Steal the Sky

Chapter 10

Detan found himself stuck in a herd of uppercrust, all clumped up toward the entrance and goggling at the decorations. He didn’t mind a bit. Thratia had really put her back into it, and he wondered just how much this was about raising support and how much it was about flaunting her wealth and connections. Probably the two motives were so finely intertwined the distinction was irrelevant.

The lanterns inside were covered with thick paper, cut-outs in the shapes of those family crests which supported her throwing shadows over the partygoers. The hard stone floor thrummed with the pounding of hundreds of dancing feet and deep-throated drums. His skin prickled with the nearness of so much human energy. Somehow, she’d managed to import great ropes of green vines with crisp white blossoms and had strung them all around the railing of the second-story balcony which looked over the dance floor below.

Tibs whistled low. “Thistle blossom, those are.” He gestured to the vines. “Damn brave of her to trot those out, tastiest treat in the world to selium-addicted insects. Heard a rumor there was a hive of sel bees round here, dangerous to tempt ’em.”

“Thank you for your entomological insight, but I’m rather more interested in the disposition of the crowd than the native vermin.”

“There’s a difference?” Tibs said as the band struck up a song Detan’d never heard of. He rose to his toes and glanced about, looking for the musicians. He found them on a sel-supported stage, drifting over the dancers’ heads. Every time they passed above, the partygoers threw their arms into the air and cheered. Detan’s mouth hung open.

He hadn’t even realized there were this many noblebones in Aransa. He swept his gaze over the crowd, estimating, and decided he was right. There was no way every last body here tonight was from the privileged lot. That meant a good chunk of them were the top dogs of the downcrust. Thratia was not messing about here. She wanted every soul she could get on her side.

“Where to?” Tibs called over the thump of drums.

“Er.” He tried to get a better look at the crowd, but the band was frenzied enough to keep them moving in constant flux. Who was he looking for, anyway? He wanted to get eyes on Thratia’s flagship, not her bosom companions. What he needed now was a solid lay of the land, something he could get his teeth into.

“Let’s go up,” he yelled.

They hurried up the steps, squeezing past people who were pressed together in the dark, near-privacy of the stairwell. By the time they reached the balcony, the band had transitioned into a slower tune and the dancers swirled at a less nauseating pace. They crowded up against the balcony rail and Detan scanned the press, looking for the lady of the hour, but couldn’t spot her amongst the revelry.

“Has it occurred to you, Tibs, that this is all a bit overkill for the wooing of one city?”

“Seems the ex-commodore wants to prove she can take a city through legal channels.”

Detan frowned at that, something about it not quite sitting right in his mind. “Think she’s courting the empire? Angling to get back into their good graces?”

“Can’t imagine a woman like her would be satisfied with exile.” Tibs waved a hand through the air as he spoke as if outlining a celebratory banner. “Commodore Ganal’s Triumphant Return.”

“Charming,” Detan drawled and turned back toward the interior of the balcony, and nearly jumped out of his skin at a tap on his shoulder.

“Detan Honding.”

He spun around at the familiar voice, laced with honey-venom, and beamed into the watch captain’s scowling face.

“Hullo, Ripka.”

“Captain,” she corrected. “Where’s your better half?”

“Tibs is right–” The little devil had slunk off somewhere, leaving him alone with the law. “That rat.”

“I only see one rat here.” She snorted her derision, and Detan drew his head back at the sharp bite of wine that laced her breath. He waved the cloud away and scowled, scarcely resisting the urge to chastise her for getting drunk while they were working together.

“I thought you said I was a snake,” he muttered.

Her brows creased in mild annoyance, or confusion, he couldn’t really tell the difference when it came to her. “What? Don’t be stupid, Honding, if you can at all help it.”

He leaned forward and dropped his voice down to a sand-whisper. “Is it wise for us to be seen chatting in public like this?”

“I’d rather not chat with you at all. Just what are you doing back in Aransa?”

That was… odd. Detan frowned, squinting at Ripka’s face. With timid care he extended his senses, feeling for the presence of selium about her. It was there, but faint, hardly worth remarking on, and his abilities were so unreliable that he could just as easily be picking up on the phantom of Thratia’s ship – or any other source of selium nearby. Pinpointing tiny caches of the stuff had never been his specialty.

He tried to conjure up the memory of the way he’d seen her in the morning. Sandy hair pulled back? Yep. Grey eyes looking mighty pissed? Still got ’em. Forehead good for headbutting? Flat and affirmative. Had she had those freckles this morning?

Nope.

He poked her in the face. Nothing changed, save her expression getting darker.

“Have you lost your mind, Honding?”

Detan choked on a laugh. “No more than usual. Fancy a drink?”

“Just stay out of trouble. I have enough worries without you getting tangled up in things.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She stepped close enough for him to scent the cactus-flower extract she wore, mingled with the greasy tinge of her blade oil, and narrowed her eyes. “What have you heard?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” He gave her his winning smile, and even this Ripka seemed to hate it, which was something of a relief. “Just old nanny-gossip, you know the type. Oh, look, there’s Tibal! Tibs! Tibs old chum!”

He waved at him, but Tibs was busy chatting with a rather lovely woman in a low-backed dress. She had her back to Detan’s view, and Tibs shot him a glower over her shoulder. He didn’t seem too pleased with the lady’s company, but Detan figured anything would be a sight more pleasant than getting pinned down by Ripka Leshe. The real one, at any rate.

“Pleasure to see you again, watch captain. Have a good evening! Enjoy the party!”

He wiggled away from under her stern eye, feeling it bore a hole through him as he sauntered with affected nonchalance toward Tibs. He felt those eyes peel away and slumped with relief. He needed more time to work out an angle before he could let the real Ripka know that they were plotting to steal Thratia’s ship together. Doppels really knew how to throw a spanner in the works.

A few steps away from Tibs, and that’s when it hit him. The tall woman who was wagging in Tibs’s ear was the Lady Halva Erst. Detan recalled, with mounting horror, the iron straight edge of her back and worse, the cutting barbs that often left her lips. No wonder poor Tibs looked so sour-faced.

Three years. He couldn’t believe it’d already been three years since he last saw the stern side of her jaw, lifted in hatred as he skimped out at their engagement party. It had been regretful that matters were forced to progress to that point, but Detan had needed a foot-in at the Erst estate to pinch old Daddy Erst’s atlas. A singular work, that atlas.

Finest he’d ever used, and his aunt couldn’t have been cheerier when he gave it to her for her birthday. She did, after all, loathe the Ersts and all they stood for. Which he found odd, considering they were just a family of sel diviners, but he wasn’t fool enough to ever question his auntie’s taste.

Tibs seemed to be doing a good job of extricating himself from the lady. He had made it damned near to the drink table, and Detan well knew the fair lady couldn’t stomach being in the presence of a drunk. Realizing he was not at this party to socialize, he tipped his hat in apology to Tibs and slunk off toward the back of the balcony in search of the airship’s moorings. He was, after all, a professional. And there was work to be done.