Steal the Sky

Chapter 22

Ripka went home before she went to the station, and changed into the Brown Wash clothes of mourning. She would not do what she was about to do while wearing her blues.

The black cotton was pounded smooth by stones, and the supple fabric covered her from throat to foot. It was a variation on an old Catari tradition, or so her mother had told her, though the original rites were long since lost. In the Brown Wash, one donned their blacks and stole an item of personal significance from the house of the deceased on their pyre night.

Galtro would have no pyre night. Ripka suspected Thratia would chuck him into an unmarked grave, or garbage burn, to keep from establishing a site that might turn into a symbol for martyrdom. That was all right by Ripka, she’d never been much of a traditionalist. She’d find her own way to mourn. A way that involved punching Thratia right in her smug little mouth.

The black cloth made slipping through the city unnoticed easy, and she found herself walking through the station house’s door before she had a plan firmly in mind. The station was quiet, the lamps snuffed and the halls emptied. Papers were left in haphazard stacks on desks, half-drunk tea cups gone cold beside them. At least someone had remembered to lock the door on their way out. Ripka’s lips quirked in a smile adverse to her mood. Probably Banch.

She drifted through the darkened halls by rote, found the aisle of long-term inmates and reached for the lantern she knew would be there. It felt light in her hands, not much oil left. Not much time to burn.

With care she struck her flint and lit the already charcoaled wick, coaxed a small flame into life. A few muted groans of protest sounded down the hall. The regulars, annoyed that their darkness was disturbed. She ignored their grumbles as she continued down the hall. She wasn’t here for the regulars. Ripka sought a much more recent addition.

The unnamed woman’s cell was second to last, a palm-sized piece of wood with “Unknown #258” hastily tacked in place of a name placard. Ripka ran her fingertips over the number, wondering at the motives behind the two hundred and fifty seven who had come before this one. Most were long before Ripka’s time, but in her experience few kept their numbers long. The last, however, had kept his number until his death. Unknown #257. The doppel caught impersonating Mercer Agert.

She resolved that this woman would not die in obscurity.

Ripka hung her lantern from the hook above the small window in the wooden door, placed so that it was just out of reach of the inmate but still close enough to cast some light into the cell. Then she pulled a heavy metal key from her pocket, and stepped inside.

Unknown lay on the bench opposite the door, curled on her side with her arms cushioning her head. Lank, greasy-brown hair streaked her cheeks, and the whites of her eyes glinted wide and wary as Ripka entered her world. Taking a deep breath of the fetid air, Ripka shut the cell door behind her.

The woman swept her gaze over Ripka’s mourning clothes and raised her brows. “Is this a personal call, captain?”

“I need answers from you. Evidence.”

With a grunt the woman sat up. The chains binding her wrists together hissed against one another like a disturbed viper. “I’ve been through this about a half dozen times with your lackeys. I’ve got nothing to say, and you don’t have the spine to force it out of me.”

Ripka eyed the woman with care. She was in good health, even if she could do with a bath. The records her watchers kept said she ate well, sending back empty platters after each meal time. Ripka made sure of it – she checked those reports every night, and did what she could in the morning to see to it that those who weren’t eating had their diets adjusted to please them. Ripka would never allow it to be said that her jail treated its inmates poorly.

She could only hope her successor gave the same care.

“You’re right.” She spun the cell door key around her finger. “We’re not interested in forcing answers from you. We’re not brutes. Though I’m sure if the situation was reversed Thratia would have cut the answers from you by now.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Never said that’s who I worked for but, I’ll tell you this, I woulda’ cut the answers outta you myself if the tables were turned.”

“Charming.” Ripka moved the key, very slowly, to her pocket and gave the button flap a hasty loop. She stood there alone, unarmed. The key to the cell protected by no more than a flimsy piece of cloth. The woman licked her lips, chains rustling as she leaned forward. Ripka’s heart stuttered with a burst of adrenaline, her muscles growing taut though she didn’t dare take a fighting stance.

The woman’s eyes widened and she grinned to bare her teeth. “Why, Captain Leshe. You are the clever one.”

“Does that mean you’ll answer my questions?” Ripka fought to keep her voice smooth, to keep her hands from twitching toward the empty holsters of the weapons she had set aside before entering this cell. The fight she sought would already be unfair. No need to make it worse.

“Maybe. What it does mean, is, I’ll take you up on your offer.”

A fierce grin split the woman’s face, and Ripka’s whole body thrummed with anticipation. Do it, then! She wanted to scream, but she bit back the words behind a falsely perplexed frown. “I’m not sure what you–”

The woman lunged. Fierce joy shot through Ripka, the burst of elated strength so overwhelming she grabbed Unknown by her outstretched arms and pivoted at the hip, swinging the over-leveraged woman into the wall. Unknown’s hip and shoulder cracked against the hard stone, loud enough that Ripka feared for a fleeting moment that she’d overdone it, that she’d knocked the woman out in one blow.

Luck was with her.

Unknown turned to face her and lurched forward, fists raised, and forced Ripka to circle around lest she let the woman get within her guard. The woman grinned and wiped blood from her lip onto the back of her fist. “You surprise me, Leshe, an upstanding woman like you starting a fight with a prisoner.”

“You attacked me,” she said, too fast, but she didn’t care. It was done. Now she needed to press her advantage, to keep Unknown off guard. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, is that how this works? Blow for blow, eh? I guess you earned it. Name’s Dekka.”

Before she’d finished her sentence she lunged, landed a jab on Ripka’s right side so hard she spluttered and stumbled back. The great wooden door of the cell slammed into her back, and her lungs burned as she strained to retrieve the breath she’d lost. Dekka stepped into it, turning her body wide to come across with an uppercut.

