Author: Lindsay Buroker
Date: 2012-04-25 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Steampunk; Adventure; Romance; Magic; Fiction; Science Fiction; Mystery; Adult; Urban Fantasy
Description: Alternate cover edition of ASIN B007XZ121G When you’re an outlaw hoping for a pardon, and the emperor personally sends a note requesting that your team kidnap him, you make plans to comply… Even if it’ll involve infiltrating a train full of soldiers, bodyguards, and spies loyal to a nefarious business coalition that has numerous reasons to hate you. Even if it means leaving the city right after you’ve uncovered a secret weapons shipment that might be meant to start a war. Even if it's a trap...

CONSPIRACY

by Lindsay Buroker

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Lindsay Buroker

All rights reserved.

Acknowledgements

Before we jump into the next adventure, I’d like to once again thank the folks helping me publish the Emperor’s Edge adventures in a timely manner. So, thank you to Kendra Highley, Becca Andre, and Jeanne Marcella for reading early versions of this manuscript and offering suggestions. Thank you, Shelley Holloway, for making time to edit the novel the same week I sent it over. More thanks go to Glendon Haddix for cover art design and formatting for the paperbacks. And, as always, I’d like to thank you, the reader, for sharing the adventure with my characters. Maldynado is still hoping for his statue, but he’s somewhat mollified by the fact that so many people are reading about him.

Chapter 1

The steel framework of the bridge trembled with the train’s approach. Amaranthe Lokdon crouched on a beam overlooking the tracks, steadying herself with a hand on a vertical support pillar. The train chugged closer, approaching the bridge at fifty miles an hour, black smoke streaming from its stack and hazing the starry sky.

Aware of the full moon shining into the canyon, Amaranthe hoped the engineer wasn’t watching the route ahead too closely. Her form might be visible against the dark sky.

When the locomotive reached the bridge, the vibrations coursing through its steel frame intensified. Amaranthe braced herself, ready to jump. She made a point of not looking at the moonlight reflecting off of the river hundreds of feet below, though her pesky peripheral vision refused to let her forget about it—and the long drop it signified.

The massive black locomotive passed beneath her, its smoke obscuring the view of the rest of the cars. The acrid air stung Amaranthe’s eyes. Nerves tangled in her stomach, but there was no time to worry about the view—or anything else.

As soon as the locomotive and coal car blew past, Amaranthe took a deep breath and jumped off of the beam. She dropped ten feet to the first freight car and landed in a crouch, softening her knees to touch down lightly—and quietly. Though she doubted the engineer would hear anything over the noise of the train, she wagered Sicarius was watching from somewhere, and he would have words for her—or a stern, expressionless stare—if she performed sloppily.

Amaranthe turned her head away from the coal-scented smoke in time to spot four figures dropping onto the four subsequent freight cars behind hers. Akstyr, Books, Maldynado, and Basilard, landing one after the other.

Akstyr straightened his legs too soon and flailed his arms for balance. Amaranthe lifted a hand, concern tightening her chest, but he recovered and sank to his hands and knees. Face pale, he glanced over his shoulder at the deep drop and the shallow river below. He raised two fingers in a rude gesture, suggesting the canyon and the train could engage in carnal activities.

Amaranthe snorted. No need for concern. He would be fine.

Akstyr noticed her watching and changed the rude gesture to one of Basilard’s hand signs, an arm wiggle and finger tap that meant both good and ready. She returned the motion. Further down, Basilard, Books, and Maldynado gave her similar signs.

So far, so good.

This might simply be training for the real mission planned for the following week, but the setting made the potential for injury, even death, quite real. Amaranthe had argued with Sicarius, suggesting they do this during the day, and in flatlands instead of on dangerous mountain terrain, but the discussion had been short-lived. She had given in under the force of his unrelenting glare. He had been demanding near-perfection from the team of late, driving them harder than ever, but she could understand why. He had more at stake than any of them.

Akstyr and the others were crawling off the roofs and onto ladders leading to the cars’ sliding side doors. Amaranthe pushed her thoughts away and got moving. After all, Sicarius was timing them.

She dropped to her hands and knees and slithered over the edge of her car, probing for a rung. Again, she had to force herself not to think about the drop.

Air thick with the scent of wet earth and fallen leaves railed at her, tugging at her clothing and making her eyes tear. Amaranthe descended with care, maintaining three points of contact at all times, just as if she were climbing down a sheer mountain face.

