Steal the Sky

Chapter 21

Banch loomed at Ripka’s side, his breath coming in irritating snort-gasps through the handkerchief he kept shoved up against his nose. As much as she wanted to scold him for it, she really couldn’t blame him. The four corpses had been left sitting no more than a half-day, but even in the cool interior of the Hub the desert heat had set them to festering.

Corpses. She had to keep thinking of them all as corpses.

“Those are Thratia’s men.” He heaved out between cut-short breaths, and she wished he hadn’t bothered. Whatever had happened here, she had no idea how to deal with it. She was numb to the core, her mind stilled by the chilling of her heart. Galtro was dead. That three of the four corpses were Thratia’s people brought her no comfort.

She had hoped the watchers found dead in the hallways of the Hub would be the worst of it. A sad little hope. A cruel hope.

Two watchers hovered nearby, awaiting direction, the shock of finding their fellows dead still fresh on their young faces. Their presence pressed against her, spurred her to say something. Anything. She was their watch captain. She was supposed to be in control.

“Check the bodies of Thratia’s men for any weapons which may have inflicted the wounds we have thus far discovered,” she ordered.

The two watchers snapped to it, their eyes bright and eager. She was jealous, in a way. To have something specific to do – to have an order given to you – seemed like such a luxury now. Try as she might, she could not shake the feeling that Galtro would rise at any moment from his cold, sticky pool and tell her it was all a stupid joke, or a terrible mistake. Her stomach felt hollow, her voice without command. She kept her hands clasped behind her back to hide their tremble.

“You think Thratia had a fourth man here, one who got away?” Banch asked.

She shrugged, mind feeling sticky-slow, unable to catch up with reality, let alone speculate upon the past. “Could be. But why leave the bodies of his fellows behind?”

“Maybe he couldn’t get rid of them quick enough.”

“Maybe.” Couldn’t he stop asking her stupid questions? She had no answers. He knew that.

“You’re not buying that, though,” Banch persisted.

“No,” she grated.

“Well?”

His prompting jolted her. Ripka forced herself to survey the wreckage of the room for the fifth time since she’d set foot in it. It was her job. She was good at it. She would find the answers.

For Galtro, and her fallen watchers.

She had no real way of knowing who died first, but the way Galtro sat with his back against the wall marked him as different than the rest. The three were all looking away from him, their bodies angled around a point within the record shelves. It didn’t make sense to her that Galtro would deal all three of them killing blows and then slink over to bleed his last against the wall.

And then there were the footprints.

There weren’t many, and most were smudged beyond recognition, but a single set stood out amongst the uniformity of Thratia’s people. A pair of work boots – quality, sturdy construction by the tread of them – had left a set of prints behind that didn’t match up with any of the feet still in the room.

“I think they were all surprised. Every last one of them,” she murmured, drawing a raised eyebrow from Banch.

“Captain!” Watcher Taellen poked his head around a shelf, face bright with the rush of new-found information. “Looks like there’s some files missing back here.”

“Good work, Taellen. Take note of all the files near it and the nameplate on the box.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Thratia’s voice threatened to cut away what remained of Ripka’s sense of calm.

The would-be warden strode into the room, her lips curled to one side and her arms crossed low over her stomach. Thratia surveyed the remains of her men and got her gaze stuck on Galtro just long enough to make Ripka’s gut twist. Ripka fought down an urge to rip Thratia’s eyes from her sockets and leave them staring up at Galtro’s corpse for good.

“Pardon, Thratia, but we are in the middle of an investigation here. I understand you may have known some of the men involved, but it is our prerogative to get to the bottom of this mess,” Ripka said, feeling her own hands curl into fists at the small of her back.

“May have known? Watch captain, these three fine souls were some of my best. I sent them along to keep an eye on Galtro after I heard those terrible rumors of a doppel, and look what that got them. You back there!” She jerked a finger toward Watcher Taellen and his partner. “Leave what you’re doing and get out here.”

Skies bless them, her two rookies lingered, hands hovering near the handles of their cudgels, just at the edge of the shelf. They’d stopped what they were doing all right, but not out of any desire to obey Thratia. They were wary, knees tensed and shoulders squared, waiting for direction.

“I am sorry that you lost good men, but the situation is such that I must ask you to leave.”

“Ask me to leave?” she snorted. “You got it backwards, watch captain. Seeing as there’s no longer any competition for the wardenship, I’m within my rights to assume control of all warden duties until such a time as the election can be properly held. Isn’t that right, Callia?”

Ripka startled as she caught sight of the Valathean noble standing two short paces behind Thratia. Callia was a willow-thin woman of impressive height, her overstretched limbs swathed in a flowing, silken material that Ripka suspected was far too unbreathable for the desert clime.

A girl approaching her blossom years hovered in the imperial’s wake, wrapped in the same sky-blue silks her mistress wore, a folded parasol tucked under one small arm. The girl’s complexion was lighter than her mistress, betraying deeper Catari intermingling than either Thratia or Callia. Ripka assessed her as the imperial’s pet sensitive, and gave the girl a tight nod. The girl didn’t even blink.

