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Chapter 3: The Heist
🕑 Added 2023-12-15 14:16:20 +0000 UTCRylan’s stomach twisted and roiled as he snuck down to the basement of the servants’ quarters. Zahra was right in front of him, a coil of rope hidden beneath the once-white apron she wore over her livery.
“This is crazy,” Zahra whispered to him the second he reached the bottom. “I must be foggy in the head...” She was wringing her hands, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet, but there was an infectious giddiness in her darting eyes.
“You definitely are,” Rylan replied quietly, producing the keyring. “But I accept you, just the way you—ow!”
Zahra threateningly balled the hand she’d just smacked his shoulder with into a fist. “Needles, bed; don’t make me repeat myself. Now open the hatch!”
Rylan chuckled, but handed her the glowband—she’d need it more than him—and did as instructed.
The unlocked hatch produced a loud creak as they opened it, the hinges clearly due some grease. Rylan nervously glanced back at the stairs down into the basement.
Truth be told, he was no stranger to punishment.
The first time he’d rebelled had been when he was ten, only a day or two from the onset of his new, chore-filled existence. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken them all that long to find him hiding in the haystack rather than scrubbing floors. That night, he’d been forced to watch the other children eat, before he was sent to bed with nothing but salty cheeks and the sounds of his grumbling stomach as company.
A week later he’d ‘accidentally’ knocked over a vase, and that was the first time he’d been stuck in the cooler, a small stone room where’d he’d spent the night with nothing but a thin blanket and a bucket.
And of course, there was the anklet that he’d received about a season ago, after his first and only attempt to run.
It hadn’t been about the debt. For all their faults, the Thistlethorns had fed him, clothed him, raised him, and he had no intention of repaying that with ingratitude. He’d just wanted to pay it off on his terms.
He wasn’t sure what kind of punishment breaking into the Thistlethorn’s private library would merit, but he’d much rather not find out.
But the stairs remained empty; no one came to investigate the noise. And why would they? He was being paranoid.
They descended into the floaty fog, the smell of rotting mistweed welcoming them as they closed the hatch behind them without locking it—just in case they needed to make a quick getaway.
The basement had at least been lit through some barred windows at ground level. Down in the brickwork tunnels that connected the fog inlet to the condensers—with only the glowband Zahra was wearing to light their way—it was almost pitch-black.
Of course, Rylan hardly needed to see to navigate the place. Taking Zahra by the hand, he easily led the way through the cramped tunnels, warning her about sudden steps down or up and where to watch her head.
Soon enough they reached the copper tube that spiralled up around the tower.
“Remember not to put your feet in the water coming down the middle,” he cautioned. “If you slip and fall here, even in the fog...”
“I know I know!” Zahra hissed back. “Just start climbing!”
He did. Slowly.
Even when he put his feet down as gently as he could, it seemed to produce a sound that echoed through the tube, though the steady drip-dropping from the condenser at the top drowned out most of it.
The trip seemed to take forever, but eventually they made it to the metal dome at the top that housed the condensation grid and the cistern.
“Give me the rope,” he said, holding out his hand through the thick fog.
“Let’s try that again, shall we?”
Rylan rolled his eyes, but put on a posh accent. “My sincerest, apologies, milady. May I perchance have the rope, please?”
“Why of course! You needn’t but ask.”
Rylan snorted, accepted the offered length of rope, and jumped lightly up to the condensation grid. There, he hooked his legs over the cold, wet grid, and looped the rope around one of its supports where it was bolted to the metal dome. Only when he was certain the knot was secure and would be able to hold their weight even outside of the fog, did he drop back down.
In the meantime, Zahra seemed to have found the door in the side of the metal dome that led out onto the roof, and by the sound of it, was trying out keys. Rylan followed his ears towards her, and found her just as the lock clicked. The door swung open, revealing a view Rylan knew would be breathtaking, but had no interest or time to admire.
Some fog spilt out onto the flat, circular rim that surrounded the condenser chamber, but most of it remained inside, the attractive force of the grid of cloudmetal too strong, and the few wisps that did escape quickly dissipated in the heat radiating off the sandstone roof.
Crouching low, they snuck to the edge of the rooftop, where they lay down to peek over.
