Steal the Sky by Megan E. O'Keefe

though the house importing isn’t noted.” Banch handed the papers back to the woman.
    â€œDifficult to get distribution in Aransa without a mercer house to back you.” Ripka raised her brows in innocent question at the woman. “How’d you manage it?”
    The woman took back the papers and spread her arms wide as she shrugged. “The Mercer Collective has become amenable to independent enterprise as of late.”
    â€œLucky for you.” Ripka motioned toward the cloth-covered cart. “I’m sure you won’t mind if we check the goods against the manifest, then.”
    The woman’s expression rippled, a subtle disturbance, but enough to put Ripka on sharper guard. She swallowed her barksap and stepped toward the cart, sparing a glance to make sure Banch had her covered. With one hand she peeled back the cover to reveal a mound of stacked crates, each one no bigger than the length of her forearm on each side. She tipped her head to the man. “Open it.”
    He glanced at the woman, got a nod of approval and shrugged. From somewhere on the cart he grabbed a pry bar and heaved the crate’s lid open, wood and metal groaning with each tug. The man tossed the levered top to the ground and nudged aside a fistful of straw packing. Between the dried grasses Ripka could just make out the deep amber of liqueur bottles, their tops sealed by red wax stamped with the shape of a bee.
    â€œRemove one,” Ripka ordered.
    â€œHere to levy a tax, watch captain?” the woman said, this time not bothering to hide her smirk.
    Ripka ignored her, instead keeping her gaze on the bottle the man removed. It was in the round-bottomed style currently fashionable, made possible by funneling sel into the glass during the manufacturing process. She frowned, something not quite right about the shape of it twisting through her mind.
    â€œYou see?” the woman said. “Nothing strange about a bottle.”
    Except that it was too short to fill the crate. Ripka returned the woman’s smirk. “True, but I’m more interested in what’s in the crate’s false bottom.”
    The woman’s grin lost its mirth, her eyes went hard as flint. “I don’t know what you mean, captain. Perhaps you’d like to take a bottle to try? To make sure the quality is up to the standards you expect for Aransa.”
    â€œBribes?” Ripka clucked her tongue. “You must think you’re talking to someone else.” She caught the man’s gaze and flicked her eyes to the crate. “Break that open completely. Now.”
    The man shifted his weight, fingers going white around the neck of the bottle he’d presented to her. The woman chewed her lip, and Ripka allowed herself a small smile at the recognition of nervousness, of distress.
    â€œScatter!” the woman yelled loud as her lungs would let her.
    Before Ripka could get a shot off, the man threw the bottle at her feet, a foamy explosion of alcohol-drenched honey sweetening the air. She swore and fired at the woman, swore again when she saw the bolt skim off the woman’s cheek without causing more damage than a rockcat scratch.
    Banch loosed his shot, missed, then leap-tackled the man who had thrown the bottle as he bolted right by him. Ripka jumped over the tangled pair, reloading her bow with practiced ease as she ducked into the warehouse after the woman.
    Mountains of identical crates dotted the warehouse, great stepped pyramids of them rising up on all sides. Ripka spared them only the briefest of glances. Some part of her couldn’t help but register the expense involved in such an operation. Her steps were silent, the dirt-packed floor smoothed by the passing of many feet. Half of the wall sconces had been lit in anticipation of the night’s work, the flickering flames throwing strange shadows in her path.
    â€œTurn yourselves over, and we won’t use force,” Ripka called, though