A rumbling echoed down the street. She tensed, straining to make out the details. The sound was a dull, rhythmic clunk punctuated by two soft thumps. Clunk-thump-thump-clunk. Ripka raised her brows at Banch, a silent question, but he only shrugged.
Something dark moved down the street, the finer details of it erased by the shadow of Thratia’s compound. Ripka made a note to later insist that these streets were kept bright by the lamplighter children. It was well past time to chase the shadows out of Aransan commerce and she, quite frankly, would be delighted to light some fires under the hides of those mucking about with shady dealings.
A wide cargo door slid open on the face of the warehouse, its hinges so well greased she would have missed it if she weren’t looking right at it in that moment.
Faint light spilled from the door, illuminating a small section of the road. Plodding toward the opened door was a cart pulled by the slow trod of a hump-backed donkey. Ripka squinted, and saw that both the creature’s hooves and the wheels of the cart had been wrapped in thick cloth. Shady dealings, indeed. Enough to reasonably demand the right to search them. She smothered a hungry grin and put on a smooth, professional expression.
“You see?” Taellen hissed, his voice high and eager.
Ripka cringed and grabbed the lad’s arm, dragging him back down as his head popped up. “Quiet,” she whispered. “Wait until we have a better idea of what it is they mean to do.” And to see if they do anything obviously incriminating, she thought, but Taellen was too young for that train of thought just yet. Too green.
Green things did not last long on the Scorched.
Taellen grunted but ducked his head, annoyance simmering in the set of his shoulders. Banch caught her eye over the lad’s bowed head, one brow arched in amusement. To keep from grinding her teeth she pulled a pinch of barksap from her pocket and popped it into her mouth, rolling the sticky, resinous heap around until it was narrow enough to fit down one row of molars. The sharp flavor calmed her, the viscous lump gave her tongue something to worry over, something to do while she waited for an opening.
A man in a tight-fitted, slate-grey coat drove the cart, his narrow back slumped over the slack reins. He leapt from his perch as a man and a woman in matching grey coats stepped into the light from within the warehouse. Their hands hovered at their hips, though Ripka could see no weapons on them. She bit her lip, thought better of it and shifted the sap so that she could chew it instead. The three peeked beneath the mottled cloth covering the cart’s contents, nodded to themselves and waved the donkey-driver in.
“What do you think?” Banch whispered.
“I think a few questions wouldn’t go amiss.” She pursed her lips, stroking the forward curve of her crossbow. “But let’s keep the others in reserve, for now.”
Ripka stood, straight as an arrow, the blue coat of the Watch comfortably snug about her waist and shoulders. The weight of the cudgel at her hip brought her confidence, the shadows of her colleagues rising beside her strength. Chin up, crossbow leveled, she strode through the dark toward the warehouse, trying to smooth the eager thumping of her heart, the heady twitch of her fingers toward the bolt trigger.
The scene felt sharper, brighter. Her past as a prizefighter raised its head, calculating how fast she could close on the big man, judging the reach of the woman’s legs. She licked her lips and twisted a manic grin into something like an affable smile. It was a relief to be effectual, to put the shade of the doppel out of her mind for a while. Even if she couldn’t, ethically, come in swinging.
The two leading the cart stopped cold upon sighting them, hands disappearing beneath their coats to seek weapons until the color of the Watch blues took root in their minds. A thrum of excitement tingled over Ripka’s skin as recognition settled, their eyes narrowing and their lips thinning with irritation. The cart driver disappeared within the wide cargo door, so she tipped her chin to Taellen, motioning him to circle them at a wider berth and keep an eye on the door.
“Evening, watch captain,” the woman drawled as she raised her hands into the air. The man followed her lead, taking a half-step back. “Come to help us unload this delivery?”
“I’d sure like to have a look at it,” Ripka said, keeping her bow trained on the woman while Banch and Taellen fanned out around her. She drew up within five paces of the woman, close enough to see the wrinkles like cracked mud around her eyes. The woman’s face twitched, her lips fighting down a scowl.
“We’re not doing anything illegal, now, we got our paperwork in order.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind Sergeant Banch here having a look at it.”
Banch stepped forward, one hand held out expectantly while the other propped the butt of his crossbow against his shoulder. The woman pulled a sheaf of papers from a leather satchel strapped to the donkey’s side, each movement orchestrated with such precision that Ripka wondered if she’d rehearsed the motions. If she’d been anticipating the Watch’s interference all along.
A tickle of worry scratched at the back of Ripka’s mind, and she flicked her gaze to the side just as Taellen loped further inward, drawing in towards the warehouse door. What was that fresh-blooded idiot thinking? He was meant to watch the door, not enter it. There could be a dozen or more of the thugs lurking beyond, and though they would be wary of attacking a watcher, Ripka had made it a habit not to rely on someone else’s fear to keep her skin intact.
“Distribution approval here says for honey liqueur, though the house importing isn’t noted.” Banch handed the papers back to the woman.
“Difficult to get distribution in Aransa without a mercer house to back you.” Ripka raised her brows in innocent question at the woman. “How’d you manage it?”
The woman took back the papers and spread her arms wide as she shrugged. “The Mercer Collective has become amenable to independent enterprise as of late.”
“Lucky for you.” Ripka motioned toward the cloth-covered cart. “I’m sure you won’t mind if we check the goods against the manifest, then.”
The woman’s expression rippled, a subtle disturbance, but enough to put Ripka on sharper guard. She swallowed her barksap and stepped toward the cart, sparing a glance to make sure Banch had her covered. With one hand she peeled back the cover to reveal a mound of stacked crates, each one no bigger than the length of her forearm on each side. She tipped her head to the man. “Open it.”
He glanced at the woman, got a nod of approval and shrugged. From somewhere on the cart he grabbed a pry bar and heaved the crate’s lid open, wood and metal groaning with each tug. The man tossed the levered top to the ground and nudged aside a fistful of straw packing. Between the dried grasses Ripka could just make out the deep amber of liqueur bottles, their tops sealed by red wax stamped with the shape of a bee.
“Remove one,” Ripka ordered.
“Here to levy a tax, watch captain?” the woman said, this time not bothering to hide her smirk.
Ripka ignored her, instead keeping her gaze on the bottle the man removed. It was in the round-bottomed style currently fashionable, made possible by funneling sel into the glass during the manufacturing process. She frowned, something not quite right about the shape of it twisting through her mind.
“You see?” the woman said. “Nothing strange about a bottle.”