Callia broadcast an air of authority that made Ripka’s skin prickle. She kept her hands folded before her, calm and ready, her face impassive. A small pang of jealousy reared in Ripka’s chest as she noted the smoothness of the Valathean’s shadow-dark cheeks, unworn by the desert sun, but her jealousy faded as Ripka took in the woman’s profession.

Over Callia’s fine silks she wore a long white coat, the hem of it just grazing the tops of her knees. Ripka swallowed and resisted an urge to step back. Whitecoats were the empire’s special investigators, though Ripka knew they preferred to call themselves researchers. What in the sweet skies was Thratia doing with a whitecoat on her arm? Had the doppel been telling the truth – did Thratia seek a purge for Aransa? It made no sense.

The imperial smiled, no doubt catching the startled recognition in Ripka’s eyes.

“I am from the Scorched diplomatic delegation, and it is within my authority as an instrument of the empire to assure you, watch captain, that Thratia is within her rights to claim the wardenship. Although we would prefer she call it a regency, at least until such a time as the elections can be held.”

Under the milky eye of the empire, her own masters, all Ripka could do was tuck tail and bow. No matter how much she wanted to tell them all to get fucked, this was her crime scene, she knew, clear as the skies were blue, that being abrasive now would only get her thrown out on her backside.

“As you wish, I obey, diplomat. But regarding this incident, my team are equipped and experienced for just this sort of puzzle. If you’ll allow me until tomorrow morning, I believe we can uncover the cause of this mess.”

The whitecoat shook her head. “It is within Thratia’s authority to seize control of this investigation, and not within mine to limit her. I recommend consultation between both divisions, but that is not a Valathean order.” Callia bowed, Valathean-style, with her hands held before her head, palms facing the blue skies.

“Nothing personal, Leshe, but I want a crack at this tick of a doppel.” Thratia’s voice was laced with the quiet waver of tightly reined anger. Ripka blinked, she’d never heard Thratia come close to losing her calm before.

“Do you have reason to believe the doppel did this?” Ripka asked, smoothing her voice with professional curiosity.

“Look around you, captain, it’s a mess. The doppel is clearly targeting important figures of Aransa, and when I take the wardenship it will be my head that has a target on it, if it doesn’t already.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You may take your people and go. My own investigators will arrive with the next ferry. See that everything is left as you found it. I will call upon you if I need you.”

“Warden, I must insist that the Watch be allowed to do its job here.” Ripka was annoyed to hear a pleading note enter her voice. Banch’s hand settled on her shoulder. She hadn’t realized she’d taken a step forward, that her fists had slipped from behind her back and come up low and ready.

Thratia eyed her from tip to toe, and waved a dismissive hand. “I have heard you. Now go.”

Banch tugged her sleeve, urging her back. With a clenched jaw she snapped a salute to Thratia and turned on her heel, knowing her blues would follow. None of them would want to be left alone in the same room as that woman.

They marched in silence to the ferry dock, Ripka keeping her eyes averted from the corpses of the men and women she’d sent to keep watch over Galtro. Five good watchers, and none of them dead by the same weapon as Thratia’s people. One still had a crossbow bolt sticking from her throat, black and insectile. Her name had been Setta. Ripka burned the names of each into her memory as she passed.

At the ferry they watched Thratia’s so-called investigators unload. Debt collectors, mudleaf smugglers, fire-protection men. Cutthroats, all of them, and every last one avoided so much as acknowledging the existence of the watchers arranged before them. They marched across the dock and toward the Hub like they owned the place, and with a sour taste in her mouth Ripka decided their mistress did, and that was close enough.

Across the gap, with the city’s bedrock firm under her feet, she dispersed her people back to their homes and stood thinking, arms crossed snug over her chest. It was a moment before she realized Banch was still at her side, watching.

“What?” She sighed.

“You’re planning something.”

She threw her hands in the air. “Of course I am. Galtro’s dead and something needs to be done about it, dammit.”

“Thratia said…”

“Thratia wants the city and the doppel, she doesn’t care about what’s right. Pits below, Banch, did you see our people? Opened with swords and crossbows, not daggers like Thratia’s and Galtro.”

“You think her people did for ours?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’d better keep your nose clean of it.”

She sighed and dragged her fingers through her hair, thinking of the single wine bottle at home in her pantry. Knowing Banch had so much more waiting for him. A wife. A child. A warm meal.

“Go home, Banch.”

“I’m your sergeant, captain. I stay.”

“You got a family, don’t you?”

“Yes, but–”

“Go. Home. That’s an order. And on your way there, stop by the station. Tell everyone to go home and lock down.” She waved an arm to encompass the city before her. “Thratia’s taken the reins, and there’s no telling what she might do. Aransa is not safe for the Watch. Not tonight.”

He gave her a long, anxious look, sweat sticky on his brow, then snapped a salute with a hundred times better form than she’d shown Thratia.

“Stay safe, captain.”

“I’m working on it.”

He turned crisp on his heel and strode off towards home and shelter.