The doors to the dock opened behind him, the threshold loomed above his head. He cursed and lunged forward one last time against the arms that held him, desperate to catch a glimpse of her face. She stood in the center of the steam-filled room, arms crossed low over her ribs, head tilted back as she watched him being hauled away.
“Afraid of breaking contract?” he yelled. Her head tipped back, but her expression remained smooth. Placid. A mask locked into place. He smirked.
“Gotcha,” he whispered.
The militiamen threw him to the floor of the familiar u-dock. He landed hard on his side and grunted, little stars dancing before his eyes. The doors slammed shut, the sound of heavy metal gears echoing in the chamber as the locks were thrown.
Thratia’d made a deal with the empire that’d kicked her loose, and Detan reckoned he knew just what those terms were. They’d look the other way as she vaulted to power, perhaps provide some backing in the form of grain or steel, and she’d get those pesky rumors of a doppel run loose cleaned up. Trouble was, the doppel was proving too slippery even for Thratia’s clutching hands. For the doppel’s sake, he prayed to clear skies that the whitecoats hadn’t caught wind of Thratia’s little bargain.
Detan groaned and pushed himself to his feet, swaying a little as he waited for the dizziness to fade. Tibal sat on the ground, glaring at him. “Now what?” he said.
Shaking the fall from his head, Detan looked around. The dock was the same as he’d last seen it, the Larkspur anchored between the loving arms of the open-air dock. He peered over the edge, and swallowed at the drop to the ground below. No way either of them would survive that tumble, and the climb down was too sheer to risk.
“Don’t suppose the servant’s door is unlocked?” Detan asked.
Tibs grunted as he hauled himself to his feet. Though they both knew it’d lead nowhere, Tibs wandered over and gave the handle a twist, just in case. Nothing.
Detan heaved an exhausted sigh. “Well, we’re here.”
“There is one way out,” Tibs said.
Their attention drifted to the Larkspur, hovering peacefully in the warm morning light.
Detan breathed deep, tamping down the urge to reach out with his sel-sense and feel the ship’s buoyancy sacks.
“That ship,” he said as he licked his lips, “can only be flown by a crew of five. Or a very strong sel-sensitive.”
“Indeed.” Tibal sauntered toward the ship and crossed the gangplank. He stood upon the deck, casting an inquisitive eye over it. With an appreciative grunt he pulled out his notebook and charcoal pencil. “Too bad,” he said without taking his gaze from his notes, “we don’t have either of those things.”
“Too bad,” Detan agreed. He shook himself and crossed the plank. After a few moments’ rummaging he gathered up a stretch of spare sailcloth and a slender rope. He plunked these materials down in the center of the deck and pulled out the knife he didn’t really know how to use, and the pot of sap glue he did know how to use.
Under a heated glare from Tibs he took his knife to the handrail of the ship and peeled off a thin strip of wood.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Tibs said.
“I told you I wanted to get the ship for the doppel.”
The knot of Tibs’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, the reason hanging between them. “And?”
“Well I sure as the pits can’t just fly the thing to her. That would be… too risky.” He cleared his throat and sat down alongside the sailcloth and rope with his pilfered wood. “She called herself an illusionist. Was very clear on the point. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but…”
“She keeps the old ways.”
“Mmhmm.”
“You’re building a Catari signal kite?” Tibs said, and Detan was a little annoyed to hear his voice laced with skepticism.
“As close as I can get. It should be enough to get her attention.” He spread the sailcloth out and Tibs handed him his charcoal without asking. By pulling the rope tight between them, they managed to draw the straight lines of a diamond-shaped kite onto the cloth. Detan pursed his lips, poising the knife with care over the first mark.
“And once she shows?” Tibs said, kneeling down to hold the cloth steady as he cut.
“Then we get her the pits out of Aransa before Thratia can kill her, and hope her Valathean buddies consider her absence proof enough Aransa isn’t in need of a purge.”
Tibs grimaced, but fell to the work in silence.
Chapter 20
The patter of soft-soled boots moving with military precision echoed down the once silent hall. Pelkaia stole away to the wall and pressed her back against it, trusting to the shadows as a small group of interlopers passed by. There were three of them, swords out and dark and wet.
A wave of heat breached her cocoon of shadows, the three close enough that the combined warmth of their bodies brushed against her. She stiffened, pressing her back tight as she could against the wall, struggling to quiet the runaway hammer of her heart. They passed through the entrance chamber without a glance back and turned into another leg of the Hub.
Pelkaia remembered to breathe.
Those were not watchers. They were not Hub workers. Their tight, slate-grey coats were unknown to her.
What would Galtro do, if his station were under attack? Outside of the selium containment chamber, the records room was the sturdiest in the place. It rested close to the heart of the Hub, its back wall shared with the containment itself. There, he could hunker down and hide amongst the shelves, or make his stand at the bottleneck of the room’s single door. Yes, that’s where he would be. Her fist tightened. If he’s still alive.
Taking a breath to steel herself, she flitted out into the hallway and began the circuitous path toward the records room. Insofar as she could discern, the three grey coats were the only other souls left standing. Her alertness ramped steadily into the realm of paranoia. Every intersection she triple-checked, every time she heard the softest of sounds she froze, slowing her breath, counting away a full hundred ticks of her frantic heart before she would move on.
She passed so very many of the dead. The administrative staff of the Hub, bleeding their last in the dark over a power squabble in which they held no sway. After the third, she stopped taking the time to check their faces, to look for some hint of familiarity that would allow her to carry the names and deeds of the deceased in her heart until her own time came. There were just too many, and she was well overdue.
The door to the records room was locked, but she hadn’t expected it to be any other way. A soft light emanated from under it, throwing warm beams over her boots. A pair of feet cut through that welcoming light, casting sharp shadows.
She pitched her voice low enough to be mistaken for a man’s and whispered against the door, “Sir? Are you in there, sir?”
As she watched, the shadows beneath the door shifted. The man behind ducked down, checking the boots of the voice at the door, and found them to be the footwear of a man who worked the line. State-issued and stained in black dust.
Galtro swung the door open and stepped aside. She hesitated, the faint light within enough to stun her eyes. “Hurry up, man.”
Pelkaia set her jaw and squeezed through the gap he allowed her. He eased the door shut and spun around, whatever he was about to say dying on his lips in a surprised grunt. Eyes wide, he brought up his bared length of steel, clutched in two steady hands.