Steal the Sky

Chapter 35

The weight of Ripka’s coat did most of the work for him, but he couldn’t get lazy. Couldn’t let his concentration slip. Maybe the doppel could keep it all together without so much as a thought, but all it took for Detan to lose it was a momentary distraction. Just a stubbed toe or a glance at something shiny, or – fiery pits – the way Ripka’d looked at him when she’d thanked him, and the sel would be free to ooze out from the imperfect seal of the coat. To climb up high and never come down again. He wondered how much was up there, and where it stopped. Did the sun have to push its rays through it? Was that why the light always felt so sluggish and angry-hot?

Don’t distract yourself. He clenched his jaw and focused. Ripka had been divested of her weapons, so that meant it was up to him. He still had his old longknife. Not that it would do much good in his hands; his skill with such things was rudimentary at best. But he did have the sel. To throw in their eyes, indeed.

He pulled out the knife. Looked at it.

Passed it to Ripka. “Here, you hang on to this.”

“You’ll need it,” she said, trying to push it back towards him.

“I’m a danger to myself with that thing. At least you’ve had some proper training.”

She took it with care and turned it around in her hand, bright metal glinting white hot under the glare of the sun. He’d always presumed it was a pretty good knife, at least the person he’d pinched it from didn’t seem the type to mess about with inferior goods, and from the way she grunted approval he supposed that assumption was correct.

“It’s in the imperial style, but I can work with it,” she said.

“Valatheans even make their knives differently?”

“They’re lighter, usually. They’d call this a shortsword, since it’s about the length of the average forearm. They’ve got hollow handles that sometimes get filled with selium to make them move easier, but this one’s empty.”

Yeah, I needed that tiny bit of sel in a hurry once… long time ago. “Makes sense, considering I got the thing in Valathea.”

He tried to ignore her incredulous stare as she asked, “You’ve been to Valathea?”

“Not willingly. More importantly, you can use it?”

“Sure.” She took a few experimental swipes. “Not much different from my cudgel in length, just lighter.”

“Do a lot of slashing with your cudgel, do you?”

She blinked at him as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Every day, just about.” Her hand went for the spot on her belt, but when it came up empty her lips turned down. “Though I suppose not anymore.”

“You’ll live through this, you know,” he offered, dabbing sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his stolen shirt.

“Yeah. I know.”

Detan bit his lip and kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t any good at making people feel better, unless it consisted of him making an ass of himself for their amusement. Whatever was going on in Ripka’s head was her business, and he figured it was safer for the sanity of everyone involved if he didn’t try and mess with it. She was focused on getting through alive, and right now that was all that mattered.

Especially considering he was starting to rethink his boast about the heat not killing you.

Tibs’s cache had done him a world of good, but his earlier attempts to keep the sel smooth and calm had taken too much out of him. He was breathing hard, panting like a mongrel, and from the sting around his mouth he supposed his lips were cracked despite the salve he’d slathered on. He had no idea how Ripka was staying on her feet, but he guessed it wasn’t easy as she didn’t look any better than he did. At least, he hoped she didn’t look better than he did.

But the ridge was getting closer. They were near enough now that the angle of the sun threw the shadow of it in their path, and though the shade was minimal it was a blessed relief from the full-on glare. The Salt Baths hovered above them, the ferry dock sticking out from the rockface like a crooked thumb. There wasn’t any light seeping from the main entrance, or spa-goers moving about the place.

“Looks like Thratia shut down more than just the lines to the Hub,” Ripka said.

“Makes sense. If she’s got people waiting for us, she won’t want any witnesses.”

Ripka snorted. “Why would she care if I survived the Black?”

“Same reason she cares about finding her ship. It’s a matter of pride, and it would catch up with her eventually. Undermine her iron fist.”

“Wish I could bust her down,” she muttered under her breath.

“You can’t. Now hush and keep that knife ready.”

“Sword.”

“Sure.”

This section of the Fireline boasted no value to be had. There were no selium pockets, no thermal vents, not even cacti could be farmed in the listless soil. The stones were craggy and pitted, giant broken teeth rising up out of the sand. It was a good place to hide something, if you had the mind to, and Detan was fairly certain Thratia did. If he’d shown up with the doppel, then she’d want someone here, ready to act. She just wasn’t the kind of woman to leave loose ends hanging.

Neither was the whitecoat.

He slowed down, his feet swimming in his pilfered boots, his grip on the string tethering the ball of sel so tight his fingers were turning purple. Knowing he wasn’t much use face-to-face, he drifted back and let Ripka scout ahead, relying on whatever skills she had been given by her Watch training. Surely they had to train the Watch to handle ambushes.

