“I am. I am Captain Allat. What can I do for you…?” He raised his brows, leaving an opening for Detan to supply a name.
He didn’t have one. His go-to alias, Dakfert, he’d already used with the guard whose coat he might be currently wearing. Didn’t do to use the same alias twice with the same set of people, not unless he wanted them to start making connections – and he certainly didn’t.
Keeping his affable smile plastered on, he searched his surroundings for inspiration. Pillars, some awnings, a shrubbery…
“Pilawshru–” Tibs elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted, coughed, and offered up a sheepish grin. “Name’s Step Pilawshru.” He stomped one foot on the step for emphasis. “Like the real thing. And this here’s, uh, Brownie Pilawshru. We’re brothers.”
He slung an arm around Tibs’s shoulders and squeezed him close, cutting off another of the man’s jabs to the ribs.
The woman narrowed those large eyes at him. “Odd names,” she said.
“Ruma, that’s unkind.” Allat’s protest was a lame one; he clearly agreed.
“Ah, well,” Detan smiled so hard he hurt his cheeks. “Mom was a bit, you know,” he twirled a finger through the air by his temple. “Special. Yeah?”
“My apologies, Step, Brownie.” Allat bowed his head. Such a formal young lad.
“Worry not, brother-at-arms! My mother’s disposition is no fault of yours. Now.” Detan released Tibs and clapped his hands together, rubbing them. “Maybe you can help us out. Ole rockbrain here–” he thumped Tibs lightly on the back of the head, “–has gone and lost his baton. We’re due to report for the ship-out to the big ‘R’ in the morning, and the captain is sure to wring Brownie’s scrawny little neck if he doesn’t have his poker.”
Allat squinted, no doubt trying to wend his way through Detan’s barrage of half-comprehensible jargon. Detan may not have known much about guarding, well, anything, but he knew full well that anyone in a Fleet uniform was likely to use some sort of mystical vocabulary that only half-sounded like Valathean.
It worked.
“I’d love to help you out, but the vault’s locked down. Business hours, and all that.”
Detan whistled low and punched Tibs in the shoulder. “Tole you you were doomed.”
Allat shifted his weight. “If you come back in the morning…”
“No time for that, I’m afraid. Gotta be lined up before the sun’s pissing the sky yellow. Begging your pardon, miss.” He pretended to look abashed and tipped his head to Ruma. “Soldiery talk is hard to abandon, you understand.”
Ruma reached out one small, blessed hand and squeezed Allat’s upper arm. “Oh, do help them. He can’t help it he lost his baton, why I’d lose my own hair if it weren’t attached. Can’t you let them in? You do have the keys, don’t you?”
The noble captain shifted his weight again, pursing his lips, a furrow worming its way between his brows. Detan knew what the man must be thinking – What could go wrong? It’s just a baton. These are fellow guards. And Ruma is watching…
His hand drifted toward his pocket, where the curved line of a keyring pressed against his imperial-issue trousers. Detan stifled a smirk. Too easy.
“We’ll make it quick,” Allat said, almost to himself, as he slipped the key into the great door’s lock and clicked it over.
“Quick as lightning!” Detan agreed, crowding up behind him as the door began its ponderous swing inward.
And that was when the screaming from the back door began.
Chapter Thirteen
Enard walked in front of her, his narrow back stiff with apprehension. She wanted to tell him to relax, that being so anxious was a sure sign of their deceit, then changed her mind. Every sparrow on the Remnant was tense. Confidence was the only thing that truly stood out here. No doubt that was why she had drawn so much attention with her first scuffle.
They shuffled down the line to the trash chute, overfull plates of foodscrap in hand. A single guard minded the line, but he seemed far more concerned with cleaning his nails than paying attention to what the inmates were doing. Complacency, lack of training. These were weaknesses Ripka had learned to spot in her staff, because they could be easily exploited by the right mind set on doing so.
Checking to be sure the guard wasn’t looking, Enard dumped his scraps, then wedged the clay plate into the chute sideways. He strolled away, keeping his steps slow, and rubbed the back of his neck as if he couldn’t wait to seek his bed. Probably that was true, but Ripka had other plans for their evening.
She tossed her scraps down the chute and swore as a goodly portion of them splashed back out at her. She kicked food filth from her shoes as those behind her in line chuckled.
“What’s the problem?” the guard said, feigning interest.
“Blasted pipe is clogged.”
He shrugged. “Not my purview. I mind the dish cleaners.” He tipped his chin to the stack of soiled clay plates on a wheeled cart beside him. “Better get someone from waterworks up to fix it.”
“You can’t do anything?” She gestured to the pile on the floor, to her shoes. “This is a mess, I’m not waiting around with my feet in filth… Hey!” She whirled, pretending to get a good look at Enard for the first time. “You’re waterworks. Get over here and fix this.”
“I’ll fix your pipes, girl,” someone from the back of the line called. A chorus of chuckles went up. Ripka clenched her jaw, but otherwise didn’t react. Any reaction would escalate the taunts.
Enard let out a big, heavy sigh. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, slinking back over to the pipe.
“How am I supposed to know?” She tapped her farm badge. “This is your job.”
He rolled his eyes so hard Ripka feared they’d never come back around.
“Fine,” he said, and gave the blockage a few ineffectual prods. “It’s clogged, all right, but I can’t see the blockage from here. Going to have to weed it out from the other side.”
“Oh no,” the guard said. “I’m not letting you out there without an escort.”
“Suit yourself. But if that pipe doesn’t get cleared, then you’re going to have one pits cursed time cleaning all the food-covered plates tonight, not to mention the floor here.”
“I can’t believe this shit.” The guard waved down another guard passing through a nearby row of tables on his rounds. “Hey, get your ass over here and watch the line. I gotta run this waterworks grunt out to clear a blockage.”
“Excellent,” Enard rubbed his hands together. “I’ll need an extra set of hands for this, I’m sure. Good thing you’ll be along to help. Got gloves on you?”
The guard blanched. “No way am I sticking my hands in that heap. You–” He jerked a thumb at Ripka, who had made certain she was lingering conveniently close by, trying to scrape the garbage off her shoe against the wall. She looked up at his summons, feigning confusion.
“What?”
“Come on, farm girl. You’re the one who made a stink about the problem, you can help waterworks here muck it out.”
She screwed up her face as if she’d never heard a more disgusting proposition in her life. Silently, she thanked Detan for teaching her to let her expressions over-react to cover any unconvincing note to her words. “You kidding me? I already got garbage all over my shoes.”
“Then more won’t hurt.”
She grunted and shuffled forward to take up position alongside Enard as the guard fumbled with his keyring and heaved open yet another heavy, iron-banded door. In his haste, the guard didn’t bother to pat them down as he shuffled them through and locked the door behind him. Ripka struggled to hide a scowl of distaste. What in the blue skies was the warden of this cage thinking, keeping such lazy sods on staff?