Tibs scuffed a shoe in the dust. “Only a little.”
“I’m afraid that’s an all or nothing sort of situation for most women.”
“Well, it’s only on paper. And I haven’t seen Silka in a year, you really think she isn’t taking care of her needs without me?”
Detan recalled the stern-faced woman who had nearly gotten him arrested by planting stolen property on him and shuddered. “I try not to think on it…” He trailed off as Tibs’s expression soured.
“You know, because the very idea of her betraying you is too terrible.”
Tibs’s brows lifted, two fuzzy worms threatening battle to one another. “Really?”
“Sure.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m hoping you’ll do me the kindness of pretending you do.”
Tibs kicked a gnawed animal bone into a trash heap and shrugged. “What now? You get any good eyes on the ship?”
Detan sucked air between his teeth and nodded. “You’d wet yourself if you saw it, the thing is beauty wrought of plank and sail. The hull is formed like an old trader vessel, with the sel sacks inside of it. Made of half a dozen woods I can’t even identify. Even the tie-ropes are soft as silk, the stabilizing wings made of the supplest leather I’ve ever seen. Softer than the commodore’s hands, that’s for sure. It’s gorgeous, Tibs. Gorgeous.”
“Well now that we know you’ve proper appreciation for the aesthetics, can we move on to the part where we steal it?”
“Oh.” He shrugged and pushed away from the wall, wandering down the packed road toward the level-stairs. “When I was arrested we went out the servant’s entrance. Guarded, but not astutely, and before that I kicked one of those delightful little ropes over the edge, so we can get the flier under it and climb on up. I feel you’re rather missing the salient point, however. What was really interesting about last night, Tibs, was the freckles.”
“The freckles?” Tibs drawled, and Detan got the distinct impression the old goat was humoring him.
“Indeed. Yesterday morning’s Ripka had none, and yet the real deal at the party was quite spattered with them. And the second Ripka, the one who threw me in the clink, had sprouted freckles as well.”
Tibs chewed empty air a moment while he thought. “So the doppel must have revised her appearance.”
“Indeed, and that means she’d seen Ripka in the personal after our encounter and before the party. And guess who was rustling up all of the seventh level poking around for disaffected sensitives of unusual strength?”
“The watch captain.” Tibs came to a rather annoying halt at the bottom of the level’s steps. “Our rooms are in quite the other direction. Unless you fancy an upgrade?”
“Oh, come on, Tibs, we’re going to go find that doppel.” He bowed before the steps up to the city and gestured Tibs forward, drawing an irksome glance from the slate-grey uniformed guard posted nearby. Detan frowned. Weren’t all the city guard meant to wear a blue uniform one shade lighter than the Watch?
“Are you sure about this?” Tibs said, drawing Detan’s thoughts away from the odd guard.
“Pah, calm down. Ripka intimated that she interviewed every retired sel-sensitive on the seventh. There can’t be that many.”
“Certainly. But how do you propose we find them?”
“You can’t have forgotten how this works so quickly. Now hush.”
“You seem mighty desperate to find this doppel,” Tibs said.
Detan cringed, remembering the creature’s little trick the night before. As he glanced at his old friend, he imagined his face as if it were a mask, the body belonging to something altogether different. Steal the ship for the doppel, or Tibs gets framed for whatever she has coming. He shivered.
If he could catch her unawares, then maybe he could change her mind. Maybe he could force her to let him and Tibs just go.
“You look sick,” Tibs said. “What happened?”
“Try not to think so hard, old chum, you’ll get more wrinkles.”
“Sirra.” Tibs stopped cold, hands shoved in his pockets, wiry eyebrows pushed down in annoyance. “Tell me.”
“We can’t keep the ship,” he blurted.
“Why?” His voice was almost calm enough to sooth Detan’s frayed nerves. Almost.
With a muted growl of frustration he dragged his fingers through his hair and tugged. “Listen, Tibs, about last night…”
While he explained the doppel’s threat, Tibs’s expression soured, his relaxed demeanor giving way to tightened, bunched shoulders and fists clenched so hard Detan could see the bulge in his pockets. When he finished the sordid little tale, Tibs let out a heavy breath and shook his head.
“We should scamper. We stay much longer, we’ll both lose our tempers.”
Detan grimaced. “She’ll chase us. I’ve no doubt of that.”
“Then what?”
“We find her, and try to make a deal.”
Tibs grunted, but held whatever retort was coming. They sped up and crossed straight to the seventh level. The locals ignored them as they went about their business, buying bland fruits and leaf-flat breads from the few stalls set up to capture those unwilling to brave the market level below. Detan felt strange in last night’s finery, but then there were a great many people milling about with rumpled hair and twisted collars much like his own. Thratia’s fete, it seemed, had carried on well after he’d been hauled off.
Detan spotted a slender alley and ducked inside, thinking it a good enough place to keep an eye on the comings and goings. Didn’t hurt that the shade of the high, canted walls was a balm to his sun-tired skin.
Tibs leaned his back against the dusty alley wall, and Detan was quite surprised to see just how well he blended into the mud brick and black grit. Out in the street, urchin children scrambled back and forth, nimble hands weaving a familiar pattern around the more savory looking denizens. Detan chuckled as one particularly enterprising youth slipped the rings off an older woman’s fingers and skittered off.
When one drew near, Detan eased himself out of the shadows just enough to be seen and the kid stopped short, his dust-coated face hard and impassive. “Wha’ you want, mister? I don’t do nothin’ perverted.”
“Nothing like that, young chap.” He knelt down to get a better look at the bony creature and proffered a crust of bread stuffed with the mystery meat and veg. The kid snapped it up and dug in, little jaw working around a cancerous looking bulge. “Just need some information.”
“What kind?”
“Residences.”
“What?”
“Who lives where, kiddo.”
His small eyes narrowed. “You looking to bunk a place? That’s Skelta’s territory, I don’t wan’ nothin’ to do with it.”
Detan shook his head. “We just want to visit someone, no bunking of any kind involved.”
“I don’ know everyone.”
“You know the old sel workers? They’ve got more than most, probably good pickings there.”
He nodded, unwilling to confess outright.
“Right. So, point their places out to me and it’ll be a silver grain for you.”
The kid’s eyes bulged. “I’d be beaten to tar, walkin’ round with silver.”
“I’ll break it into coppers then, so you can hide half.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Money first.”
The kid slunk into the alley and Detan handed it over, counting by twos. The kid’s lips worked as he followed along the count, then he stuffed half in one pocket and half in a bag around his neck.
“Got paper?”
Detan produced the only paper he had, his filched party ticket, and handed it to the kid who smoothed it flat on the ground. The urchin crouched over the paper, a little nub of charcoal from a fire clutched in his knobby fist, and licked the charcoal tip so that it would draw a darker, finer point. With care he sketched out the street and its primary crossroads, drawing right to the edges of the ticket. Then he began to mark little stars in certain spots, putting numbers beside them. When he was done, he jumped up and secreted the charcoal away before dusting his hands on his trouser leg.