THE OMASHU JOB

1

Omashu. I can't believe I'm back in Omashu.

It's high summer in the city and the sandstone walls bleed heat like a tandoor oven. Even this late at night, the rush and clatter of the chutes echo through the streets. In dozens of terrace gardens, the cicada-moths trill and trill. Everything smells dry and rank and dusty. Even the scent of the neighbors' fresh naan has a rancid edge to it.

Not so different as I left it, truth be told.

I'm cramped up in this shabby little flat, sweating my balls off, waiting for a certain message to arrive at my doorstep. Again, not at all different than how I spent my last tenure in this fair city. I have no idea when that knock on my door is gonna come—could be in fifteen minutes, could come tomorrow night. Might never come. The bastards I'm working with ain't worth shit when it comes to logistics. Not that it matters, but it leaves a lot of time to wait and think and stew in my own revolting juices.

So. Here I sit, at a desk three sizes too small, with one of these newfangled fountain pens and a pile of paper I bought on a whim down at the Bulon Street bazaar. I want this to be over and done with tonight, so I don't think there'll be much fucking around. I hope. It's so easy to get rambling these days. I barely even notice that I'm doing it.

All right.

I suppose that this is a confession, then.

A long time ago—though it only feels like a week or so, sometimes—I came to Omashu to pull a job. No matter how many years have passed since then, I've never told a soul about what happened here. Being in the city again has summoned up all those old spirits, and given that I maybe don't have all that much time left, I figure that someone else ought to know. Even if I never meet 'em.

Cutting out the shit: I'm a thief. I've been a thief ever since I could properly run from whoever it was I was stealing from. You spend your whole life being a criminal, you tend to end up one of two ways: dead, or really good at it. Obviously, I'm the second thing. Still plenty of time to end up the first.

I been all over. Broke safes in Ba Sing Se. Lifted cargo from Fire Nation merchant marines in port. Dodged a dozen colonial patrols in towns long since gone ghostly. Extracted payola from South Pole whalers far outside their territories. Skimmed payroll from Republic steel contractors. Hell, I've been around long enough that I robbed coaches on the rim of the Great Divide.

But Omashu . . . Omashu's the one that's always stuck with me. I still wake up some nights with the sensation of my sandals slapping against the cobbles—smoke scraping my insides—panic and desperate anger still rising molten years after the fact.

It began like this:

"I have a job for you."

The words were brushed sloppily on cheap parchment, delivered to me by a falcon messenger. Below them were a meet-up site, some basic directions, and a single name that made it all snap together. I could've recognized that half-ass scrawl from across a busy market. It was only then that I started to take things seriously. Within a couple of hours, what things I had were packed and I was on the road, hooking rides toward Omashu.

It's easy to remember when all this took place, because it was just a couple of weeks after the end of the Hundred-Year War. Back in that manic, happy period between the Avatar's victory and the start of all those endless negotiations over colony rights and reparations. The only thing on people's lips—from the swankiest nobles to the piss-poorest beggars—was the sudden peace. Seemed like there was a goddamn parade or impromptu festival in every town I passed through. You couldn't hear yourself think for all the fireworks.

At the time, I was living a bit rough in this oceanside crap-heap of a town, drawing in a bit of money as muscle for a local numbers racket. The work was neither challenging nor rewarding. Every day I could feel my true skills withering. As such, the summons was as welcome as it was unexpected. I took the time to tender my resignation via a hearty go-fuck-yourself, but that was it. I didn't even take the time to clear everything out of the shack I had been squatting in—just grabbed what I could carry and was soon on my way.

Everything came together in this little roadside inn, just northwest of the city. A rough-hewn place leaning in on itself even in its heyday. It ain't there anymore, and I'll be damned if I can remember its name. Not that it's important.

We all met around the appointed time, each slipping in unobtrusively through the front doors as if just dropping by for a nightcap. All but two came in alone, but that was the way of it—every one of us knew not to make it a show. I wasn't the first, or the second, and each one of us made the entrance with a practiced apathy. Just travelers drifting in for a drink. Just a handful of men thirsty from the dust and heat and stink of the road.