Straining his senses, he couldn’t make out any sel nearby, which was probably just proof that he wasn’t very good at sussing out the stuff. With the Smokestack so close, his senses should have been overwhelmed. But they weren’t, as usual. All he could make out was the slight throb of the ball hidden in Ripka’s coat. Sometimes, he didn’t know why he bothered trying.

He let his sensing attempt drop, and that’s when Ripka yelped. It was probably supposed to be something like a war cry, but all he heard was a girlish squeal followed by snarling as she swiped the knife-sword at a man suspiciously devoid of uniform.

The would-be assassin lunged sword-first from amongst the broken rocks at her, but she’d gotten her stance ready in time and knocked his blade against a rock so hard the metal screeched. Detan stopped dead in his tracks, shifting his feet in anxious unease. What was he supposed to do?

Just stand there and bonk people with his balloon?

Ripka staggered from the force of her blow, then squared off her shoulders and brought the blade back nice and quick to open the man’s stomach. His breakfast met the sand, and he followed close behind. Wiping hair from her eyes, she scooped up the dead man’s blade and thrust it handle-out at Detan.

He stared at it as if it were a viper.

“Take it.”

“That’s, uh, not really a good idea.”

“Well I can’t use two, now can I?”

She thrust it forward again, insistent. With a grudging sigh he grasped the grip in his wounded hand and took a few experimental swipes. The disdainful curl of Ripka’s lip told him all he needed to know about his form.

“There will be others,” he said, anxious to smooth away his obvious ineptitude.

“Of course there will,” she snapped.

“Well aren’t you just full of sunshine.”

She eyed him. “I am.”

“Ah. Right…”

They moved side by side into the scattered rocks, in theory covering one another’s flank. Ripka positioned herself on his left, the side holding the sel, which made him so nervous his fingers trembled. He supposed it was at least better than having her on the pointy side. Probably. Maybe.

He hoped.

As they crept closer to the first incline of hard rock which led up into the cave network that made the baths possible, something bit him. He jumped and swore, then looked down at his shoulder to see a long gash welling with blood.

“Oh, those bastards.”

Behind him, stuck butt-up in the sand, was a thick black quiver. He wanted to stomp it, but as another winged by him and snapped its neck against a rock he figured that might be a waste of time. Ripka tore off at a sprint, angling straight for the crossbowman’s hiding spot. It was a narrow ledge, tucked up in the rockface to the left, and it didn’t look like he’d have enough time to get out or draw another shot before she got to him.

But there were a few standing rocks near the ledge, tall and wide, a little extra shadow bleeding out around their edges.

“Look out!”

Ripka slid to a stop, kicking up a wide cloud of dust, as three men loped into her path. Every last one of them had a sword, and every last one looked ready to use it. Ripka took a step back, getting out of strike distance, and slipped into a ready stance. Damn fool of a woman.

He looked at the sword in his hand, the weapon he didn’t know how to use. He looked at the sel floating just before him, the weapon he was too scared to use. Where was Tibs when he needed him?

“Run, woman! Quick!”

She hesitated, and the man nearest lunged for her side. That was enough. She knocked his thrust wide with her blade and danced away, boots slipping in the sand, as she tore off back towards Detan. Her eyes were rabbit-in-a-hawk’s-shadow wide, and he couldn’t blame her. She must expect a bolt in the back any second.

Distancing himself from what was happening, he focused on the little ball of sel under the coat. His mind felt slow, languid with care, as he segmented off a piece half the size of one fist and pulled it out into the open. It fought him the instant it was free of the coat’s weight, clamoring to rise high. He didn’t give it the chance.

The sel ball shot forward faster than any arrow and struck the central man dead in the chest. Detan felt the world slow around him, his focus sharpen. He saw in acute detail the would-be assassin’s face as he glanced down at the innocuous, glittering ball. He saw the slow confusion growing, wrinkling his brow. It only lasted a breath.

Detan shunted open the floodgates of his mind, unleashed the temptation that’d been dogging him since the day he set foot back on this sun-cursed continent. He let his anger flood through to the sel, all his hate and his fear. Bundled up his rage and fed it, nurtured it, ripped it free of his heart and his mind and broadcast it out.

Under the brunt of his fury, that little glittering ball tore itself to pieces. Rent itself straight through to its core. A concussion punched his chest, staggered him back a step, the crack of the blast loud enough to set his ears whining. Fire so bright even he was temporarily blinded speared in all directions, competing with the hot eye of the sun and winning.

When his sight returned to him, all that was left of the man was a charcoaled, rended mass, and his companions weren’t spared the conflagration. One had been consumed. The other rolled about on the rough sand, grasping at the charred meat where his arm had been.