The short sword belted at her waist caught between the rungs, and she lost a few seconds extricating herself. Farther down, Basilard, Maldynado, and Akstyr had already entered their rail cars. Amaranthe forced herself not to rush or sacrifice safety for time, but tension tightened her muscles nonetheless. Though it was foolish and she knew it, she always felt the need to prove herself as capable as the men, especially when Sicarius was around to witness.

She leaned to the side of the ladder, reaching for the metal door latch. Her fingers brushed it. Grimacing, she lifted her leg and groped for a toehold on the inch-wide sill beneath the door, so she could lean out farther. This time, she caught the handle, though it wasn’t easy to open, and she struggled to find leverage without letting her foot slip.

The train had passed over the canyon and was chugging through a boulder-strewn valley, but a fall could still be deadly. If she landed under the wheels, they’d cut her in half faster than any weapon in the imperial army’s arsenal.

“Quit it, girl,” Amaranthe muttered.

She readjusted her grip and twisted and pulled the latch with determination. The handle released with a lurch, but she anticipated it and shifted her weight back to keep her balance. She reached inside, found something metal to grip, and clawed her way into the car. Only when both of her feet were on the textured metal floor did she release a breath of relief. She didn’t relax for more than a second though, not when she was silhouetted against the sky for anyone inside to see.

The freight car carried seeds, tools, and other agricultural supplies, so she didn’t expect anyone to be inside, but Sicarius had promised the objective would not be easy. She envisioned booby traps, but she had to be prepared for anything. She hoped her decision to split up the team had not been a mistake.

Amaranthe pressed her back against a stack of crates strapped to the wall beside the door. She pulled a satchel over her head and removed a small lantern and a wooden match nestled in a waterproof case at the bottom. Making a light was a risk, but she had little hope of achieving the objective, or dodging booby traps, in complete darkness.

The objective was, thanks to her questionable sense of humor and need to interject levity into the strenuous hours of training, to retrieve a fist-sized wooden ducky. Sicarius had said he’d place it in one of the first four freight cars, so it might not be in hers, but she had to check thoroughly. The team had only fifteen minutes to find it and meet him at the end of the train.

After lighting the lantern, Amaranthe eased into one of two lopsided aisles formed by crates stacked floor-to-ceiling against the walls and head-high piles of seed bags in the center of the car. According to Books’s research, much of the cargo had already been off-loaded at previous stops, and the train was on its way to its final destination in Agricultural District Number Seven, near the capital and home.

Amaranthe padded down the first aisle, hunting for places where one might stick a wooden duck. The tall piles of seed bags blocked her view of much of the car, and that made her uneasy. She alternated duck hunting and watching the floor, expecting trip wires at any turn.

Her first circuit revealed nothing, and she went around for another look, this time lifting the heavy bags on the tops of the piles to peek under them. One of sacks leaned precariously, throwing a shadow like a rearing bear against the crates on the other side. She set her lantern down to push the top couple of bags into balance, so the pile had a tidier look, then realized what she was doing and shook her head in disgust.

“Time frame,” she muttered. “This isn’t the place to clean.” She crouched to pick up the lantern. “Or talk to yourself.”

Something at the corner of her eye moved.

Amaranthe spun, her hand going to her sword hilt. Nothing was there.

A rectangle of moonlight bathed the metal floor near the entrance. It winked out as the train passed tall trees and then flooded the car again. That must be what she had seen. She drew her short sword anyway.

Leaving the lantern on the floor, Amaranthe returned to her search. She poked through an open crate filled with metal parts for some steam-powered farm implement. No wooden ducks. She shifted a few more seed bags aside to look under them, though her movements were rushed and less methodical than before.

Not only was she aware of time running out, but Amaranthe was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Something grated against her senses, like the wheels grinding on the rails below her. Though she had been all around the car, she had the feeling that something was watching her. Some animal perhaps? A rat? Or—a new thought occurred to her—it could be some person hiding, someone who had stowed away to avoid the pricy fare of a passenger train.

Amaranthe glanced down at the lantern. It would be highlighting her face, a face that adorned numerous wanted posters in the capital city.

“Time to get out of here.” She crouched and cut off the light, leaving a tang of kerosene in the air.

Before she could pick up the lantern, some sixth sense stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. She heard nothing, but instincts told her to move. Fast.

Amaranthe lunged forward, throwing herself into a roll. The lantern flew from her hands and skidded across the floor to clack into a crate. Not important. She kept her grip on her sword and jumped to her feet before the door.

Amaranthe didn’t glance back the way she had come—something told her she didn’t have time. She bolted out the door, jumping to the side and twisting in the air to catch the rungs. She flew up them with none of her earlier caution and only checked below as she was pulling herself onto the roof.

