Chapter 12

If one was feeling generous, they could call the plan audacious. The object was simple: to switch a small crate filled with valuable imports for a replica, and make away with the real deal before anyone noticed. The complication was that the only place where that was an even feasible operation was inside the actual skycrane yard on the border with hell.

Scorio marched along with the rest of the team, a band of surly, focused youths all dressed in House Chimera greens, the badge that depicted the lion and goat-headed monster with a snake for a tail large and clear over their hearts.

The uniforms felt authentic, and the way folks in the streets gave them a wide berth indicated others felt so as well.

“C’mon,” said Skarx, their leader, a bronze-skinned man with hair pleated back in tight rows over his scalp. “Cycle’s nearly over. We’re going to be late.”

The band picked up their speed, breaking into a dignified jog, six in all, three rows deep. The buildings had grown progressively more ostentatious and imposing the closer they got to Hell’s Door, and when the terminus of the vast cylinder finally broke into view, Scorio stared.

The sun-wire extended to another ivory projection, ornate and intricately carved as the other end, but this circle was circumscribed by searing blue. For a moment, Scorio thought he was staring at huge panels of glowing sunphire, but then he realized they were holes. Massive gaps that looked out into hell. To a cerulean blue sky, across which floated wisps of white cloud.

Four vast ivory beams secured the central circle to the perimeter, each broad enough for three carriages to ride down, side by side.

“Those are the skies of hell?” he asked the man at his side, but the fellow grunted noncommittally and kept jogging.

The avenue up which they were running speared straight toward one of the monstrous blue gaps, the one owned ostensibly by House Chimera. The streets here were in pristine condition, the paving blocks broad and smooth, the buildings freshly painted, the fountains pouring forth crystal clear water every other block. Verdant trees rose from street corners, and wealthy citizens walked along the sidewalks, arm in arm, each dressed in a more ostentatious robe than the last.

Members of House Chimera were everywhere. Dressed in their slate greens, they appeared severe and regal, disdainful to the point of aloofness. Each member moved with a purpose, often in pairs, or guided caravans laden with goods down the center of the avenue, crying out with peremptory authority at anyone who got in their way.

But Scorio couldn’t tear his gaze away from those blue skies. The sense of depth. As if all of Bastion peered out through them at an azure void.

“Look sharpish now,” said Skarx. “Nobody breathe a word without my permission.”

Up ahead the avenue terminated in a great gate through which traffic bogged down to a crawl, empty wagons and carts lined up one side to enter the great skycrane yard, others heavily laden with goods creaking and swaying as they exited. All were checked for accurate documentation, and House Chimera guards were everywhere, walking up and down the lines, gathered at the main gate, peering down from guard towers that loomed overhead.

Skarx strode up to a side gate embedded in one of the towers, and there came to attention with admirable precision, snapping out a salute as an officer on duty looked up from a sheaf of papers to frown at him.

“Early for your shift, Sergeant?”

Skarx stared straight ahead. “Priority shipment coming in, Captain. Was told to be here before Second Rust.”

The captain glanced up at the sun-wire. “Then you’re cutting it close.”

Without being prompted, Skarx presented his badge, unclipping it from his chest, and the captain glanced at it, turning it around to read something on the back before nodding and handing it back. “On your way then.”

Through the tower they went, a series of square rooms filled with weaponry, desks, and irate House Chimera guards. Skarx stared ahead fixedly, and a moment later they stepped out into the skycrane yard proper.

Scorio had been warned not to gape. A great expanse of flat ground was piled high with crates, baskets, bales, and boxes, while an intricate dance was orchestrated by Chimera operatives with flags, who blew whistles and directed carts and wagons in a complex interweaving, somehow keeping everyone moving and preventing accidents at the same time.

But it was the wall of machinery that edged the blue sky that drew his attention. House Chimera owned a dozen skycranes, each twenty yards tall and anchored by huge counterweights to the very edge of the city. Huge gears turned, teeth interlocking, causing the skycranes to revolve and reach out into the void, where he saw them mirrored by other cranes lowering goods into their clutching maws.

Each of the other three blue segments boasted their own complement of cranes. It seemed importing goods was of prime importance to ever House.

