Didn’t she know he didn’t shirk anything at all?
“Which way?” she whispered and he blinked, wondering just how long he’d been standing there glaring down the empty dark.
“You want the records room, lady, it’s straight on down this hall and should be the second door on the left.”
“You’re not coming?”
“I’m coming. I’m just making sure this is still what you want. You get caught in there, you’re caught with your hands in it. Understand?”
She nodded, and he noted the lines about her eyes and the sharp bow of her lips. Not so soft after all, was she? He breathed out so hard his shoulders slumped and took the lead. He’d gotten his hands in this mess up to the elbows, and whether she pissed him off or not he had to see it through. Ripka might be inexperienced in shadow dealings, but she was no stranger to determination, or hard work.
So far as he could tell, there wasn’t a soul alive save the two of them in the whole of the Hub. It was so damnably quiet his own heartbeat deafened him and Ripka’s steps clodded his concentration into mush. She might be light as a feather over sand, but the girl just wasn’t used to walking on steel.
Funny that, how when there’s nothing worth hearing you hear every cursed little thing. If there were a dozen guards rushing down on him he wouldn’t hear them above his own arterial flutter.
The records room door was ajar, Thratia’s hubris showing through bright and clear. Clever commodore she was, but sometimes the head couldn’t see the feet for how fat its middle had gotten. Or something like that. He’d have to ask Tibs how that phrase went to get it straight again.
He nudged the door open just a bit more and peeked inside. The reek of the dead assaulted his nostrils, pungent and cloying. The battlefield stench of spilt bowel and coppery blood congealed with the altogether too mundane scent of moldering paper and wet wood. Lucky for them both, someone had had the decency to haul the bodies off, so the scent was fading. Still, the records room was tucked in the heart of the Hub and there wasn’t a window in sight. It would be a good long while before the scent worked its way clean. Sometimes it never did.
He took a pathetic, guttering candle from the hallway sconce and went in. The bodies may have been cleared out, but the stains they left told the tale clear enough. One black puddle up toward the door, another further down by the shelving, and a deeper smear between the floor and the wall where a man had sat down to become a corpse. Whatever weapons had been scattered about had been taken with the bodies. By laying Ripka’s description of the scene over what he saw, he could work out well enough what had gone on. And there were the miner’s boot prints, looking like a ghost had traipsed right through the whole mess and out into the hall beyond.
He licked his lips, wondering where the doppel was now. Wondering what she had in store for the city – for him. He was tangled up real tight with that creature’s fate, whether he liked it or not. Detan frowned hard, digging through memory to try and see around her easy charm and pained eyes, trying to find the core of a woman who could have wrought such slaughter.
It wasn’t there. All he saw was the doppel’s imitation of Ripka, all quick smiles and swaying hips. Not like the real thing at all.
Once he was sure the place was empty, he stepped aside to let Ripka through. She shut the door behind them; not hard, leaving it just the tiniest bit ajar in the manner they had found it. He nodded. Good, she was a quick learner. In the unsteady candlelight he watched her eyes roam, making an account of what she saw now versus what she’d seen in the afternoon. She nodded once, tight and sharp. Her eyes only snagged on the stain against the wall a breath or two.
“The files were back here.” Her voice was calm, sure.
He followed her guidance into the stacks, both of them careful to step over the sticky puddles. Blood had a way of taking a while to lose its wetness. It clung to life, clotted and damp, even after the corpses had been carted away.
While she found her place in the file boxes he stood an awkward kind of guard, keeping his eyes and ears fixed on the ajar door. One hand held the candle out for her to see by while the other cradled the handle of the knife tucked into his belt. It was a meat knife, but he figured it didn’t matter much to the man getting poked by it what its intended use was.
Ripka flicked through the box with the exacting eye of a woman who worked in government. She pulled out a folder that looked like all the rest to him and laid it open over the top of the wooden crate, fanning the papers. With an irritated grunt she set them aside and went back to her rummaging.
He sidled over, peering down at the discarded stack. A loading slip for a Valathean trader stared up at him, the ink already turning brown from time. A very small team had loaded the trader with just a few crates of local foodstuffs, and then off-loaded a single pallet of some local liqueur. Detan frowned, set down his knife and picked up the slip. Why bother sending a fully outfitted trader all the way out here for a couple of measly desert snacks? There was no way the mercer house involved made a profit on such a transaction.
He searched for the mercer house’s name, and found Thratia’s bold signature instead.
“Ripka…” he said, rereading the document to be sure.
“What is it?” Her voice sounded strained. A pile of discarded files had grown on the floor to her left, her fingers moving faster as she flicked through the folders. Another, smaller pile had sprouted under her arm, the sheets jammed hastily between her tricep and side.
“I think I’ve got it.” He thrust the sheet toward her. “Look here, Thratia signed off on this cargo – and there’s no way anyone involved made a profit with the quantities listed. This is proof of Thratia making shady deals with the empire! Nothing’s spelled out, of course, but with this I bet you could–”
She wasn’t listening. Ripka spared the sheet a momentary glance and then went back to digging, her motions growing in agitation, her lips pressed tighter and tighter.
“Ripka,” he repeated, setting the sheet back down. She didn’t even blink. “What are you doing?”
She waved a hand through the air distractedly, the other still pawing through reports. “You know. Looking for evidence, of course.” A curl of hair worked its way free of her braid, falling across her cheek.
It shimmered.
Anger boiled within his chest so quickly he feared he’d release it upon the sel coating Ripka’s face. No. Not Ripka. He should have known – should have realized Ripka would never knock a guard out and leave him to the elements. Never go slinking about in the dark, breaking into houses and recruiting the aid of a known criminal. He’d been so blinded by the woman – this woman’s – control of her anger that he’d mistaken it for Ripka’s hard-wrought nature. Had seen discipline in her rage. Had let himself be wrapped around her spindly fingers.
“You,” he hissed.
She froze mid-shuffle, gaze sliding sideways to meet his, her body gone rigid with anticipation.
“Yes?” she said, forcing her tone light.
Without thinking, he snapped a hand out and grabbed the wrist nearest him, twisted. She let out a startled yelp, turning with his twist, her ankles tangling as the papers spilled from beneath her arm. He stepped into her, shoving her back against the shelf hard enough to make the structure creak.
She grunted, breath that smelled of iron wafting against his cheeks – had she bitten her tongue? The warm tinge of her haval spice perfume surrounded him, the scent faint, as if she had tried to scrub it away. No wonder. Ripka had worn cactus flower – the same his aunt favored. He’d never forget it.