Steal the Sky

Chapter 6

The ferry was a narrow contraption with an open-air deck for the passengers and a closed cabin for the captain to escape his clientele within. He was a fine, proper looking captain in the sharp maroon uniform of the Imperial Fleet, with little tin and brass bars arranged up and down his broad lapels. The insignia were all nonsense, of course, but it made the gentry feel like they were getting the real airship experience.

The captain gave the ferry’s airhorn a toot and it slithered out above the abyss, sliding along two thick guy wires attached to the underside of the ship’s deck by large eyelets. The ferry itself had a middling buoyancy sack, just enough to keep its weight from bearing too much on the wires. Aransa wasn’t about to waste a full airship or its selium supply on simple civic transportation. As it toddled along, Detan spared a worried glance at the breadth of his fellow passengers. A little more sel in the sacks probably wouldn’t have gone amiss. It’d ease his nerves, at any rate.

Despite the lackluster arrangement, Detan enjoyed the opportunity to take in the view. Every landscape of the Scorched Continent was a mishmash of rock and scrag-brush, but they were all still beautiful to him. The geography of the area maintained hints of the lush tropic it had once been, before the firemounts opened their mouths and blanketed the place in death. He couldn’t imagine the verdant wonder of the past, but he could appreciate the rugged charm of the present.

The closer they drew to the firemount and its adjacent baths, the easier it was to make out the bent backs of the line-workers. Selium-sensitives, born with the ability to feel out and move small amounts of the stuff, were arranged in lines along the great pipeways that ran from the mouth of the Smokestack to the Hub. They urged raw selium gas they couldn’t even see out of the firemount and through the pipes to the Hub’s refinery.

Some of them – the shapers – could do it without moving a muscle, but most had to lean from side to side, channeling their ability through the motion of their arms. Back and forth, back and forth. A rhythmic dance of servitude all down the line. Didn’t matter who you were, if you were born sel-sensitive you worked the lines. If you were very lucky, you got to be a diviner or a ship’s pilot instead.

Detan turned away from the scene. As a young man, he had never been very lucky.

As the ferry bobbed along toward the baths, Detan put a hand on Tibs’s shoulder and turned him about to look back the way they’d come. Aransa was half shadow in the light of the sinking sun, its terraced streets winding down the face of Maron Mountain to the inky sands of the Black Wash below.

For a Scorched settlement, it was a city of impressive size. Maybe fifty thousand souls packed those streets, nothing like the sprawling island cities of Valathea, but substantial all the same. Most of the denizens were born to it now, but a few generations ago it was filled only with those who came to mine the sel, and those who came to profit off their backs. The population boom was perfect for Detan’s purposes – a man like him could pop in and out without being remembered by too many sets of eyes.

“See there?” Detan pointed to the easterly edge of the second level from the top, at a rock-built compound which spread down into the next two levels below. At its highest point a great airship was moored, sails tucked in and massive ropes reaching like spider’s legs from it to the u-shaped dock which cradled it. No buoyancy sacks were visible, though it floated calm and neutral. Just a long, sleek hull, like the sea ships of old. Stabilizing wings protruded from the sides, folded in for now. He had no doubt that airship was the Larkspur. “Looks like Thratia is going to be giving tours tonight.”

“I doubt we’ll find ourselves on that guest list.”

“Pah. Just you wait and see, old friend. Thratia’s no dunce, she’ll be wanting the company and support of such fine upstanding gentlemen as ourselves.”

“As you say.”

The ferry thunked to a stop against the Salt Baths’ port, a jetty of mud-and-stone construction sticking out like a twisted branch from the rock face. A tasteful sign hung above the entrance into the basalt cavern, claiming peace and relaxation for all who entered. From the outside, it looked like the type of crummy dive bar people like Detan were likely to turn up in.

“Thought this place was more cream than water,” he muttered.

A gentleman in a coat just wide enough to encircle his impressive orbit sniffed and looked down a long nose at him. “Well it certainly shouldn’t look it from the outside, young man. This is the Scorched, after all.” He waved an expressive hand. “Ruffians abound in these troubled skies. Wouldn’t want to advertise the place. Could you imagine? Thieves in the baths! What a terror.”