The small balcony outside the library was right below them, with the spiralling fogtube passing just beneath it. The balcony was outfitted with two wicker chairs with plush cushions on top of them, and a small table. Perfect for an afternoon read in the sun, Rylan supposed.
Thankfully, the sun was already close to setting, and there was no one in sight. Well, in the distance he could spot some fellow servants walking across a path of crushed shell, and a bored guard patrolling the walls, but no one was looking up.
This was it. So far, they hadn’t really done anything wrong yet, nothing they couldn’t talk their way out of. That was about to change, big time.
Rylan looked over at Zahra, and she met his gaze. He read nerves and anxiety there, but there was also a glint of excitement in her silvery-grey eyes that elicited a brief flare of nostalgia. He raised a brow, silently asking whether she wanted to continue, and she nodded.
He took a deep breath, glanced down one last time, then hefted the rope over the edge, and dropped it.
Crouched against the warm sandstone wall, a safe distance from the library balcony’s railing, Rylan watched his best friend try to work an apparently rather tricky lock, and considered that there was something uniquely ironic about trying to win his freedom, by breaking in.
Zahra’s brown curls fluttered in the cold, staticky wind, and her fingers trembled as she attempted to use a small knife and a hairpin to pick open the lock of the double doors leading into the Thistlethorn’s private library. She paused for a second to wipe her hands on her greasy apron, then doubled down on the task.
Despite her shaking digits and sweaty palms, Rylan knew better than to try and take over. Zahra had a knack for picking locks and jimmying windows, though not a Skill, unfortunately. He knew better than anyone, as her talent for it had played a major role in many of their childhood hijinks.
Like that time they’d snuck into the pantry after Grumpy Gordo had fallen asleep at his guard post, and had set free all of the frogs from the foguariums they were kept in.
Rylan would never forget the shriek the old man had let out when he was awoken by one of the critters jumping into his boot, right before they turned a corner.
With nothing to do but wait for the moment, he allowed himself a glance at the murmuration of starlings as it swarmed over the cloudsea.
As they danced through the orange-tinted sky, their wings bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, he envied them.
Not for their ability to fly, so much as their lack of bounds. They could go wherever they pleased, unbothered by guard-patrolled walls or mana-powered anklets. They could do as they pleased, without anybody shouting at them for ‘slacking off’ at their assigned tasks, even when they’d worked their ass off to finish early and earn some time for themselves. They were unburdened by expectations, and relationships, and debts.
For that, he envied them. And, fine, for their ability to fly as well.
If only there was a Skill for that.
Some motion on the cloudsea caught his attention then. A small, sleek vessel was approaching, one he didn’t recognise. It had no sails, nor did it seem to be pulled by any fogfish. Instead, it appeared to be a thin tube of bright-yellow metal, skating over the foggy surface with similarly-coloured metallic wings to provide additional lift.
Wait, is that skymetal? An entire ship made of skymetal?!
That would explain how it wasn’t falling straight down through the clouds. Skymetal weighed nothing. It did have mass, it just wasn’t affected by the pull of gravity at all.
There was a famous story of a warrior who had wielded a pure skymetal sword, and gotten disarmed. The sword had been sent tumbling up, and up, and up... and nobody had ever seen it again.
That’s why in practice, people rarely made anything from pure skymetal, and this strange, winged ship too, was probably some kind of alloy, as it started to sink down into the fog a little further when it slowed down upon its approach to the marina.
Still, the amount of skymetal that had to be incorporated to make it float at all had to have cost a small fortune.
Rylan was pulled from his deliberations when all of a sudden, with an audible click, the lock gave way.
He shared an excited look with Zahra, all thoughts of the docking vessel forgotten as she cautiously pushed down the creaking handle, and opened the door a sliver. With bated breath, he took in the dim room’s quiet, listening for carpet-muted footsteps, the crinkle of paper, or any other sign of life. But all he heard was the shrill calls of the gulls circling overhead and the drip-dropping of the fog-condenser, echoing through the spiralling copper tube.
Zahra slipped inside ahead of him, curiously glancing around at the row of freestanding shelves made of actual wood that divided the room into neat little lanes.