Bastion, he’d learned, was a cylinder buried like a well in the Rascor Plains, the first and largest expanse of hell. Gravity pulled those within the city toward the curving sides, but once you emerged into hell proper, gravity would pull you down in the direction of the Dead Portal. Stepping out over the lip was an extremely disorienting experience, and an inexperienced traveler could find themselves trapped at the forty-five-degree angle, pulled in both directions, but having lost momentum, unable to break free until rescued.

Hence the skycranes.

Even as they marched through the busy yard, Scorio watched one of the massive, ungainly machines reach out into the void and close its huge mouth around a large bundle of barrels that were netted together and lowered down by a sister skycrane mounted over the edge. The skycrane secured its grip on the cargo, the other released and retracted its long neck. The Bastion-side crane then drew back, rotated, and lowered the barrels onto a loading bay.

It was disorienting just to watch, much less to imagine crossing over.

“Here we go,” said Skarx, voice pitched low for them alone. “Try and look halfway alive.”

An inside team had prepared the groundwork for them, setting a crate just large enough for a full-grown man to curl up inside by a wall, two carrying poles stacked upon it. Skarx stood facing outward, hands on his hips, as four of their team took up the poles and slid them through the hoops mounted atop the crate. They lifted the poles to their shoulders, and then set out after Skarx toward the loading bay.

Audacity would see them through, Skarx had explained. “Expensive goods are taken straight from the loading bay to high-security warehouses by teams of ten. Unless you’re willing to start an open war in the streets, there’s no way of taking Chimera’s prize goods once they leave the loading bay.”

The bay itself was raised a good six yards above the yard, fenced off and dominated by the skycrane, which was operated by a team of engineers. These stood on a platform and called out instructions to a large team of men who goaded massive oxen into turning a driving gear, while others operated the levers that managed the maws.

Skarx led their team through the broad gate into the private confines of the loading bay. It was fairly crowded, but everyone here was dressed in House Chimera greens. Recently off-loaded goods were being carted out by house porters, and the action was thick enough that Skarx was able to lead them to one side of the bay and there stand at the ready, ignored by everyone who seemed to stare right through them.

Affording Scorio ample time to stare out at those broad blue skies. Clouds a mile away drifted past, wispy and dreamlike, and he fought the urge to break ranks and move right to the rim, to peer out and down at the Rascor Plains.

“Here it is,” said Skarx. “On my mark, move in fast to retrieve the target.”

A large crate was being lowered to the stone bay by the skycrane, whose huge, clutching head opened once it had settled. Porters stepped in with crowbars and efficiently popped out one end, revealing tightly packed contents. Immediately a line of men began to empty out the goods, moving some here, others there, until at last their target was revealed.

A small crate, two feet wide, and marked on the top with the official House Chimera crest. Paperwork was checked, and the small box was carried to a priority area where it was deposited on a large, red-painted square.

Scorio tensed at the sight of the crate. Not because it was their target, but due to some intangible reaction to its presence. It called to him, somehow.

“Watch for the factotum,” Skarx hissed at Scorio, and marched up to the guards overseeing the priority area, saluted, and without asking moved to retrieve the crate.

Scorio scanned the crowd for the official. The one man who’d cry foul if he spotted them taking hold of the crate. Chimera greens, he’d been told, with a green sash across his chest.

He wasn’t in sight.

“The trick,” Skarx had explained, “is to try and steal something valuable but not too valuable. Something worth the effort, but not so important as to be truly guarded.”

Which this box wasn’t, it seemed. Skarx hefted it and brought it back to their team.

They immediately popped open their own crate and removed an identical box from its interior, an exact duplicate of the one they were going to steal.

One of their team moved the box back into the red zone while their target was placed inside the larger crate and sealed up.

“You do anything with enough confidence in the yards,” Skarx had said, grinning widely at them all only hours ago, “and nobody will bat an eyelid. Look bored, look purposeful, look the part, and everyone’ll assume you know what you’re about. Easy.”

The four men lifted the carrying poles to their shoulders and began marching out of the loading bay, down the broad ramp to the yard below.

Everyone swirled around them, purposeful, focused, bored. How many of them were imposters like their team? Any or all of them.