A dark figure jumped out of the car, somehow gripping the top of the doorway and swinging itself up to land in a crouch before her. Amaranthe scrambled to her feet and turned her sword arm toward the person, bending her knees in a ready stance.

The moon came out from behind the trees and shone on the figure’s short, pale hair and familiar angular features. Dressed all in black, he wore daggers to rival a porcupine’s quills, as well as throwing knives sheathed on his forearm.

“Sicarius,” Amaranthe blurted, relief washing over her. “I thought you were—”

A cutlass appeared in his hand, an army officer’s weapon. His face held no expression, and his dark eyes bore into her. She might as well have been exchanging stares with some stranger who wanted to kill her. The training exercise wasn’t over.

Amaranthe had barely prepared herself for the idea of a fight when Sicarius darted toward her, a dark blur under the moonlight. Her instincts told her to leap back, so she had more time to think, but she stood her ground. There wasn’t much space to give up on the top of the rail car.

The cutlass clanged against her short sword, driving it wide. Amaranthe knew the follow-up would slice toward her gut, so she had to leap back, giving herself time to bring her blade back in. She tried to parry, but his second thrust had been a feint, and already the cutlass slashed toward the inside of her thigh.

Metal screeched as their swords came together. She blocked him—barely. The power of his blow sent a painful jolt up her arm, but she kept her weapon in place. If he forced her arm wide, her torso would be exposed, an easy target. Again, though, she was forced to back up, to give ground.

Sicarius didn’t offer her a chance to recover or think. She could only react. Their swords came together, a continuous peal of scrapes and clangs of metal that echoed off the mountaintops. With reflexes honed by months of training, Amaranthe blocked him again and again, even in the poor light, but she could not gain an advantage. Worse, she knew he wasn’t moving as quickly and unpredictably as he usually did, not even close—he knew her skills and her style better than anyone, and he knew how to put himself just out of reach. Usually, he’d stop and offer her advice, but not tonight. Relentlessly, he drove her back.

Amaranthe dared not glance over her shoulder to look for the edge of the car; that would be an eternity during which he could—he would—strike.

Sweat streamed down her face and stung her eyes. She couldn’t pause to wipe it away, not now. Amaranthe tried to think of something she could do, a way to distract him, so she could strike a blow, or at least earn an opportunity to take the offensive, but she had sparred so often with him that he knew all her tricks.

The cutlass dug into her ribs, and she winced, jumping back and banging it away with her sword. Sicarius had used the back of his blade, not the edge, but his point was clear. It was hard to think up strategies when taking her focus away from him and his weapon for a split second resulted in his weapon slipping through her defenses.

The train headed into a curve around a rocky hillside. The car trembled beneath Amaranthe’s feet. She kept her balance, kept parrying his attacks, but she could tell from the amount of roof behind Sicarius that she was getting close to the edge. She had to try something.

The next time she parried a slash toward her torso, she turned it into a riposte, feinting toward Sicarius’s chest, then advancing half a step to strike at his thigh. She made her attacks rapid—her muscles were weary now, relaxed, and she could move faster than at the beginning, when tension had tightened her limbs. Sicarius blocked her strikes easily, as she had assumed he would, but he didn’t turn the attack back onto her immediately. She sensed he wanted her to try something, so she followed her thrusts with a slash toward his sword hand with the edge of her blade. The hand wasn’t a fancy target, but it was closer and easier to get to than the well-protected torso.

Sicarius evaded the attack, but he backed up half a step. Finally. Amaranthe forced him to block three times, each strike as fast as possible without sacrificing precision, and she managed to get inside his arm. She angled her sword toward his shoulder, lifting her front leg with extra emphasis, to show she meant to lunge in and throw everything behind the attack. But she slowed the blade, striking at half of her previous pace, hoping that she’d set him up to expect speed, and that he would move to block too soon. Then she would glide in over his arm and find her target.

It might have worked against a lesser opponent, but Sicarius saw through her ruse.

His cutlass slammed into her sword, sending her arm wide, and she almost lost the blade altogether. Knowing she couldn’t yank her arm back in quickly enough to block his next attack, she skittered backward. Her foot landed halfway over the edge of the car, and, with her momentum going that direction, her heel slipped off.

Amaranthe’s sword flew from her hand. She pitched backward. Fear stole her thoughts, and all she could think to do was flail, to try and catch something, but there was nothing but air around her.

A hand clamped onto her wrist. Sicarius pulled her up and back onto the roof. He plucked her sword from the air before it dropped away.