“All right,” Rylan whispered excitedly as he slipped in after her, moving quiet as the fog. “Remember: we’re looking for—”
“Anything to do with Skills, I know,” she interrupted, trying to sound sardonic but betrayed by the eagerness in her voice. “You start on that side, I’ll start here!”
Rylan hurried to the furthest shelf and began his search, trailing trembling fingers down leathery spines, turning his head this way then that to read the titles.
The Thistlethorns had a lot of books, and in his excitement it took him an embarrassing amount of time to realise he was checking out the romance section.
How titles like Shrouded Seduction, Whispers in the Fog, and Night of Steam hadn’t given it away to him sooner, he’d never know.
Which of them even reads this trash? Helen?
It didn’t seem like something she’d be interested in. Rylan had never heard of her even meeting with a suitor, seeming to care for nothing but her spear and her Skills. He could respect that.
Perhaps Dionne, then?
It felt strange to think about dignified Lady Thistlethorn reading things like that. Rylan liked her, as she always smiled at him and never said a mean word, but deep down he was also disappointed by her distance, that she hadn’t really taken him in as her own.
Shaking his head, he quietly hurried to the next aisle. This time, he started with a quick skim of the spines, which informed him that this shelf was stocked with book after book about botany.
Pass.
On the shelf below, he found books about food and cooking.
Hard pass.
Rylan had spent more than enough time in a kitchen for one life, so the last Skill he wanted was Cooking.
It wasn’t until he got to the other side of the aisle, that a book caught his attention.
A Brief History of the Performing Arts was not exactly what he was looking for, but it was enough to make him waver, his fingers itching to pull it off the shelf and leaf through it.
While using a combat Skill to hunt Malequints for Cubes was probably the fastest way to clear his debts, deep down he dreamed of moving to one of the Free Cities, and using his Skills to busk on the streets, maybe perform in taverns or the like.
But in order to achieve that, he had to stay focused. He needed secrets, not tips and tricks or history lessons.
As he moved to the next aisle, however, his eye caught a book lying open besides an oil lamp on a small desk, next to the door leading to the hall. He made his way over to the dim corner, and pulled the spring-loaded plunger on the lamp. The firemetal tip crashed into the ignition plate with a sharp ‘ping,’ which seemed awfully loud in the quiet room, causing Ryan to freeze even as a flame sprang to life.
It remained silent in the hall.
Only when he was certain no one was coming, did he carefully lift the book and hold its cover in the soft glow of the lantern’s lit wick. Fancy gold lettering proclaimed its title to be ‘The Glorious Rise of the Hermean Empire.’
Rylan had heard the word used as a descriptor before, like people calling something exceedingly clever a ‘Hermean insight,’ but he’d never heard of their empire, so he guessed it no longer existed.
What drew his attention, however, was the symbol on the cover: a hexagon containing a kind of wisp, or flame, he wasn’t quite sure. It seemed oddly... familiar.
The symbol tugged on something deep inside of him, and despite all his urgency, he found himself sitting down and bending over the open pages, driven by a desire—new, yet equally fervent—to figure out where he’d seen it before.
Unfortunately, the book was written in what appeared to be a somewhat older dialect.
Curious as he was, Rylan did not have the time to decipher it. However, right as he was about to get up and move on, his eyes fell on a drawing of... a ship? The strange vessel appeared to be made entirely of wood, and moreover, had a mast about as tall as the ship was long, with a rather large sail attached to it.
His brows furrowed as he studied it dubiously. Much like a ship made of skymetal, one made entirely of wood would be wildly expensive, and moreover, it wouldn’t even work! Even the lightest of woods was still far too heavy to float on the Cloudsea by itself, and with a sail like that, even a mild breeze would capsize a ship that narrow. The idea seemed on the level of a portcullis made of pure gold: just as extravagant as it was stupid. Perhaps this is simply a rejected, conceptual invention of some kind?
Unfortunately, Rylan was so caught up in studying the mindboggling sketch, that despite the door being right next to his desk, he didn’t notice the sound of a key wiggling inside of its lock.
Not until it clicked, anyway.
Author's note:
Couldn’t add this to the chapter, as it really doesn’t fit the tone of the book, but the most terrible water-vapour-related booktitle I came up with for the romance section, has to be Cloudy with a Chance of Meatsticks. ^^
Post your own terrible title in the comments!