They got as far as the security fence around the foot of the loading bay when someone shouted the alarm.

“Fast trot lads,” said Skarx through gritted teeth. “Only sprint if I say so. And don’t look back.”

Their team began to hustle through the suddenly turgid crowd, spearing toward the distant gate which suddenly seemed a mile away.

“There!” The voice was pitched in outrage. “Those men! Stop those men!”

“All right,” called out Skarx, “let’s try that sprint.”

They barreled forward, but Scorio knew they were done for. The crowd scattered before them, alarmed and confused by their uniforms, but the guards at the main gate were turning to look, faces closing in anger, and there were far too many of them to simply shove their way through.

Scorio heard men coming pounding up behind them. He glanced back, saw a dozen Chimera guards in green running through the loading bay gate after them.

Shouts of alarm and screams of panic began to spread through the crowd, which drew back, most of them confused, nobody seeming to understand what was going on.

Scorio’s second job was to buy the team time if this worst-case scenario took place. How he was then supposed to get out after hadn’t been specified.

Skarx stumbled to a halt, the rest of the men crowding in behind him, and Scorio saw a large contingent of guards coming their way.

“We’re done for!” shouted one of the men, and unshouldered his pole to tear off into the crowd.

The crate listed to the side, half-slid down the rear pole as one end dropped to the ground, and then completely unbalanced and crashed to the ground.

Scorio had moments in which to act. He could tackle the guards, try to hold them off, and no doubt be swarmed immediately. Or—

He stepped up beside the toppled crate. The impact had jarred it open. Kicking the lid off, he crouched down and wrenched off the smaller crate’s top.

A black velvet purse was held suspended in a mass of stuffed straw.

It wasn’t the sight of it that hit him like a punch to the chest. It was the blast of desire and hunger that arose within him, a need to possess the pouch, an avarice he didn’t understand.

Scorio grabbed it, heard Skarx scream, then threw himself into a backward roll just as a blade slashed down where he’d been a second ago.

He came up on his feet, backed away from the three guards who wheeled around to chase him, then sprinted toward the closest wall. He made sure to pick a stretch with no doorways, no goods piled up against it, and as fast as he could, Helena’s sandals flapping against his feet. Don’t snap, don’t snap, don’t—

The guards chasing him slowed, as he’d hoped. He had nowhere to go, had foolishly run right into what was effectively a dead end. The wall was four yards high, thick and weathered, its sides rough but defying any easy attempt to be climbed.

Scorio pulled out the bridge and fought to summon an image of his Igneous Heart.

Doing so while running proved impossible. His breath burned in his throat, his pulse pounded, his senses were raw, and his back itched in anticipation of a stab at any second.

He couldn’t do it. The image bounced before his eyes but failed to coalesce.

Five yards from the base of the wall he skidded to a stop, turned, and saw the three guards stop as well, grins plastered over their faces, blades held competently in their fists. They began to spread out, cutting off his avenues of escape.

“You made a serious miscalculation,” said one, his voice rich with triumph. “Surrender now, and who knows? Maybe the House will go easy on you.”

“You’re right,” said Scorio, fighting to regain his breath. “I surrender.” And he closed his eyes and raised his hands.

Fought for an image of his Igneous Heart. Heard the guards approach, their slow footsteps betraying their confidence.

There. Sharp-edged, its facets gleaming darkly. The air was saturated with heavy gray smoke, not coppery as in Dola’s chamber, not sooty black like that underground, but soft and iron-hued, rich and resistant to his will.

Without time to question, he swirled it with enormous effort about his Heart once, twice, and then directed a stream deep into the bridge, just as he bent down to prop it against the floor.

The bridge burst outward, exploding up and arching over the top of the wall almost instantly. The guards froze with shocked expressions on their faces.

Taking his chalk, he slashed a quick line before the base of the bridge, then raced up the steeply angled slats.

Shouts of alarm, of outrage, and then a cry of pain and shock. Scorio risked a glance—the guards had slammed full tilt into the chalk’s invisible wall.

Up he ran, half-climbing, black velvet purse in hand, then leaped off the bridge onto the top of the wall.