Amaranthe stumbled against him and clenched her eyes shut. The image of her body being cut into pieces beneath the great metal wheels of the train flashed through her mind. She wiped sweat out of her eyes with a trembling hand and fought to bring her breathing under control. More than exertion had her panting.

After a long moment, she stepped away from Sicarius. He extended her sword, hilt first.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Amaranthe said. “Thanks for asking.”

A normal sparring partner would have apologized for nearly sending her plummeting to her death. Sicarius never bothered with social niceties, though. She had never heard words such as “thank you,” “you’re welcome,” “good morning,” or “sorry I almost got you killed” come out of his mouth. He merely stood there, waiting for her to accept her sword.

Amaranthe took it and sheathed it firmly, letting him know she was done with train-top sparring matches for the night.

“You were thinking too much,” Sicarius said.

“I like to think. It gives my brain something to do.”

“Think to stay out of a sword fight, not once you’re in it,” Sicarius said. “I drill you on routines over and over, so they become an automatic part of your unconscious memory.”

“I haven’t noticed that I can get through your defenses consciously or unconsciously.” Amaranthe waved to the cutlass that he had sheathed in a scabbard on his back. “You’re using an army blade, so I figured you’d be mimicking a soldier, but no soldiers move like you.”

“The emperor’s elite bodyguard is extremely well trained,” Sicarius said.

“You think I don’t know that?”

Amaranthe sounded bitter and frustrated, and she knew it. Taking a deep breath, she willed the feelings to drain away. She would never beat Sicarius in a sword fight, not when he had been trained to kill since birth. They practiced so that she improved enough to beat other, lesser foes. She had to remember that and be happy with the progress she made.

“I’m hoping to come up with a plan that involves taking them by surprise,” Amaranthe said, “not fighting them on the roofs of moving trains. If we can’t get Sespian out of his car without killing people...” She tucked escaped strands of hair behind her ear, though the wind simply whipped them free again. “Well, it’ll be hard to convince him we’re good people who want to help the empire—help him.”

It’d been more than two months since Sespian gave Basilard a secret note, asking to be kidnapped, and Amaranthe still had no idea what had prompted him to choose her team for the request. Did he realize that she had been wrongly accused of plotting against him the winter before, and he wanted to get the real story? Or had he simply been motivated by the fact that her men were the best outlaws around and the logical ones to work with? Or maybe Sespian was working with Forge to lay a trap for her and her team. Though nobody in that coalition had attacked her directly yet, the shadowy business entity had to be aware of—and annoyed by—Amaranthe’s existence by now.

With the exertion past, her body was cooling, and the chilly wind needled her damp skin. Amaranthe climbed down the side of the car and slipped inside for its protection.

When Sicarius joined her, she asked, “Where are the others?”

“Dead.”

“Only for the purposes of the training exercise, I assume.”

Sicarius pressed something into her hand. The duck. “You should’ve stayed together or split the team into pairs.”

“You gave us four cars to search, and there are four of us. It seemed logical.”

“It is difficult to search and watch one’s back at the same time,” Sicarius said.

“I was only expecting booby traps. I didn’t know you would be a player in the game.”

“It’s not a game.” His tone was cool and clipped.

Amaranthe sighed. The same night Basilard had been receiving that note at the emperor’s big dinner celebrating the winners of the Imperial Games, Sicarius had taken her for a stroll in the Imperial Gardens where he had surprised the words from her mouth by kissing her. Even though he’d made it clear he wanted to wait until everything with Sespian was resolved before pursing a romantic relationship with her, she’d thought... Well, she’d thought it might have changed something, that he’d relax more around her, maybe make a joke or even deign to smile once in a while. But he’d been more controlled and aloof than ever since reading Sespian’s note. Amaranthe hoped that had to do with concern over the emperor—his son, a fact that nobody knew about except her—and not because he’d realized the kiss had been a mistake.

The wind had tugged his short hair in a thousand directions, and her fingers twitched. She longed to brush it into a semblance of neatness. Sicarius, however, did not look like a man who wanted to be touched. He gazed out the door, into the passing forest, his jaw tight, his eyes hard.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t go after him sooner,” Amaranthe said, feeling a need to break the silence. Shortly after giving Basilard that note, Sespian had left on a two-month trip around the empire to inspect the major military stations along the borders and coasts. There was a precedent—most emperors did such a trip once a decade—but Amaranthe wondered if someone had wanted Sespian out of the capital for a while. Books had spoken of an older woman who’d been there at the dinner with Sespian, acting like a chaperone. Since then, Amaranthe had tasked Books with researching Forge, trying to get names and addresses of key members, but it was a far-flung group, and her team had yet to pinpoint a leader. “I’m surprised you didn’t go that first week,” Amaranthe added, “and try to sneak into the Imperial Barracks yourself, to see if you could get him without our help.”

