26th of Nema

Last night ended in a blur. The Captain and NaVarre decided they would do a reconnaissance run of the vault in the morning, and then the Captain announced that he was going to go get some sleep and tromped off to bed.

I couldn't really remember walking back up to my guest suite. It was more a vague impression of dragging my exhausted self up two flights of stairs and down a hallway. Then I was sitting in the mound of pillows on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest even though there was enough room on the mattress for five of me. There was a luxurious silk bedspread that I could have burrowed under, too, but the thought of being that relaxed made me feel horribly vulnerable, so I simply sat there staring at the frieze sculptures on the walls.

They were etched with scenes of various rustic situations – field workers eating a meal beneath a tree; women and children harvesting grapes; men and women reaping hay. The marble was pockmarked by exposure, streaked by rain, as if they had been salvaged from an old-world ruin somewhere. If they were, it must have cost a fortune to bring them across the sea to this place. Once again, I found myself wondering how much money NaVarre really had.

Montlander sheepskin rugs were scattered over the sunwood floor, their delicate, perfect ringlets gleaming soft ivory in the light of several gold-flecked spun-glass star lamps suspended from the ceiling. I had seen similar lights in specialty import shops in Porte-d'Exalle. They were handblown by the Hermidians in Jovald, and they usually sold for a few hundred marks apiece. I did the math: there was roughly five years' wages for ten people hanging up there above my head.

Sleep was still slow in coming, so I kept looking, taking in the sheer opulence around me. The fireplace had a copperlip. There was also a towel warmer built into the ornately carved chimney surround, with a stack of fat, fluffy white towels in it.

It was a beautiful room. Stunning, even. But nothing felt safe, not even NaVarre's extravagant wealth. I was surrounded by comfort and warmth, and still I felt small, and weak, and violated. It was over. I was alive and breathing, but that didn't matter. All I had to do was stop moving for a moment and thick fingers were around my throat, and I was being ground against the wall like an insect.

Even though I survived, the message had been loud and clear: the Coventry knew I was in the Colonies, and they could hunt me down and strangle me into silence.

I started shaking. Hard.

~~~

Eventually, exhaustion must have conquered everything else. I woke to the sound of the maid pulling the curtains open.

I was still curled in a ball in the middle of the bedspread. Slowly, I shifted my aching limbs and sat up, squinting against the bright light now streaming into the room. It had to be late morning, if not early afternoon.

The maid turned to look at me, hands crossed politely at her waist. "Miss, I'm that sorry to wake you, but Mrs. Burre says I must put a new compress on your throat and give you some white willow."

I started to say, "That's alright," but all that came out was a raspy, breathy whisper. I closed my mouth and nodded instead.

The maid had brought a tray with her, with a plate of freshly baked breakfast pastries and a mug of chilled milk. She also had a small bag full of medical supplies, and she made quick work of changing the compress and doling out ten drops of white willow tincture into a glass of water. Then she busied herself with laying out an elegant pale blue day dress I had never seen before.

I raised an eyebrow as I nibbled at a pastry, wondering just how many dresses NaVarre had on hand. In my exact size. I pursed my lips and gave the day dress a suspicious squint. Just how had he known my size, anyway?

The maid stayed long enough to help me into my clothes, then brushed my hair and pinned it up for me while I avoided looking at myself in the mirror, not wanting to find out how much I had – or hadn't – changed. When she was done I waved away the velvet tray of jewelry she tried to offer, and stood up. I had been coddled enough. There were more important things to worry about.

A few minutes later I was on my way down to NaVarre's study, intent on finding out if there was any news from Nim K.

~~~

"There's a row of bank clerks here, along this side wall," Arramy said, his long, tan middle finger tracing a line on the blueprints spread over NaVarre's office desk. "It's like any normal vault service. You'll walk past all the bank clerks and take your claim ticket to this room here." He tapped a square at the back of the lobby helpfully titled 'Vaultier's Office.' "The Vaultier will take your ticket, ask for your passphrase, and give you your key, then show you on through to this hallway, here. There are two guards in the hallway, and two more in the vault room. The Vaultier leaves once you're in the vault room, and one of the guards unlocks this big metal door here."

NaVarre whistled. "Not too shabby for a Colonial bank. Makes me wonder what they have in there."