The girthy man shuddered and clasped his waif of a woman closer. Arm-in-arm they disembarked, and as the man stepped onto the dock Detan felt the ship lift just a touch.

Detan shared a look with Tibs. “Thieves in the baths?”

“A terror indeed.”

Grinning, Detan sauntered under the basalt arch with its plain sign. Once within, he found himself blinded by an expansive field of white, brilliant light. As he squinted, bringing a hand up to shade his eyes, he heard a soft chuckle beside him. He could just make out the shadow of a steward shaking his head. “My apologies, sir, but it does take a moment for the eyes to adjust. Blink slowly and keep your head down, it helps.”

Detan thought it was a damned stupid thing to do, blinding your guests, but he kept his head down and his lids pressed shut all the same. It didn’t take long for his pupils to settle down and, as he lifted his head again, his mouth opened just as wide as his eyes.

The cavern was a labyrinthine mishmash of glimmering white stone. Must have been quartz, though Detan’d be the first to admit he didn’t know sandstone from shale. Sel-supported pathways hung through the air, connecting spacious meeting areas which were suspended from a combination of sel bags and guy wires. The cavern was open to the sun up top, which was what had made it so blasted bright. Light bounced off the smooth planes of quartz – no, he squinted at the wall nearest him, that wasn’t right. He stepped closer and brushed a finger against it. The surface was slick, as if it were hungry for the wee bit of moisture in the desert air. He gave it a dubious sniff.

“I’ll be blasted. Is that all… salt?”

The steward was a hard slab of a young man in a crisp black suit, his brass buttons polished to perfection and his mud-brown hair oiled into non-negotiable stillness. He was giving old Tibs a once-over, and it was clear to Detan that the fellow didn’t know what to make of a patron bringing along his manservant. To clear the air a bit, he gave Tibs a companionable thwack on the shoulder and gestured to all of what surrounded them.

“Can you imagine, Tibs? All this must have been drug up from the flats, that’s halfway to the Darkling Sea from here.”

Tibs gave an appreciative whistle, and the steward rallied to his profession, sensing his rank was indeed somewhere below the manservant.

“Indeed, sirs, the salt bricks you see here in the Grand Cavern were quarried to the specifications of Aransa’s Founder, Lord Tasay, who missed the luxurious bathing houses of his home in Valathea and sought to make Aransa a destination of luxury as well as commerce.”

“Well, aren’t you just the font of history.”

The steward bowed. “It is my duty to guide and inform, sirs. Is this your first visit to the Salt Baths?”

Detan stepped out of the way of a few of the folk they’d ferried in with. Now that everyone’s eyes were adjusted the regulars went about their business like they owned the place, and Detan considered the possibility that at least some of them must have a staked interest. After all, someone had to pay for the upkeep.

“That obvious, eh?”

His smile was dutifully abashed. “I mean no disrespect. It is my duty to assist, sirs.”

“Lead on then, my good man.”

The steward bowed again, something Detan wasn’t quite sure if he liked. Sure, the respect it afforded him was nice, but all that bobbing about was starting to make his head spin.

Tibs eyed the grandeur all around them with deep-rooted suspicion, his wrinkled face pinched up tight. “Don’t suppose this is what Ripka had in mind when she paid us,” he whispered.

Detan waved a dismissive hand. “I doubt the dear watch captain would complain about the improvement to our…” he wrinkled his nose, “auras.”

They followed the steward out onto one of the sel-lifted walkways, milling along behind the group of uppercrust who’d come over with them. The pack of well-to-dos were making a sweet time of it, putting their heads together and whispering between giggles.

He tried to ignore it, he really did. But when he heard them make a smart remark about Tibs’s hat he couldn’t help himself. Opening his senses, he felt for the sel in the walkway and gave it a little nudge.

Ahead of them, the walkway lurched. If anyone had thought to look Detan’s way at that moment they would have seen him put a steadying hand on Tibs’s shoulder just before the thing went wonky. The upcrusters cried out, toppling and tangling in a tumbleweed heap, and Detan got his other hand out just in time to grab the steward’s jacket to keep him from going full over.