But Dekka hadn’t been locked up long enough to know the cells as well as Ripka.

Ripka shoved her hands down and grabbed the iron loops protruding from the door at hip-height. Bracing herself, she drew her knees into her chest and kicked out with both feet. The connection sent Dekka reeling, but Ripka was too busy trying to quiet the rattle of her own teeth to see where she went. Ripka dropped the loops, her fingers too numb and her shoulders too jarred to keep on holding them, and fell into an awkward crouch.

Dekka lurched to her feet and let loose with a roar as she charged with both her hands held up in a hammer blow. Ripka scurried away, crawl-hopping like a rabbit, and grabbed the bench Dekka had just abandoned to pull herself to her feet.

Dark compacted around her eyes just a breath before the pain reached her, lancing up from somewhere about her lower back. Damn woman was blasted strong. Ripka whirled, teeth clenched, and somehow managed to get the chain that bound Dekka’s wrists caught in one hand. She swung her around and then pulled, Dekka’s back slamming into her chest, and they went staggering backward until Ripka’s back slapped the wall.

Gasping, snorting, they fumbled and grabbed and twisted until Ripka had one elbow snapped tight around Dekka’s throat and the other pinioned her arms. The blasted woman’s legs flailed, clubbing Ripka’s shins with her heels. Ripka screamed against the pain, screamed against her loss, then pushed forward and spun around, slamming the woman face-first into the wall.

Her chest heaved, her knees threatened to quake, but still Ripka held the squirming, cursing, agent of Thratia against the cold yellowstone and fought back an urge to break the woman’s neck.

“Who is supplying Thratia’s weapons?” Ripka growled, her throat raw from her gasping.

“Fuck yourself,” Dekka hissed.

Ripka tightened her elbow, felt the woman spasm as she struggled for air, then eased the pressure. “Again.”

“Some bitch-faced imperial.” Dekka spat a wad of blood and spittle against the wall, wheezing as she drank down the air.

Callia. “Why? What’s the imperial get?”

“I don’t–”

Ripka squeezed. Galtro’s rotting body floated before her mind’s eye, rank and discarded. Tossed against the wall like a broken toy. She gasped and eased her hold.

“Shit!” Dekka fell into a coughing fit, and Ripka let her heave until it passed. “Freaks, all right? Any weirdo fucking sensitive she can round up. But she’s not happy about it, she wants to keep one for herself.”

A smile broke across Ripka’s face, and she closed her eyes for a moment in rapture. Perfect. If Thratia wasn’t happy, that meant somewhere she was keeping records. Keeping notes that could be used to turn against the imperial should the need ever arise. If Ripka could use them to destroy the imperial’s authority, then Thratia would have no official backing. No claim to make on the wardenship… And the people wouldn’t be too pleased, either, to hear proof she dealt in human trafficking. Even if the poor souls being bought and sold were deviant sensitives. But first she’d have to prove to Callia that Thratia was planning on holding out on her, drive a wedge between them so she could investigate deeper.

“The records of these shipments, where are they kept?”

“I don–”

She squeezed, and Dekka thrashed so hard Ripka nearly lost her grip.

“Where–”

“I really don’t know! Shit! The compound, probably, where else?”

That would have to do. Ripka dropped her hold on the woman’s chained arms and shoved her against the wall as hard as she could. Dekka struggled, sensing an opportunity, but Ripka leaned the whole of her weight against the weakened woman and was able to pin her in place. She fumbled one hand through a pocket and pulled out a small clay bottle. Its contents were heavy, familiar. She’d used similar bottles a hundred times or more in her line of work. So many that she had a standing account at the nearest apothik.

Ripka broke the clay bottle against the wall, felt the sticky resin of golden needle extract smear over her hand. The cloth folded within the jar she palmed, shook open, and crammed into Dekka’s mouth. It only took a few breaths before the woman went limp.

After waiting a few frantic heartbeats to be sure the woman wasn’t faking, Ripka eased her into a looser hold and half-dragged, half-carried her over to the bench. With care she arranged Dekka’s arms and legs, making sure none were folded in such a way as to cut off circulation. Ripka peeled the cloth from her mouth, yellow-stained linen flecked with pink blossoms of Dekka’s blood.

Her fist clenched, squeezing bitter droplets from the rag to the blood-spattered floor. It was done. The woman took no permanent damage. Ripka closed her eyes and tipped her head back, baring her face to the unfinished stone ceiling as if expecting a bolt of lightning to burst through the dry desert air and cleanse her of her crime.

Yes. Crime. She trembled as she stepped away from Dekka, shut and locked the cell door with care. Even Dekka had known what she intended. Worse, the woman had welcomed the chance. Ripka half-staggered as she walked down the hallway, the sharp absence of adrenaline causing her knees to quake. She paused, took a breath, steadied the lantern she carried.

It was not torture.

But that didn’t mean it was right.

Ripka clenched her jaw and turned, striding towards her office. Her weapons were there – cudgel, cutlass, dagger – and her files. She flung open the door, heedless of the noise, and crouched before an overburdened file box. Even Thratia would have had to file building plans when she constructed her compound. Ripka flicked through the years, found the yellowed edge of paper she sought and tugged it free.

The lines of the plan were still bold and clear, even if the black ink was fading to brown. Ripka brushed the scent of dust from her nose and cringed as she smeared blood from the back of her hand against her lips. No matter. There would be time to clean herself later. If she survived.

She had to keep moving. If she lost momentum, she feared she would collapse under the weight of what she carried. Faud. Galtro.

Dekka.

Before she set out, she wrote Dekka’s release papers and left them signed on Banch’s desk. If it all went sideways, he at least would recognize her authority come the morning.