“Sweet skies,” Ripka whispered, her voice muffled cotton under the ringing in his ears. She must have thrown herself down, or been thrown, because she was covered in sand and sitting, her back to him, her face glued to the spot where the attackers had been. Even the rock behind them was blackened, and no more arrows issued from the cleft. Detan stepped to her side and offered his hand. He pretended not to notice when she flinched away from it.

“Get up. We have to keep moving,” he managed around a hitch in his throat. He still had some sel left, and the strain of keeping it contained weighed double on him now.

He still had his anger.

Sweet, practical Ripka. She swallowed her fear and grabbed his hand. He hauled her up, gave her time to brush the sand from her clothes as best she could. She spent longer doing it than was necessary, but he wasn’t about to complain. His mind was still throbbing, consumed with the sel’s moment of destruction. That terrible blow-back was worse than slugging whiskey all night.

There wasn’t any time to cater to his pain. He had to keep the rest of the sel together, compact. Had to keep moving.

Ripka took up point as they transitioned from sand to stone. This section of the Fireline was flat, having given itself up to the march of time long before the city was ever founded. Its surface was covered in large, toothy boulders and spills of talus. Deep caverns wormed through the rock, gaping adits black and forbidding. Some of them led up to the baths, some down into the hot heart of the world.

“Tibs will have left a signal. Look for it.”

She nodded, her steps slowing as she scanned the landscape unfolding before them with more care. They saw the marker at the same time, a little strip of white cloth tied to a brown bit of scrub along the edge of a cave’s chasmal mouth. They entered it, Detan taking a moment to tug the signal from the scrub lest they be followed. Within the cavern all was dark, and Ripka grabbed his arm to keep him from walking smack into her.

“Wait, listen,” she murmured.

In the darkness, he found he had a hard time concentrating on anything but his own troubles. The sound of his labored breath, the frantic thumping of his heart. With his mind bent to keeping the sel intact it was all he could do to hear what Ripka was telling him, let alone some quieted aspect of the cave. Still, she held him in place for what felt like a half-mark, but in truth was only a handful of heartbeats.

It was hard to tell when your heart was racing on ahead of yourself.

“No footsteps, it should be clear, but I can’t see a thing. Can you use the sel to light something small?” she asked.

“I’d be more likely to blow my own head off.”

“Never mind.” She swallowed, loud enough for him to hear. “Step slowly, and let me guide you.”

Her fingers tightened around his wrist and she tugged him along behind. It was hard going, not seeing anything but the back of her head, and even that was little more than a smoky smudge. He could hear her shuffling along, testing her footing before bringing him into her wake. He was grateful for that – he would never have thought of it.

There was a glow up ahead, warm and welcoming. The kind of glow only oil lamps and candle wicks could provide. He was surprised by how blinding the smear of light was, and squinted against the water in his eyes. It occurred to him that this couldn’t be good for his poor peepers, going from naked sun to pitch black to light again, and he promised himself a good solid rest after this. The very idea of a pillow made his eyelids heavy.

The cave let out into the venting grounds, where Detan had burned his own trousers for the sake of winding up an irritating uppercrust. He wished he still had the fine, tailored coat he’d gotten from that game instead of the soiled and oversized miner’s attire he’d pilfered from Pelkaia. Maybe Tibs had grabbed it on his way out, the man wasn’t likely to leave anything of theirs behind.

He gave the little dunkeet bird-whistle he and Tibs used on occasion, and heard a rustling on one of the bathing platforms above. That rustle wasn’t the only thing moving in the baths.

A figure leapt from behind one of the craggier vents, looking an awful lot like the dead men they’d already left behind – clothes black-red to blend with the rocks, sword out and ready.

Ripka stepped between Detan and the advancing assassin, sword drawn, and he felt a flush of embarrassment standing there with his little balloon. He could defend himself, it just wasn’t always safe for those near to him.

The would-be murderer advanced, passing under one of the tub’s ledges. Detan heard a whistle, bright and cheery, and the killer looked up just in time to see the shadow of the rock that’d been dumped down on his head.

Before Ripka could get her blade near him, the killer’s face burst, easy as a rotting plum. He crumpled like a smashed buoyancy sack, and sent up wild sprays of blood from his ruined face.

“Oh good.” Tibs stuck his head over the side and squinted down at the crushed man. “That rat had been wandering around here staying under cover for a full half-mark. I thought you’d never get here to bait him out.”

“Happy to help, Tibs. Now where in the pits is my flier?”

“Get on up here and I’ll take you to her.”