Sicarius’s eyes shifted toward her, and something lurked in their depths. Wryness? Chagrin? It was so hard to tell with him.

“Or did you?” Amaranthe asked.

“Wards.”

“What?”

“A new addition to the Barracks.”

Amaranthe arched her eyebrows. “Magic?”

The Imperial Barracks was not only the centuries-old building atop Arakan Hill where the emperor and his staff slept; it was also the headquarters for those that ran the satrapy and managed the affairs of Turgonia itself. Hundreds of people worked there. To imagine magic being used openly... magic in an empire that killed anyone suspected of employing it and, at the same time, denied its existence...

“It’s not apparent to anyone who hasn’t been trained to be sensitive to the Science,” Sicarius said, perhaps guessing her thoughts. “Even then, it’s well hidden.” He flexed his hand, as if in the memory of some pain.

“I’m sorry.”

Amaranthe lifted her own hand out of an urge to grasp his and offer some comfort, but she stopped before touching him. Maybe he wouldn’t appreciate it. She’d known him for almost nine months now, and nothing she had learned in that time suggested he found human touch desirable. Amaranthe let her hand drop with an inward sigh. She did think too much.

“We’ll get him, Sicarius.” She clasped her hands behind her back and settled for standing side-by-side with him, gazing out into the night. “We’ll get him, and we’ll help him with Forge. Whether he thinks he wants our help or not.”

Sicarius said nothing. Amaranthe hoped it wasn’t only in her mind that he appreciated her efforts.

* * * * *

Akstyr leaned against the wall of the rail car, his head brushing the metal roof. He sat on eight feet of greenhouse kits with his book open in his lap, though he was struggling to concentrate on it. His lamp wobbled on his pack, threatening to tip over with every clickety-clack of the train. That was plenty distracting, but it was the thoughts bumping around in his head like drunken soldiers that made reading hard.

Across the way, Books didn’t seem to be having any trouble skimming his newspaper and scribbling notes in a journal. Farther back in the car, Maldynado wasn’t having any trouble napping—as the obnoxious snores proved. But those two didn’t have anything to worry about. They hadn’t been plotting with Basilard over the summer, thinking up ways to get Sicarius killed to collect on that bounty.

A trapdoor in the roof scraped open. Greenhouse frames and crates of glass covered the entire floor of the car, reaching to the ceiling in many places, and the only way in or out was through that door.

Basilard dropped inside, followed by Sicarius.

Akstyr stared at the pages of his book. After being the one to bring up the kill-Sicarius idea, Basilard had decided he didn’t want to do it after all. Akstyr didn’t figure Basilard had said anything to Sicarius—or Akstyr would have had a dagger shoved down his throat by now—but the simple matter of Basilard having that knowledge made Akstyr nervous. What if Basilard let something slip eventually? What if Sicarius figured it out on his own? Even if Akstyr hadn’t done anything, he’d been thinking of doing something, and Sicarius seemed the type to kill a man for having a notion against him.

Amaranthe dropped into the rail car last and pulled the door shut. Maldynado sat up with a start, thumping his head on the ceiling, but barely noticed.

“Hullo, boss,” he said.

Books lowered his newspaper and gave Amaranthe a respectful nod.

“Who’s hungry?” Amaranthe grabbed one of the group’s rucksacks. “We have a bounty of delicious ready-to-eat-without-being-heated delights.”

“So long as it’s not noodles and lamb chunks again,” Maldynado said. “A man shouldn’t have to eat anything with the word chunks on the label.”

“On that we can agree,” Books said.

Maldynado gave him a suspicious look, as if he expected an insult to follow. Books was busy eyeing Amaranthe’s rucksack, as if she might pull poisonous snakes out of it. Akstyr thought the others were wimps. He’d eaten far worse stuff when he’d been growing up. The winter when he’d lived on used cooking lard and skewered rats, sometimes cooked, sometimes not, came to mind.

“Uhm.” Amaranthe rooted through the bag, passed on a couple of cans, and pulled out a flat tin. “How about beans and sausages?”

Books’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that small print say?”

“That the sausages are chunked and formed.”

Books’s lips flattened.

“How is that better than the lamb chunks we already vetoed?” Maldynado asked.

