The Islands of Sand and Steel

Chapter Eighteen: Captain Lily and the Listener

Clea balanced carefully on her paddleboard, her knees bending as she ate the tame waves one at a time. Her paddle made no sound as it dipped into the water, pushing her smoothly along.

This time, she was not tailing anyone. Her destination was her next employer, an eccentric pirate captain who had lately taken a suspiciously keen interest in the revolution in the upper levels. There were many rumors surrounding this woman, but only rumors. Clea would make no assumptions until she saw her.

The pirate's ship, the Lucky James, resolved in the murky distance. Clea stepped from her wakeboard onto its deck, pulling the board up behind her. Instantly, two crew members, one man and one woman, drew their weapons.

Before they could speak, Clea held up a calming hand and drew a slip of paper. It was her calling card. She handed it to the woman, who took it while the man kept his knife between them.

"Hey, Hakoa!" said the woman. "Got something for you."

Another crew member walked up, doing a double-take when she saw Clea. "Who is that?"

"A messenger," said the man. "Look what she brought us."

Hakoa took the note. "It's a signature," she said. "This says, 'Clea Bremer, informant.'" She looked up at Clea. "You're the girl who the captain hired, aren't you?"

Clea nodded.

"Well, she's off shopping for something... bullets, that's it. We're down to our last three, so she's stocking up. Said she'll be back in a few."

Clea nodded again, then turned and leapt off the ship, onto the dock where it rested, and padded into the underworld town. Her sharp ears picked up on the male pirate saying, "Some talker, huh?"

Clea smothered a little spark of rage. All her life, she had been mocked for her speechlessness, and it had not gotten any easier to bear.

Sunlight tickled Clea's face. This was Matanitu, one of the oldest and biggest towns in the underworld. Shanties, outposts and trading hubs had grown out from the prosperous central farm, expanding it into a two-leveled mass of wood and metal. She ducked into the outer ring of the town, under a broken wooden brace, then grabbed a ledge and swung herself up to the second level, clasping onto a building facade just beside someone's window.

Clea felt a rush that she knew well. It had been too long since she had practiced her parkour. She leapt away from the wall, onto a beam that ran above the roofs, then across a street. She landed on a metal plate, and it banged against its fittings with a painful crash. Before anyone could react to the noise, Clea was off to the next rooftop.

Finally, she landed at the Mbonga's Workshop. Ostensibly, this store sold only clubs, axes and bows. But Clea knew about the secret basement, where Mbonga sold colonial firearms to his favorite patrons.

She slipped into the shop, through the sunroof, which was a mark of great status here in Matanitu, onto the well-kept wooden floor. She tiptoed over the floorboards, feeling their hollowness beneath her feet, and slipped past shelves stacked with artfully crafted wood and stone tools. She slid behind the counter and knelt by the lock that secured the trapdoor shut. She drew out a sack full of lockpicks, selected one and set to work. For a few minutes, her tiny fingers plied the troublesome contraption until it finally clicked open. She eased it open and poured herself through.

"...that's a big risk," said Mbonga's familiar voice. "I've never heard of that brand before, but it looks good."

"Mbonga, you're sharper than a tack," said a young female voice. "If it looks good to you, there's no risk at all. I'll take twenty."