threatened to revolt.

“Ugh,” he said.

“Well,” Tibs drawled, “now we know what it looks like in the raw.”

“Wish we didn’t.”

“Me too. Me too.”

They’d been lucky on their return visit to Lotti’s card room. The late mark meant all the regulars were already deep in their cups. The crowd was split between those desperate to win back what they’d lost, and those manic with success. No one had an eye for the pegs the coats were dangling from, and even the bouncer had been off on some other errand. Probably kicking someone who’d taken losing a little too close to heart out of the building.

They were, however, not quite as lucky with the guards at the Fleet’s weapon cache.

The man guarding the back door had drifted off to sleep – making him an unlikely mark. Detan’d often found it was a might more difficult to convince a man of your good intentions when you’d roused him from a nap.

The other, who was meant to be minding the front door, was much more interested in the young woman who’d come to pay him a visit. They stood with their bodies angled close together, the woman’s clothing and face hidden by a long, dark cloak. Probably she’d slipped out from under the eye of a maid, or a mother, to make this rendezvous. From the way they were carrying on, Detan was quite sure she wasn’t supposed to be out. No one took that much delight in a midnight conversation unless it were a forbidden one.

“What do you think, Tibs? Shall we interrupt new love, or a nice rest?”

Tibs hmmed to himself. They’d returned to the awning down the street from the courtyard, letting the shadows do half the work of making them invisible, their uniforms doing the other half. No one bothered Fleet guards in Petrastad. Not so close to Remnant, where any enemy of the empire could be chucked at a moment’s notice.

“Love, I think,” Tibs said. “Give the young man a chance to show off how important he is.”

Detan grinned. “Now that, I like.”

He tugged the collar of his new coat straight and took off down the street with a military swagger, careful not to let his hands drift too near his pockets. The guard’s attention was riveted upon his lady; he did not so much as glance at the two men walking straight toward him. Detan grimaced. The last thing he needed was to surprise the lad and put him on edge.

He whistled a soft, merry tune, and when the man picked his head up and looked his way Detan smiled and waved as if delighted to see an old friend.

“Ho there!” Detan called as he jumped up the short, low step with Tibs fast on his heels. The woman sidled sideways, quick as a rockcat, to put the young man between them. She had a small face, making her eyes look unnaturally large and expressive. That was the gaze of a frightened woman. No – wait – this woman was excited. Thrilled, even, by the prospect of danger. Detan could work with that.

“Are you in charge of things tonight?” Detan asked the young guard. He was a good half-hand shorter than Detan, so Detan worked up a slouch to make him feel taller, more in control. Uneven stubble sprouted across the lad’s cheek and jaw, and he pushed his chest forward as he gave them a curt nod.

“I am. I am Captain Allat. What can I do for you…?” He raised his brows, leaving an opening for Detan to supply a name.

He didn’t have one. His go-to alias, Dakfert, he’d already used with the guard whose coat he might be currently wearing. Didn’t do to use the same alias twice with the same set of people, not unless he wanted them to start making connections – and he certainly didn’t.

Keeping his affable smile plastered on, he searched his surroundings for inspiration. Pillars, some awnings, a shrubbery…

“Pilawshru–” Tibs elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted, coughed, and offered up a sheepish grin. “Name’s Step Pilawshru.” He stomped one foot on the step for emphasis. “Like the real thing. And this here’s, uh, Brownie Pilawshru. We’re brothers.”

He slung an arm around Tibs’s shoulders and squeezed him close, cutting off another of the man’s jabs to the ribs.

The woman narrowed those large eyes at him. “Odd names,” she said.

“Ruma, that’s unkind.” Allat’s protest was a lame one; he clearly agreed.

“Ah, well,” Detan smiled so hard he hurt his cheeks. “Mom was a bit, you know,” he twirled a finger through the air by his temple. “Special. Yeah?”

“My apologies, Step, Brownie.” Allat bowed his head. Such a formal young lad.

“Worry not, brother-at-arms! My mother’s disposition is no fault of yours. Now.” Detan released Tibs and clapped his hands together, rubbing them. “Maybe you can help us out. Ole rockbrain here–” he thumped Tibs lightly on the back of the head, “–has gone and lost his baton. We’re due to report for the ship-out to the big ‘R’ in the morning, and the captain is sure to wring Brownie’s scrawny little neck if he doesn’t have his poker.”

Allat squinted, no doubt trying to wend his way through Detan’s barrage of half-comprehensible jargon. Detan may not have known much about guarding, well, anything, but he knew full well that anyone in a Fleet uniform was likely to use some sort of mystical vocabulary that only half-sounded like Valathean.

It worked.

“I’d love to help you out, but the vault’s locked down. Business hours, and all that.”

Detan whistled low and punched Tibs in the shoulder. “Tole you you were doomed.”

Allat shifted his weight. “If you come back in the morning…”

“No time for that, I’m afraid. Gotta be lined up before the sun’s pissing the sky yellow. Begging your pardon, miss.” He pretended to look abashed and tipped his head to Ruma. “Soldiery talk is hard to abandon, you understand.”

Ruma reached out one small, blessed hand and squeezed Allat’s upper arm. “Oh, do help them. He can’t help it he lost his baton, why I’d lose my own hair if it weren’t attached. Can’t you let them in? You do have the keys, don’t you?”

The noble captain shifted his weight again, pursing his lips, a furrow worming its way between his brows. Detan knew what the man must be thinking – What could go wrong? It’s just a baton. These are fellow guards. And Ruma is watching…

His hand drifted toward his pocket, where the curved line of a keyring pressed against his imperial-issue trousers. Detan stifled a smirk. Too easy.

“We’ll make it quick,” Allat said, almost to himself, as he slipped the key into the great door’s lock and clicked it over.

“Quick as lightning!” Detan agreed, crowding up behind him as the door began its ponderous swing inward.

And that was when the screaming from the back door began.