Steal the Sky

Chapter 36

It was all she could do to keep from falling over the edge as the flier shot through the empty air. Tibal stood – how, she had no idea – swearing his mouth bloody as he worked the craft’s rigging in a desperate attempt to slow their flight. She wanted to help, but she didn’t have a clue how to go about it. And anyway, if she let go of the railing both her arms were wrapped around she was certain she’d go spinning off into oblivion.

“That’s it! Pull it round!” Tibal screamed above the rush of wind.

Ripka went red in the cheeks as she realized the steward was on his feet, working the mess of rope and pulleys as if it were the easiest thing in the world for him. Whatever they were up to, it must have worked, because the flier shuddered and swayed, slaloming to a stop so sudden she wondered for a brief second if she’d died and landed in the sweet skies.

After making sure whatever they’d done was secure, Tibal and the steward abandoned their posts and raced towards her end of the flier. It wasn’t a very large craft, just a dozen or so long strides across, but still they came hurrying. She was relieved to find out it wasn’t due to worry over her.

“I can’t see any detail from this far off, but the cliff is definitely blackened,” the steward said, holding up a hand to guard his eyes against the sun’s glare.

“I can’t see much better myself, damned man must have blown us halfway across the Scorched. Sometimes I think there’s nothing between his ears but grit and piss.”

“Shall we go back?” The steward was already edging toward the helm.

“Sure, but just to make sure he’s still alive. I reckon they’ll be gone by the time we get there. Detan will have left a handprint for me if he’s still kicking,” Tibal’s voice rasped. He shook his head and plastered on a fake smile. “And anyway, it’s on the way.”

Ripka managed to pull herself to her feet and straighten her wind-twisted shirt. The men were polite enough to pretend not to notice. “On the way to where?” she asked.

“To see that damned doppel, of course. I’m thinking she’s the only one who can lend us a hand getting Detan out of the chop.”

Ripka’s gut clenched, she busied her hands straightening her hair while she spoke. “She’s a murderer, Tibal. Killed a good man. Maybe two.”

He huffed and hawked over the side of the flier. “Yeah, well, she can join the club. You can’t tell me you’re not a member yourself. No one is a watcher long without taking a life that deserves to be left alone.”

Her fingers froze in their fussing, claw-like and petrified. She swallowed, forced herself to draw her hands away and rest them easy at her sides. “I’m just saying she can’t be trusted.”

“No one can, captain. No one at all.”

“And just how in the pits do you know where she is? She has the Larkspur, doesn’t she? Could very well be halfway to the ass-end of the world by now and we wouldn’t know it.” She snapped, then cursed herself for losing her temper. This wasn’t Tibal’s fault. None of it was. He just wanted his friend back. And so did she, truth be told. Honding was a mad moron, but he’d risked himself to come to her aid. She couldn’t let him fall into Thratia’s clutches, not now. Still, the thought of working side by side with the doppel made her skin crawl, her irritation mount.

He gave her a small, weary smile. “Had a lot of time to think, captain, while you two were busy trying to get yourselves killed. We’ll find her. Only one place she could be, truth be told.” He brushed past her and went about resetting the rigging.

She wanted to ask, but her pride wouldn’t let her. One place she could be… But where? Ripka’s head ached, and she couldn’t tell if it was from exhaustion, dehydration, or just plain frustration. She should be able to come to whatever conclusion Tibal had. Should be able to see it. Pits below, hadn’t her perception gotten her accused of hiding sel-sensitivity?

Tibal pulled and slung ropes, heaved on gear handles and swiveled strange levers as if they were extensions of himself. Ripka went cross-eyed watching him, and resisted an urge to bury her face her hands.

“Help me with this thing, will you, New Chum?” he said.

The steward, who had been watching their argument in placid silence, bowed stiffly to her and moved to crank a gear shaft which seemed to be connected to one of the flier’s rear propellers.

She had little knowledge of selium ships of any sort. Her closest experience was riding along the anchored back of the city’s ferries. At the front, back, and center edges large, fan-blade propellers were mounted. Ripka followed the contraptions as best she could, and guessed that they were connected to a singular drive shaft just behind the helm where a dashboard of cranks and levers were. It just looked like gibberish to her.

Feeling useless, she watched as Tibal made way for the steward to join him at the helm and both of them heaved to. The fans thrummed to life, spinning far faster than Tibal and the steward were turning the cranks. The flier slid forward, smooth as silk. Once they fell into a rhythm the land began to slip by in a rush, the wind whipping her hair into her face relentlessly.

“Can I help?” she called above the cry of the wind to the steward. He looked around the flier and pursed his lips.

“Sure, you can haul up the tie lines.”

“Right,” she said, but it stung. She had hoped he’d chalk up her flustered expression to the effect of the wind, because she was feeling significantly unmoored and had no desire to explain herself. Watch Captain Leshe, only good for hauling up ropes. Just her luck.

She tried to look confident as she made her way to the first rope, but the flier had a bit of a wobble in its movement that made her knees feel like jelly. By her fourth step, Tibal was chuckling. She glared at him, and tried to stride firmly the rest of the way. It just made matters worse.

“You get used to it,” he called. “I’d let you get your legs at a slower speed but we don’t have much time to mess around here.”

“I’ll adjust,” she said with a forced grin and a little sting of water in her eyes. Tibal just nodded. Ignoring the eyes on her back as she knelt beside the edge of the ship and began hauling up the dangling rope. By the third loop, she wished she hadn’t volunteered herself at all. She was not finished by the time they reached the cliff side. The flier slowed in smooth increments, giving her the sensation that they were all sliding to a stop.

Ripka stared at the half-coiled rope in her hands and grunted. She tossed what she held aside and shoved herself to unsteady feet. Under Tibal’s watchful eye she scrambled back to the dangling rope ladder and climbed down, desperate for solid land beneath her feet.

As soon as her toes touched down, she nearly sprawled straight onto her face. Down here the ground seemed absurdly still, and she had to grip the ladder to keep from pitching over the edge of the cliff.

“You all right, captain?” Tibal poked his head over the edge and squinted down at her.

“Oh, just wonderful.” She heard laughter above, but chose to ignore it. She’d pay them back later.

“See any signs of him? Any, you know… bits?”

The slight catch to Tibal’s tone stilled her indignant anger. There weren’t any bits belonging to Detan that she could see, but there was a whole pit-full of blood splashed around. Someone had fallen and rolled in it, smearing it across half the ledge. The stench of charred flesh and burned hair still clung to the open air, making her stomach lurch.

Wary of toppling into the mess, she took a step forward, still clinging to the ladder, and approached her crumpled coat. Detan’s singed hat lay beside it. She knelt, clenching her jaw as she let the ladder go, and examined the ruddy ground.

In this spot, the blood was minimal. A small pool had spread down where his calf might have been, but there was nothing up above, where an injury might have meant death. She reached out and scooped up the limp and filthy hat. Beneath it, the bloody print of a man’s hand was splayed. Bright and rusty and primal.

“He’s all right! He left a print!”

She heard a whoop of relief from above and stood, not bothering to disguise the shake in her legs. It had been a long, long, morning, and some things her pride was just going to have to forget about. Things like going to the doppel who killed Galtro and Faud and asking for help.

Hobbling back to the ladder, hat tucked under one arm, she wondered if Detan would understand if she killed the doppel instead. She reckoned he would.

She just wasn’t sure if she could forgive herself after that.