Detan led the way through the venting floor, making sure Ripka was mindful of the great bursts of mineralized steam that whuffed up from the ground at regular intervals. When they reached the upper levels, New Chum came to greet them, looking pristine in his beige uniform and crisp little hat. There was, annoyingly, not a drop of sweat on him. Tibal, on the other hand, looked like he’d taken a tumble down a sand dune into a mudpit, and that heartened Detan some.

“Good morning, Lord Honding, Captain Leshe. May I interest you two in a much-needed bath, and some fresh clothes?”

“No time for niceties. Thratia and her watchdog are going to start getting jumpy when her gallows men aren’t back with us in a mark or so,” Detan said.

“Direct to the flier, then?”

“Onward, my good man.”

He let the steward lead the way amongst the winding platforms and in between the wide baths. Tibs dropped back beside him and whispered, “Thratia buying it?”

“Nope, and it seems she and the imperial have had a little chat about yours truly.”

“I see. I distinctly remember having warned you about this exact situation, sirra.”

“Are you rubbing it in?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

Tibs and New Chum had stashed the flier on a little outcropping on the back edge of the Salt Baths. Its buoyancy sacks bulged above it with fresh life, and an extra had been strapped to the bottom. He caught sight of the daisies and Happy Birthday Virra! scrawled all over the old leather in purple paint. His throat clotted, his chest clenched. He closed his eyes and drew a breath, focusing on keeping his selium ball still. He’d live with those daisies. For Bel.

The little craft floated just off the edge of the cliff, securely tied with two thick ropes. Down the side a rope ladder hung, its end trailing through the empty air at the height of Detan’s hip. It was a welcome sight, his little bird all patched up and flying true. He just wished it were bigger.

“We’re going to be real close to capacity now, so mind your movements,” he warned.

New Chum let out a polite ahem. “If you’re overloaded, sir, I will volunteer to stay behind.”

“You sure as shit will not. Thratia will find her way here eventually and some sniveling rat will remember you were the only one in the baths when we escaped. And then what will you do? Run back to your old friends for protection?” New Chum winced, unconsciously covering his tattooed shoulder with one hand. “No,” Detan said. “No arguments. All of you up that rope, now.”

Tibs swung on first, scrambling up the ladder in a way that reminded Detan of a knobby-limbed lizard. He cringed, and waved Ripka ahead. She stored her knife-thing with care before climbing cautiously skyward. The steward went next, and Detan was proud of his vessel for not swaying in the slightest.

He checked the string securing the sel to his hand, and it was only his reaching to tighten the knot that kept his arm from being skewered by an arrow.

“Hurry!” someone yelled, probably Tibs by how exasperated the yell sounded. Detan lunged for the ladder but felt like he’d run smack-first into a wall instead. He went down hard, flat on his chest on the unforgiving rock, all the air knocked from his lungs. Cold shock seized him, radiating from his calf.

By the time Detan had gotten some air back in and the white light left his eyes alone he could see boots – far, far too close – charging up the walkway toward him. Nice boots. Imperial boots.

They’d take him alive. Not so much the others.

Ignoring the fire in his leg he surged sideways and pulled the slip-knots on the flier’s tie lines. Someone screamed above him, a lot of someones, but the words didn’t make much sense. Tamping down his fear and his anger at having been caught he reached his senses out, felt for the sel in the sack of his flier, and shoved. The craft lurched away, fearful cries turning into frantic yelps, and the shadow of the flier that had lain over him slipped off into the blue, leaving him to face the sun alone.

Something tugged on his fingers. He looked up, saw the ball of sel escaping from under the cover of Ripka’s coat. His attention had waned too much, he’d been lazy. Undisciplined. Auntie Honding would have skinned him for such a mistake. But he still had some sel left.

Still had his anger.

Refocusing, he gathered together what was left outside of the coat, let the blue cloth slump to a heap by his head. He reshaped it, making it a glittering, hovering windowpane. Just like he had when he’d made the imitation doppel mask. At least he could still count himself a quick learner.

The man leading the imperial troops smirked at it, suspecting it a doppel’s trick. “It’s a little late to try and hide your face from us.”

Trembling, sweating, Detan bent all his will to keeping that sheet as wide as he could. The imperial waved his men forward, and just as they stepped through the membrane of sel, Detan let loose.

He didn’t get to see the looks on their faces, the flash was too bright, but from the sound of their screaming, Detan knew he’d done real damage.

But not enough. More imperials emerged from the baths, little more than a line of smudged silhouettes before his fading gaze. They were hesitant, coming slow and scared. Wasn’t much he could do now, but he hoped that display had at least made one of them wet themselves.

He was grinning when unconsciousness took him.