The steward’s jacket twisted, skewing around his neck, and for the barest of moments Detan caught a glimpse of tattoo snaking across the strident young man’s skin. Scales, yellow and red ink with a slash of black through it, the hint of a serpentine body. He thought he recognized the mark, but couldn’t quite place it.

When the swaying came to a stop the steward rushed forward, leaving Detan alone to suffer a sharp elbow in the ribs from a surly Tibs.

“Oof!”

“You deserved that, sirra.”

Realizing that there was no point in arguing just who, exactly, deserved what while Tibs was in such an uncharitable mood, Detan decided to take advantage of the situation. He swaggered forward and offered helping hands to the felled noblebones, hefting them to their feet while his fingers helped themselves to their pockets. Not one of them noticed. They were all too busy working out where to place the blame.

“Just what sort of hovel are you running here?” The man who had expressed terror at the presence of thieves jabbed a stubby finger at the steward as he was hauled back to his feet.

“I assure you, sir, that the Salt Baths have your safety as our top priority–”

“Hogwash! I will see this place–”

“Well, now,” Detan drawled as he helped a lady to her feet and dipped his fingers in her one unbuttoned pocket. “I daresay this isn’t the fault of this fine establishment.”

“Oh? You do, do you?” The man rounded on Detan, the steward all but forgotten in the face of a juicier target. “And what would a dustswallower like yourself know about fine establishments? Why, the very idea that they even let you in here–”

“I reckon it’s not the establishment’s fault.” He stomped a foot down on the path. “Because these selium-supported walkways do have a weight limit.”

The noblebone’s mouth opened and worked around, his cheeks going firemount red as he choked on anger. Detan just stood there, fists on his hips, giving the wide man a wider smile, all full of teeth. He waited, letting the silence drag on, letting people come to their own knowledge that the man had nothing more to say.

With a confounded grunt the noblebone threw his arms in the air and stormed off, the meeker members of his party drifting along in his wake. When they were well out of earshot, Detan turned to the steward and clapped his hands together. He was not surprised to find a tight smile on the man’s otherwise professionally placid face.

“Well! There’s that. Now why don’t you show us the baths, New Chum?”

He bowed. “This way, sirs.”

The baths were set aside from the salt-brick cavern, and the bemused steward explained that it was to keep the steam from melting the walls, which made sense, now that it was brought to his attention. Salt and water got on a little too well to be expected to keep themselves presentable in close company. Detan and Tibs found themselves alone in the western wing of the bath halls, a coincidence no doubt engineered by the sharp-eyed steward.

These were the nice baths, no mistake about it. The tub they occupied was a massive affair of green-veined soapstone, or so Tibal insisted. It stuck out from the walkway on a narrow spur of matching rock, its weight supported by virtue of its walls being hollowed out and filled with sel.

They were higher up than the other bathers, and if Detan glanced down he could see similar arrangements sticking out all along the cavern walls. Tubs burdened with a mingle of male and female uppercrusts were arranged in such a way as to grant each group a semblance of privacy, and the venting ground below which kept the tub water warm sent up wafts of nearly-scorching steam.

The steward had assured them it was perfectly safe, that their particular bath had been in operation since the place’s very founding and had never faltered. That didn’t reassure Detan much. Things that had lasted since time immemorial had a way of going to the pits whenever he stuck a toe in them.

“Can I get you anything, sirs?”

Tibs poked at the slab of pink-veined salt floating on the surface of their tub. “What’s this for?”

“That’s the salt part of the bath, sir. It is good for softening the skin and detoxifying the humors.”

“If you detox ole Tibs, he might come apart at the seams,” Detan said.

Tibs shot him a sour look that he felt rather proved the point.

“I assure you it is perfectly safe, sirs.”

“Welp, tallyho then.”

Detan dropped his towel and eased down the slick steps into the warm water. He’d experienced a lot of nice things in his days, mostly having to do with whiskey and women and the occasional warm rainfall, but this was pure bliss. He murmured his appreciation, feeling his joints give up their stiffness, and closed his eyes. For a moment, he almost forgot this wasn’t at all why he’d come here.

Tibs followed him in, looking rather like a drowned sandrat. The steward placed a couple of glasses of cactus flower liqueur on the salt slab, delicate red buds perched on the rims of the glasses. Presumably, the idea was to drink them before the salt ran out, and that seemed like a grand old time to Detan.

