“Huh,” he said.
The doppel scowled at him. “What?”
“I think I have an idea.”
“Really, and what would that be?”
“Stay put. I’m going to put out the lights.”
Chapter 27
Detan crouched beside the records room door, wondering just why he’d thought this damn fool of an idea was a good one. He had paced out the distance just right so he wouldn’t get slapped with the door when it opened, but that didn’t ease his nerves any. Facing the door dead center, the doppel stood, the soft hiss of her longknife leaving its sheath the only proof of her presence.
As soon as he’d blown out their little candle, the world had gone black fast enough to make him think it’d been missing the dark. Should have just stayed with Tibs, he thought, rubbing sweaty palms against his knees. This was work for those who knew their way around a piece of steel. People like Ripka, Thratia. The doppel too, he supposed.
He hoped she wouldn’t have to prove her competency.
As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light he watched her straighten, square her shoulders and slide her dominant foot – Ripka’s dominant foot, at least – forward. She’d kept the good watch captain’s face on, and as he watched her slip deeper into the character he realized why it’d been such a simple thing for her to fool them all.
Their bodies were similar, sure, and the color of their hair being damned near identical certainly helped, but it wasn’t the physical touch that sold the deception. It was all in her posture. Rigid, certain, with something withheld. Something coiled down deep and tight. It was her restraint that made it all ring true, her hesitance to be herself. He could guess why the doppel moved like that. He could only wonder why Ripka did, too. He wondered if that line the doppel had fed him about Ripka stealing food as a kid was bullshit, and decided it probably was. Shoulda’ been his first clue something was wrong.
As the footsteps in the hall drew closer, his palms grew sweatier. He held his breath, counting each step to help himself focus. To stay calm.
It didn’t help. If steel started ringing, he was a dead man. Or worse.
As the steps drew up alongside the door the doppel stepped forward, grabbed the door, and yanked it open.
The guard let loose an undignified yelp, and before he or she could get turned around to face the doppel she spoke in Ripka’s strong, authoritative voice.
“By the pits, man, get a hold of yourself. Do you want to alert everyone within a stone’s throw to your location? Idiots.”
Huddled in the shadow of the door, Detan saw the doppel tilt her head, scanning the guard. She clucked her tongue.
“I see,” she said. “You’re one of Thratia’s hires. Well. I suppose it can’t be helped that her people aren’t properly trained. Now, report.” She gestured with her unsheathed saber. “Have you found sign of any intruder?”
A sliver of light outlined the doppel’s silhouette as the guard brought his lantern around to bear on her, no doubt wondering just who this woman was who was ordering him about. Detan held his breath, hands clenched at his sides. The simple fact the guard hadn’t immediately tried to run not-Ripka through was a good sign.
“Watch captain?” The guard’s voice was low, male, and deeply incredulous. “Warden Ganal didn’t mention anything about you assisting tonight.”
She took a step back, the guard followed. “Why would she? Of course I’m assisting. She wouldn’t have to tell you the sky is blue, either, would she? Or how to wipe your ass perhaps?”
Another step back, a dance of retreat. Detan tensed, readying himself to spring.
“I’m sorry, watch captain. But rules are rules and you aren’t on the list. Put that blade away now and come with me, we’ll get it cleared up and you can go back to your patrol.”
Another step. With an affable little chuckle she sheathed the blade and held her palms open to the sky in mock surrender. The guard followed, drawn by the pull of her retreat. The doppel had reached the end of her task. It was up to Detan, now.
He swallowed hard, and lunged at the door.
It slammed shut, old metal hinges groaning out a protest. The guard yelped again – poor habit, that – and whirled on Detan, one hand all tangled up in his lantern, the other half-heartedly brandishing a sword.
Not-Ripka got her elbow around the lad’s neck before Detan could see his face.
The guard squawked and squirmed. A little worm of distaste wound through Detan’s guts. These weren’t real soldiers. Not fleetmen, not watchers. Just poor, scared local toughs Thratia had strong-armed into her service.
Before Detan could get a hand into things, the idiot dropped his blasted lantern. Detan froze as the crack of glass and hiss of igniting oil muted the guard’s cursing. He watched in mounting horror as the slick, glassy puddle spread its fingers over the smooth floor, reaching for the eager tinder of the shelves and files.
He locked gazes with not-Ripka, saw a flicker of uncertainty there.
“Run!” he yelled.
She twisted away from the still-squirming guard and Detan grabbed her forearm, jerking her towards the door. He heard the guard swear, heard a hollow thump as the man wrenched his coat off and set to slapping the mounting inferno into submission.
Heard the delicate swoosh of flames finding fuel enough to feed their hunger.
Warmth slapped his back as they tumbled out into the hall, boots ringing loud as alarm bells on the steel floor. He heard swears all around – hers, the guard’s. He prayed to the blue skies that the guards would be more concerned with being found responsible for burning down Thratia’s shiny new Hub than letting a couple of intruders escape.
Prayed even harder he wouldn’t wind up with an arrow in the back.
He slid to a stop before the push-button door, not-Ripka tugging his arm as she struggled to slow her momentum. Behind them shouts rose higher, strained and frantic. Old wood groaned, cleaved with a mighty crack. Detan flung the door open and leapt onto the cool sands of the night. Somehow he’d lost his grip on not-Ripka’s arm, but he wasn’t surprised at all to hear the soft tread of her feet behind him as he fled back toward the ridge. Angry as she was, the woman still had an instinct for self-preservation.
As he sprinted across the thin strip of sand between the Hub and the ridge which had concealed their approach, he spared a glance for the direction he’d seen the guards circling in earlier. Not a one was present. No doubt they’d all scarpered off to see what the hubbub was inside the Hub, and found the flames a mite more pressing than the wayward watch captain and her unknown companion. Hopefully unknown.
He grimaced, imagining the guards tongues wagging back Thratia’s way – describing the silhouette of the man who’d run off with the interloping woman of the law. She was no fool, she’d figure it out right quick.
And she had poor ole Tibs wrapped up nice and cozy in her web already.
When they’d scrambled their way up the ridge and down to the narrow ledge on which they’d rested coming up, Detan forced himself forward on jellied legs, making for the edge. The doppel grabbed his arm, holding him back.
“Take a moment and breathe, or do you want to fall your way down?”
“Tibs–” he began, but she put her palm on his chest, firm and heavy, and pushed him till his back pressed against the naked cliff face. She narrowed the distance between them. Stood so close he could smell her sweat and the haval oil she wore. He swallowed. Hard.