“I wasn’t sure if it was chunks specifically you had a problem with,” Amaranthe said, “or all permutations of the word.”

Basilard lifted his hands and, in his Mangdorian hunting code, signed, I could make a real meal if we had access to a fire.

“Alas,” Amaranthe said, “I don’t think the engineer would have kind words to say if we showed up at his furnace with frying pans in hand.”

“He might if all he’s been eating are meat chunks dubiously made in some squalid factory.” Books lifted his newspaper again. “These are strange times we’re living in. Every technological advancement removes us further from nature.”

“Beans sound good to me,” Akstyr said, hoping to interrupt whatever lecture or diatribe Books might be working himself up to. The man had some gray at his temples, and was probably in his forties, but sometimes he acted like the doddering geezers who played Stratics in the park and whined about wayward youths.

Sicarius removed a package from his rucksack and unwrapped his supply of bricks. That’s what Akstyr called them anyway. They were some sort of dried fat and meat concoction Sicarius pounded into bars for traveling. Akstyr doubted the starving people on the streets where he grew up would eat them unless the rat supply was extremely low.

Sicarius offered a bar to Amaranthe. She glanced back and forth from the can of beans to the proffered brick while wearing the pained grimace of someone deciding between torture by branding irons and torture by toenail pulling.

Sicarius looked in Akstyr’s direction. Akstyr pretended to be engrossed in his book, but he could feel that stare upon him anyway, about as friendly and warm as a piss pot frozen over in winter. Sure, Sicarius always looked at people that way, but Akstyr couldn’t help but worry. Sicarius knew more about the Science than most Turgonians, and maybe he knew a few practitioners’ tricks himself. Like mind reading.

Though Akstyr appreciated that Amaranthe watched his back, and nobody here cared that he studied the mental sciences, he figured it would be better for his health if he got out of the area sooner rather than later. And far out. Far enough that Sicarius wouldn’t bother coming after him if he ever learned the truth. Some place like the Kyatt Islands. They were way out in the middle of the ocean, and they were known for their Science practitioners. Maybe Akstyr could even go to school at their Polytechnic and finally learn what texts alone couldn’t teach him.

“Huh.” Books’s paper rattled. “Look at this. We’re mentioned.”

“Oh?” Amaranthe had a couple of cans in her lap and was digging out an opener. “I thought you were researching links to Forge people, not reading the exploits of a heroic and wrongfully accused band of outlaws.”

“It’s a tiny piece,” Books said, “tinier, I see, than this editorial on a perceived cat overpopulation problem in the city. But listen to this: Eye witnesses claim that Amaranthe Lokdon and the group of mercenaries calling themselves the Emperor’s Edge defeated notorious murderer and gang leader Bloody Batvok last week, ending his illegal taxation-for-protection stranglehold on the merchants and grocers working along Thistlemount Avenue. Local enforcers offer no comment. The group consists of a former warrior-caste fop, Maldynado Montichelu—”

“Fop?” Maldynado asked. “Who wrote that?”

“—gang member, Akstyr, last name unknown,” Books went on without a glance at Maldynado, “former professor Marl Mugdildor, and a Mangdorian named Temtelamak.”

Basilard rolled his eyes at his moniker. Maldynado had entered Basilard into the Imperial Games with the name of an old war general who’d been known for his bedroom exploits. Apparently, it had stuck.

“The assassin Sicarius is also believed to have been there,” Books finished.

Amaranthe grinned and shared a long look with Sicarius. “Not exactly front-page fame—and it’s hard to compete with feline population problems for attention—but at least someone’s writing us up now. That’s not even The Gazette,” she said, naming the paper where she’d made friends with that journalist, Deret Mancrest.

Akstyr felt satisfaction of his own because he’d helped take down Batvok. The thug had been from a rival gang that had always been trying to stomp out the Black Arrows when Akstyr had been a member. Too bad he didn’t have any aspirations to be famous. Given his hobby of studying the illegal and forbidden mental sciences, it was best for him to be invisible in the empire. Fame would only—

His thoughts hiccupped.

Maybe this was his way out of the empire. Everyone knew about the million-ranmya bounty on Sicarius’s head, and now that Akstyr’s name had been mentioned alongside Sicarius’s, people might know that Akstyr ran with the infamous assassin. There was no way Akstyr would try to kill Sicarius himself, but what if he didn’t have to? What if he just sold information to someone on how to find Sicarius? Akstyr didn’t need a million ranmyas to get out of the city. If he had twenty or thirty thousand, that’d be plenty to buy a train ticket, a steamship ticket, and maybe even pay for his tuition at the Polytechnic. Hairy balls, it might even buy him food and a place to stay while he studied. His heart swelled at that idea of himself as... well, as a wizard. Sure, only Turgonians called practitioners that, but he had to admit it sounded brilliant. It sounded more than brilliant.