There were five of us. A good number for a job like that. All guys I'd worked with in the past. All guys I'd looked forward to running with again.

Leng was pure, old-blood Fire Nation. The pale skin, amber eyes, and high, noble brow. That uncanny ability to talk down to anyone and everyone, regardless of rank or class. A skilled flimflam man, good on his feet and even better when it came to getting into small, out-of-the-way places. Too bad he had a junk habit long as a skink-viper and twice as twisted.

The Twins weren't actually twins, of course, but they looked enough alike that people had to ask. They got so sick of explaining they weren't related that they just started saying that they were. Turns out Kuru and Wen had come up together under the same earth-bending sifu, which explained why all their moves looked so goddamn similar. It didn't explain the identical tattoos and facial hair, but what the hell—they had a good racket, and who was I to question it?

Then there was Matsuma. My man. My brother.

I met Matsuma when we were both street punks running away from different orphanages. Matsu was a mutt and a runt of a thing, all protruding bones beneath his skin. He had the copper eyes of Fire and wiry hair of Earth and a touch of brown in his skin that might have been Water. Later, when he got a little political, he liked to confide that his mother had been raped by a Fire Nation officer—but I've always suspected that she was a prostitute who forgot to brew her moon tea that month.

Not that I ever said that to Matsuma's face, mind you.

Matsu proved that you didn't have to be a bender to kick the ever-living shit out of someone. Nor did you have to be particularly big to do it. He was a dirty fighter, Matsuma was. A biter of ears and kicker of testicles. He liked holdout knives hidden in shirtsleeves and was a bloody guru with a throwing axe.

It was Matsuma who had called this little shindig together. His blocky, half-literate signature had been on the dictated letters each of us had received.

And me? You'd have to look hard and close to realize that I was born Water Tribe. I've got dark skin, no doubt, but I'm more than few shades lighter than my cousins on the Poles. Built big as a platypus-bear and just as hairy. Back in those days, I'd walk into a room and people would stop talking. They'd tend to stare a moment, then turn away quickly from those deep-set gray eyes of mine. A man as big and ugly as I was, you didn't want to fuck with.

One glance at me and I'd bet you'd assume I'm The Muscle. Body and brow like that? Trust me, I don't blame you. What else could I do but mete out violence?

Truth is, I wasn't ever The Muscle—The Heavy—The Blood Bastard. That always fell to Kuru and Wen during the times I ran with 'em. And don't get me wrong—I can still swing a mean war club. Got a machete arm like a spring-loaded trap. I've busted more than a few skulls in my time. Thing is, it ain't my specialty. As long as I can remember, I've always been The Cracker.

The hell you say, you say. With those callused mitts? With those bloated arms?

All true, though. It's strange how much dexterity is learned rather than inbred. And with Earth Kingdom locks, you gotta learn quick or get nicked. I was—and am, fuck you very much—one of those lucky few who can break any lock no matter how tailored it is to bender sensibilities.

Show me a North Pole gel lock and I'll show you the syringe and vial of mercury needed to tip its balance. Give me one of those buried Earth Kingdom jobs and I'll produce the acid needed to etch the lock and the picks needed to thread the gears. It's all about context. All about the proper tools.

(Granted, I've never worked on an Air Nomad wind vault before. Whatever—that bunch was never big on material possessions and they're all dead anyway, so fuck 'em.)

So I couldn't bend like the Twins, didn't play well with others like Leng, and didn't have the correct combination of balls and brains that made Matsuma one of the Kingdom's premiere organizers. But you can bet your ass that I got a lot of work all the same.

Which brings us back to the inn—stuffy, candlelit, smelling slightly of owl-cat piss. We gathered about the splinteriest table in the shadowiest corner, slipping into seats exactly as we had slipped into the tavern. Before I had a chance to pull a chair, Matsuma rose from the shadows and gave me a tight embrace.

He said, "Tanak. Man. Too long."

"Sure," I said. "You really have a job for us?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

Despite the obviousness of the question, I had to think about it. "Of course you have," I said.