Six seconds had passed, but still, the bridge remained in place. He froze, not wanting to abandon it. Guards were closing in, and some of them raised bows, nocking arrows to their strings.

Still the bridge refused to shrink, obstinate, massive, and Scorio ducked behind its rearing upper end as the arrows came hissing in, bouncing off the timbers instead of sinking into the wood.

Only then did the bridge contract, springing up into the air and dropping into Scorio’s palm.

It was a five-yard drop to the stone street on the other side. Pulling out his iron rod, he closed his eyes, summoned his Igneous Heart, and leaped.

And as he fell, he swept the iron-hued clouds into the rod.

It froze with a jerk, mid-air.

He nearly lost his grip as he was yanked to a stop, and there swung, hanging from the rod only two yards off the ground. He held on tight, waiting for the rod to release, but like the bridge, it hung suspended far longer than it should have.

Grimacing in annoyance, Scorio fell into a crouch. Shouts came from the gate, nearly fifty yards along the wall, and he saw guards rush out into view. They saw him immediately and began running in his direction.

“Come on!” he shouted at the rod, which hung serenely in the air above him. He kept glancing at the guards as they drew closer, tried to gauge the very last moment he could wait, and just as he was about to take off the rod dropped out of the sky.

He caught it neatly, burst across the street, and dove into an alleyway. The sun-wire overhead was growing darker, Second Rust, and the shadows were rich and welcoming.

But the guards were tenacious. They kept after him, no matter how many side streets and alleyways he ducked into.

Gasping for breath, with no idea as to where he was, he spilled out into a blind courtyard where a small crowd of young women in brightly colored dresses was lined up and rehearsing a dance before a gray-bearded man. Their formation collapsed into disarray as he crashed through their ranks, apologizing loudly as he went, but when he reached the far side, he saw there was nowhere to go. Just closed front doors, balconies that were too high up to be leaped at, and shuttered windows.

The music came to an abrupt end, and the old man yelled in outrage as the Chimera guards rushed into the courtyard.

Scorio closed his eyes, dropped to his knees, and sought his Igneous Heart. He felt swirling coppery-red clouds around him, and with enormous effort wrenched them into the bridge once more. The effort cost him; there was plenty of cloud matter in the air, but his very being felt exhausted, numb from too much exertion.

Someone grabbed his shoulder just as the bridge activated.

Scorio clasped the upper edge as it did so and was torn upward with the expanding bridge to be hurled into the air.

The guard’s grip fell away. Scorio opened his eyes as he hurtled up, the bridge massive beneath him, arching up the face of the building to crash against its facade, just shy of the flat roof. He flew over the edge and fell among large clay pots filled with ferns, to roll across a carpet and fetch up before a wizened old woman sitting cross-legged upon a thick cushion, a massively curled pipe in one hand.

“Ah,” said the old woman, staring clear through him with a beatific smile. “You have returned, my naughty dove.”

Scorio leaped to his feet, ran back, and leaned out over the retaining wall in time to see the bridge contract and start to fall. He snatched at it with a convulsive sweep and stuffed it into his robe.

Why had it lasted for less time?

No time to ponder the question. Five Chimera guards were staring up at him in perplexity, the crowd of dancers gaping behind them, their dancing master still shouting curses at everyone.

Scorio backed away and checked the black velvet pouch. There was a single slender object within it. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the seated old woman who was giggling into her hand and waving coyly at him, Scorio took off across the rooftop, dodging around large pots, and gaining enough speed to leap over the intervening gulf onto the next building over.

He kept running, ignoring protests, angry cries, the shrieks of children and everyone else he disturbed until at last, he jumped onto a roof with an obvious stairwell leading down the side to the street.

Gulping for air, covered in sweat, he tore off the Chimera overrobe, leaving him in Feiyan’s faded set, and forced himself to walk slowly into the crowd, there melding into the flow of foot traffic and walking toward the ruins until he was convinced he wasn’t being followed.

Scorio walked till his heart ceased pounding. Only then did he step into an alleyway whose narrow depths were choked in gray ivy and purple flowers to hold up the black velvet pouch in the dim, roseate light of Second Rust and see what it was within that called to him so.