“Beans?” Amaranthe asked, touching Akstyr’s arm.

He flinched in surprise, and his elbow bumped against his lantern. It toppled, and he lunged to catch it. In the process, he lost his book and slid down the pile of greenhouse kits. He ended up wedged into a gap that left his knees pressed to his chin.

“Sorry,” Amaranthe said, though her eyebrow quirked in amusement. “I didn’t realize you were so engrossed in your book.”

“My book?” Akstyr asked blankly.

She lifted the tome and handed it to him.

“Oh, right. My book.” Akstyr swallowed. Idiot, he cursed himself. All he’d done was think about his plot, but he was already acting suspiciously.

“Maybe he’s just that excited over the idea of sausages chunked and formed,” Maldynado said.

“Yeah, that’s it.” Akstyr laughed. Did it sound nervous? Or forced? He hoped not. He accepted the book and the food.

Amaranthe smiled, but Akstyr felt Sicarius’s gaze upon him again. Emperor’s warts, Akstyr was acting suspiciously. He was no good at lies.

In that second, Akstyr decided he’d be a fool to actually betray Sicarius. Maybe he’d sell false information instead. False information on Sicarius’s hideouts and the best way to capture him. Thanks to the newspaper, people should believe he had that information. He still knew gang members who might put him touch with those who could afford to pay well for a chance at a million ranmyas, and by the time everyone figured out what he’d been up to, he’d be out of the city and on his way out of the empire forever. By winter, he’d be on a tropical beach on Kyatt, enrolled in school to learn about the only thing he truly loved.

What could go wrong?

Chapter 2

On the last night of the three-day train journey, Amaranthe woke to a touch on her shoulder. She remembered not to sit up straight, because the ceiling of the freight car was only a couple of feet over her head, and merely opened her eyes. Cold air whistled through the open trapdoor in the ceiling. A dark figure knelt between it and her.

“Sicarius?” Amaranthe guessed.

Books and Basilard were pressed against her on either side, and she heard Akstyr and Maldynado snoring on the other side of Books. A chill marked the autumn nights, and the train lacked any sort of insulation, so most of the team was sleeping wedged together to share body heat.

“We’re slowing for a stop,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Early?” According to the schedule, the train should arrive at its final stop at noon, not in the middle of the night.

“We’re in Ag District Three, not Seven,” Sicarius said.

She couldn’t feel the train slowing yet. Sicarius must have already taken a look outside. Maybe he even slept up there, cold as it was. He’d never shown any interest in spending nights with the group. Too bad. She would have rather shared a sleeping area with him than with Books and Basilard.

“Maybe they got a late request for an extra stop,” Amaranthe said, as she lifted her thin blanket and shimmied away from the other men.

Books promptly pulled the blanket back over him. Basilard rolled over to take her spot and claim part of the covers. Amaranthe smirked when he snuggled into Books’s side.

“Team bonding,” she said.

Without comment, Sicarius hopped through the open door. Amaranthe followed him topside with considerably less alacrity. Her sore muscles protested the midnight rising. Sicarius had been driving them hard for the last three days, and she was starting to hate the sight of that wooden duck. At least he hadn’t driven her to fall off the train again.

Within seconds of climbing outside, Amaranthe wished she had brought the blanket with her. Though no frost slicked the car’s roof, the cold metal penetrated her trousers when she knelt on it. Wind whipped across dark fields, bringing chilly air down from the black jagged mountains running along the horizon. The stars overhead told her those mountains were to the east, instead of to the north, as they would be if they were in Ag District Seven. Sicarius was right. They were in Three, the same rural area they’d passed through on their way up to investigate the secret dam the spring before.

Lights burned a mile ahead, and, as the train drew nearer, a single dark building came into view. All about it low, flat fields stretched. Though the mountains helped Amaranthe get a vague idea of their location, she did not recognize the area. All of the major rural train depots had towns around them, including stockyards and warehouses.

“Did we go up some stub away from the main railway?” Amaranthe asked.

“Yes.” Sicarius crouched beside her.

Amaranthe wondered if there was anyone awake at that train depot to see them if they didn’t stay low. She wrapped her arms around herself and curled a lip at the idea of flattening to her belly on the cold roof.

“In this situation,” Amaranthe said, “some men would put an arm around a woman to keep her warm, that being the chivalrous thing to do.”