“I’ll return to check on you in a mark, sirs. Please do ring the bell if you require anything.”

“Will do, New Chum.”

The steward beamed at them, lingering a moment to see if he were needed further, then hurried back down the steps. Detan watched him go and let loose with a low whistle as soon as he was out of earshot. “Poor sod, I don’t think he has a chum in the world.”

“Sorry luck he’s found one in us then, eh?”

“If by sorry you mean marvelous, then yes. Did you see the ink? Methinks our stalwart steward is hiding a less than reputable past.”

“Something you’d be familiar with.”

“Oh, come off it. Ever seen anything like it?”

“You think the kid’s got a crew?”

“He might have, some people are capable of making more than one friend. Didn’t seem much impressed with the noblebones, come to think on it. Might be he’s casing the place.”

Tibs let out a low and weary sigh. “Leave the lad be, not everyone’s neck deep in conspiracies just because you are.”

“As you like. We really gonna sit round in this stew all day?”

“Long as they’ll let me.”

Detan drained his glass and hiccupped. “Pah. You’ve no imagination. Did you see the cubbies where we put our things? No locks!”

“This is a respectable place. Things don’t go missing.”

He slapped the water with his open palm. It was a meaty, satisfying slap. Then he snagged up Tibs’s glass and downed that, too. The old fool was likely to get drunk and careless if Detan didn’t get the good stuff out of the way for him.

“You heard the man, he’s giving us a mark to have a look-see.”

“He’s giving us a mark for the soak.”

“Nonsense. Let’s go!”

Detan moved to the steps, but Tibs grabbed his arm so hard and fast he slipped and flopped face-first into the water. He came up sputtering, and gave Tibs a shove. “What was that for?”

“Just wanted to remind you, real clear, that the young Lord Honding is said to have lost his sel-sense in a tragic mining accident back in Hond Steading. Your freedom depends on that neat little rumor.”

He flushed. “Oh, come off it. That overinflated sack deserved it.”

“Might be, but Aransa isn’t a friendly town for your type. Watch yourself. Sirra.”

Detan rolled his eyes and pulled himself out of the tub, sloshing water over the edge. An angry hiss issued from the vent far below, and he shuddered. It was one thing to work the firemounts for selium, there was just no other way to get it, but surely there were safer methods of taking a bath. He wrapped his towel round his hips and waited for Tibs to do likewise.

He did not.

“What’s the problem now, Tibs?”

“I’m going to soak.”

“Huh. Well. I suppose it will improve your aroma. Carry on, good man, and look for me to return before the mark burns down.”

“Try not to get killed.”

Detan sniffed and set off, wet feet slap-slapping on the warm rock walkway. The amenable steward had done him the favor of showing him the most direct route between the lush baths and the men’s cubby room, where the gentle guests left their outer shells for the duration of their luxury. Trusting lot, these bathgoers.

The way was clear as far as the cubby room, and there Detan hovered at the entrance for a good long while with his ear pressed up against the door to make sure there wasn’t so much as a mouse-shuffle inside. Gauging the room empty, he slipped through the narrow door and shut it with a soft click behind him. He winced. The steward had been flapping his lips so much that Detan had missed that particular noise the first time through. Nothing for it, he decided. And anyway, there wasn’t a soul around to hear it so far as he could tell.

He tiptoed down the row, peeking into the stuffed cubbies until he came across one that appeared more stuffed than most. Marking the spot, he doubled back to his own accoutrements and slipped his leather money pouch from the folds. It was his favorite pouch, it’d been the first thing he’d stolen when he returned to the Scorched, and he’d be sorry to lose it. But then, he was pretty sure he’d be seeing it again quite soon. He kissed the goatskin and tucked it in amongst the robust man’s vestments. Then he shoved Tibs’s into the cubby of the big man’s friend for good measure.

If he was going to stick his neck out, he’d be fried if he wasn’t going to invite ole Tibs along for the ride. It wasn’t right, leaving your friend out of things just because he was a mechanic. And anyway, Tibs’s clothes were reeking just as much as his own were.

Doubling back to his cubby, he scooped up both his and Tibs’s clothes, then fled the scene.