Arramy leveled a chilly glare at him and kept going. "The vault is one thing. The bigger problem is outside. There were Magis combing the streets when I went in – clothbadges, probably deputized just for this manhunt, but they're everywhere. They were flashing a search bulletin around, and they were going after men of my description. If I show my face out there again, they might take a bigger interest. I can't go in with her."

NaVarre nodded once. "Then I'll go. You can watch the door from cover outside."

Arramy shook his head. "That won't be good enough. There are two entry points and multiple angles of attack in the lobby, but only one way out of the Vaultier's office. If they come after you in there, it'll be hunting puckmucks. You won't have anywhere to go but back into the vault. And that place is a fortress. I won't be able to get to you from outside the building."

"So, what do you suggest, then?" NaVarre snapped, his harsh tone making me flinch. "A heist? It takes months to plan a job like this. It looks like an ex-thief designed this place. There aren't any shared walls, there aren't any sewers or pre-existing sub-structures to tunnel up from, and with the descriptions you've given, I'd guess the safe is a Kreighammer – solid-poured carbonic steel, with a shell of pressure relievers that can handle several hundred thousand pounds of pressure per centimeter. I could blow the whole building and that safe would still be standing. Heisting isn't even an option."

Arramy rolled his eyes and gave NaVarre a disgusted look. "Does your brain always go around the sides of a thing? We need more people. Five or six in the lobby, more outside, enough eyes to watch the front and back, enough guns to take on a bunch of armed civilians. Miss Warring wouldn't even need to be there. One of your lady pirates could take the ticket in – "

"Not with a passphrase," NaVarre said bluntly. "Bren is the only person who has any hope of figuring out what that passphrase is. And the vaultier might have another silvograph. We can't afford to botch this up. There won't be another try, not with the Coventry this close on our tail. She has to go in."

Arramy's jaw tightened. "She can't even talk," he growled. He didn't bother looking at me, as if I wasn't sitting right there, wondering how on earth we were ever going to get anywhere with the two of them going at each other like sparring roosters.

NaVarre glanced deliberately at me. "Sure she can," he said, flashing a big, glittery smile that was probably supposed to be encouraging, but made him look predatory. "It's a question or two, tops."

"And maybe a bullet," Arramy muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked awful – like he had fought four hired hitmen. Bruises were forming from several blows he had taken to the face, and he was still favoring his left leg, courtesy of a knife wound. I couldn't quite believe NaVarre hadn't seen those last two men. I wanted to kick him for running off to get the wagon, although that had been the agreed upon course of action.

"Look," Arramy went on, his voice weary. "I don't care how noble you think your cause is. I'm not in the habit of marching my men into hell for no reason. If you don't take enough backup to get yourself out of that lobby, I'm done."

NaVarre stared at him for a moment. Then he sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "It'll mean detailing more people on the plans. We won't be able to go in until tomorrow. And like you keep saying, the longer we wait, the bigger the target on her back."

Arramy nodded slightly, then turned on his heels and started for the door.

I couldn't tell if he was calling NaVarre's bluff, or if he really was going to walk out. Just like that. Just... leave. Sail off without so much as a backward glance.

I didn't even think. I was lurching out of my chair to stumble after him when NaVarre suddenly yelled, "Fine!"

Then he took a breath and tried again. "Fine. Alright. We'll bring backup. Ten of yours, ten of mine."

Arramy had already opened the metal barrier, and a split-second hesitation before he put his hand on the door pull was the only sign that he had heard NaVarre. Then he was gone, leaving NaVarre and I alone in the silence of the study.

I sat back down, my heart in my throat.

Without warning NaVarre snatched up a conch-shell paper weight from his desk and sent it hurtling across the room, where it crashed against one of the bookcases, splintering a shelf and shattering a vase. "If you weren't so good at marching into hell, you'd be nothing but a loose end!" he snarled at the empty doorway. "But hell is where we're going, and I need someone with experience getting out!"

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Puckmuck: A flocking, flightless ground bird that huddles tightly together in a group when threatened, making it extremely easy to shoot more than one. The phrase 'hunting puckmucks' implies that a situation is a sure thing in favor of the hunter, and an inescapable death for the prey.

Copperlip: a copper shelf along the inside of the fireplace specially designed to keep kettles of water hot without boiling so that a bath could be refreshed quickly without having a servant lug buckets up from the boiler room.