Matsuma smiled like devil and swept a hand to the chairs. "Well, this ain't exactly whether I slept with Kyung Miao back on Blue Tongue Island. Sit. Be enlightened."

I did. As the rest of us exchanged overdue greetings, Matsuma called in a round of watery rice beer. When the cracked clay cups were distributed and a scowling tavern-keeper paid up, we set to the business at hand.

It was Matsuma's show. "So," he began, indulging in his usual blithe theatricality. "Here we are."

"Oh, yes. That goes without saying." Leng spoke with a moony, slow-eyed amiability that implied he wasn't far out from his last fix. "And as much as I enjoy this charming little . . . corner of the world, I for one would like to know why I'm here."

Matsuma said, "Well. None of you are particularly stupid, so you've probably already figured out that the work is goin' to be in Omashu."

Nods all around. Leng said, "That's what first caught my interest, dear boy. There isn't much of value outside the city walls these days, so that meant a run in the upside-down hell-pit." His grin was too white, too meticulous. "So that means that you've either gone insane or you've found us something too hot to be passed up. Please tell me it's the second thing, as I do hate to have friends committed."

"Agreed," said Kuru. He leaned in his chair and folded his brawny arms across his chest.

I sipped weak beer and remained silent. Matsuma had been responsible for too many of my paydays for me to start questioning him now.

"I know, I know," said Matsuma, holding up his hands. "But I can definitely assure you that it's the, ah, second thing. The good one." He leaned in, holding his grin, looking for all the world like a festival barker about to tell us the good chance we had at his booth. Difference was that when it was Matsuma doing the talking, we really did have that chance.

"Here's how it is. I have a line on a piece of merchandise that's just waitin' for an interested party to, ah, procure it. It's one-of-a-kind, damn near priceless, and—best of all—not even under lock and key. It's sittin' in some warehouse up in the shippin' district, plum for someone to come along and show some interest."

I frowned. "Who's it belong to?" I liked to know who I was stealing from. That way I could calculate the risk-to-reward ratio proper-like.

"That's the real beauty of it," Matsuma said. "Some merchant out of Ba Sing Se owns it on paper, but so far as I know he has no idea that it even exists. Picked it up with a bulk lot in an estate sale. Even if someone were to make off with it, odds are he wouldn't even get why they took it."

"Could we pull heat?"

"Not really. He's not the type, so far as I can tell. He's not some gang boss, if that's what you're askin'."

"That's what I'm asking."

"Then no. Emphatically no. The moment we pull this baby from the warehouse, we're free as birds."

Wen lit one of the small, hand-rolled cigarettes he preferred. This meant that Kuru would soon do the same. Wen inhaled, grimaced through his beard, and said, "Get to the point, man. What is it? Jewels? Some Nation administrator's gold?" His words travelled on a wave of dirt-reeking smoke.

Matsuma swept his gaze over the four of us, eyes huge and mouth twisted in a smirk. He took a big breath. Fucking theatrics. At last, he whispered, "It's the Spirit Totem of Shunai."

I blinked, then looked around to see if anyone else knew what the hell the man was talking about. The blank faces arrayed about the table told me that I was in no minority.

I grunted, "Shunai? Never heard of it."

Without missing a beat, Matsuma said, "Not surprised. It used to be a fishing hub up on the North Coast. Famous for braggin' about the river spirit that protected them. About fifty years ago, they made the mistake of declaring allegiance to the Northern Water Tribe and hopin' that the reputation of the spirit would keep 'em safe."

"And?"

He grinned darkly. "And the Nation burned the town to bedrock."

"And . . . this . . . totem?" Leng asked.

"It was the centerpiece to the temple of the river spirit. A big ivory carving of the spirit itself, supposedly. It's one of the few artifacts that survived the razing of Shunai. I've asked around, and some of the experts on this sort of thing say that it's over a thousand years old."

Ah. Art. This I could jibe with. Still.

"And the owner has no idea?" I asked.

Matsuma shrugged. "All sources point that way, Tanak. It's floated from hand to hand over the decades—never very long in one place. Mostly Fire Nation shitheads. No offense, Leng."

Leng smiled emptily and raised his mug. "None taken, my good man."

"Anyway, this last guy bought it along with some other rich, dead asshole's possessions about a year back. Then came the occupation, and it gets shoved in the back of a storehouse to gather dust. My contact with the colonial government says as much, anyway."

"He legit?" Kuru asked. Rank tobacco smoke unspooled from between his fingers and rose lazily to the rafters.

"My contact?"

"Of course."

Matsuma's smile remained, but at the same time he drilled Kuru with his eyes. "My contact's solid. Doesn't even want a cut. Just a flat fee—enough to get out of Omashu for good. A goddamn pittance compared to what we'll make with this thing."

Wen said, "Can we really sell this thing, man? Sounds like it'd be hard to find a buyer."

"Are you kiddin'? There are collectors in Ba Sing Se who would cut off their own feet for just a chance at this thing."

"So," I said, "you have a fence lined up?"

Matsuma's smile went all rigid—the sort of look he tended to get when he had to humor someone he didn't think was worth his time.

He said, "Well—you know. This kind of thing ain't instantaneous."

"No, then."

"No."

"Fair enough."

Leng tittered. He stroked a thumb over his charcoal-sketch mustache and said, "You inspire so much confidence, dear Matsu. If you cannot guarantee a buyer, I walk."

That, Who farted? smile transformed into a pale grimace. Matsuma said, "Listen. You can't just shop this kind of thing around. People talk. Everybody may be distracted by the end of the war, but news of someone trying to price the Spirit Totem would get out. It's not like we're borrowing the damned thing. The guy who owns it? He obviously doesn't give much of a shit about it if he's not storing it in a vault, but this is still a fuckin' robbery. I had no desire to tip him off before I even pulled together a crew."

Though Kuru and I nodded, Wen and Leng remained skeptical. Despite my tacit agreement with Matsuma, I knew what they were feeling. This was not shit they wanted to screw around with. Nothing was worse than merchandise you'd risked your life to obtain, but couldn't offload. "Useless" didn't even begin to describe it.

The two naysayers grumbled about it for some minutes more, until Matsuma cut in with a hiss that bordered on a howl. I felt my neck muscles tense as shaded eyes turned to glance at us from the other corners of the inn.

"Guys. Guys!" Matsuma growled. "Listen. You have to understand. We pull this off? We'll never have to work another day of our lives. The appraisers I've contacted about the totem say that it's one of the rarest pieces of religious art ever created. There will be buyers."

The other men quieted. For all their misgivings, even they could feel opportunity's increasingly fevered knocking.

"Now, I'm not going to say that this is going to be easy. You know it's not. It's fuckin' Omashu, right? You'll have to work for your money, no doubt. Also, you have to decide tonight. No sleepin' on this shit. We've got the perfect window to pick this thing up, but we have to act fast. The next week or two, tops. After that, the opportunity's gone and so's the payoff," said Matsuma.

"Why now?" asked Kuru.

"You been awake the last month?" Matsuma laughed. "Think about it. What better time than now? The occupation is gonna end, and soon. Once the reins get passed, we're back to the drawing slate. No—it's now or never."

"I assume you have a plan," said Leng. Ever the droll bastard.

"I've got it all worked out. Got the resources, the safehouse, everything. Trust your pal Matsu." The grin returned, triumphant.

Five men stared at one another, uncertain but undeniably curious. No doubt turning sums over in their heads. Imagining themselves in island villas or hillside mansions.

After spending some minutes of the conversation silent, I spoke up. In the quiet murmur of the inn, my voice sounded (even to me) like rocks rolling into a chasm. I said, "You know that I'm in, Matsu. Absolutely. But maybe you ought to fill these gentlemen in on the specifics of your plan. Just to give 'em a bit of reassurance."

"Sure," Matsuma chuckled. "Definitely. When the man's right, he's right. So: Here's how it's going to play."

Matsuma explained it all. We leaned in, nursed our mealy beers, and listened. It was one hell of a pitch.