Sicarius, eyes focused on the building, did not answer. Steam brakes hissed, and the wheels further slowed their reverberations. Interestingly, the engineer did not pull the whistle to cry out the train’s approach. That was standard operating procedure when nearing a populated area. Of course, one building might not count as a population center.

People came into view on a loading dock in front of the structure, and Sicarius dropped to his belly. Reluctantly, Amaranthe lay down beside him, propping up on her forearms, so less of her torso touched the icy metal. She deliberately pressed her side against Sicarius.

He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher.

“There are times when I’d like to know what you’re thinking,” Amaranthe said. “Right now, for example. Are you thinking, ‘Why is she touching me when she hasn’t bathed in three days?’ or is it more like, ‘Hm, that’s nice, maybe we should try cuddling some time’?”

Sicarius withdrew a collapsible spyglass from a pocket.

Amaranthe sighed. “I see. You were thinking, ‘Which pocket did I leave my spyglass in?’”

She focused on the scene coming into view ahead. The prospect of a mystery usually filled her with enthusiasm—and she was curious about what was going on here—but they already had a mission to focus on. They didn’t need something new right now.

“You smell good,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“What I was thinking.”

Sicarius hadn’t lowered the spyglass, and he continued scanning while she gaped at him.

“I do?” Amaranthe asked. They’d been on the train for three days and not only did it not have bathing facilities, it didn’t even have a latrine. She did what she could with her canteen and a washcloth, but his words were a surprise for more reasons than one.

“Cherry blossoms and almond bark,” Sicarius said.

Oh. That was the shampoo Amaranthe liked. Huh. She didn’t find it amazing that he could identify the scents, but that he bothered to mention it was a first. Maybe there was hope for him after all. “Thanks. You smell good too.” She winced. What an idiotic thing to say. “I mean compared to Books and Basilard anyway.” Ugh, that wasn’t any better.

Sicarius lowered the spyglass and handed it to her without comment. Maybe it was better that he usually kept his thoughts to himself.

Under magnification, Amaranthe could make out six men milling on the loading dock. A clock hanging from the eaves read three a.m. Lanterns burned outside, but none lit up the inside of the building. In fact, the front door was shut with a heavy lock hanging from the latch. A rusty heavy lock. Curls of peeling paint adorned the building’s wooden siding, and a hornet’s nest hung near the clock.

“Interesting,” she murmured.

Sicarius touched her shoulder and pointed into the dark fields. Two pairs of lights were winding through the foliage. Amaranthe peered through the spyglass, but night hid the details.

“Lorries?” she guessed. “Coming to pick up cargo?”

“Perhaps,” Sicarius said.

Despite her earlier thought that they didn’t need a new mission right now, a tendril of anticipation curled through her belly. Maybe they had stumbled upon something good.

Or, her practical side said, maybe there was nothing strange going on. This could simply be the only time of day when the train could deliver its cargo. Still, a legitimate delivery should have been on the manifest Books had copied from the train station.

“If it looks like they’re going to remove greenhouse kits,” Amaranthe said, “we’ll have to get the men, gather our belongings, and clear out quickly.” They had packs and weapons down there, and, before bed, she had noticed more than one pair of underwear draped about to dry after a hand-washing. Wouldn’t that be a lovely thing for some farmers to find hanging from their expensive, imported equipment? At least her group was more hygienic than most.

Amaranthe and Sicarius ducked their heads as the train glided to a stop, carrying the locomotive and their car past the loading dock. The lights in the field drew closer, bringing the rumble of steam lorries.

Amaranthe pointed the spyglass in that direction again. Two large vehicles bumping along a rough dirt road came to a stop by the building. A man in the closest cab said something to those on the loading dock. Dusty brown canvas hid the cargo areas from view, but the vehicles did not appear to be anything more interesting than farm wagons. A sign on one door read Doranthe’s Pumpkins and Squash.

Two men climbed out of the first truck, wearing farmers’ overalls and wool shirts. Those on the loading dock hopped down, and a couple approached the train to open the rolling door of a freight car.

“That’s an empty one,” Sicarius said.

“You’re sure?” From their position on top of the roof, they couldn’t see inside, but Amaranthe wouldn’t be surprised if Sicarius had inspected all of the hundred-odd cars during the days they had been on board. He had to do something while he was avoiding being social with the group. In response to her question, he gave her an are-you-truly-doubting-me look. “Yes,” she said, “of course you are.”

The people on the ground directed the lorries to turn around, and one backed toward the open freight door. A couple of men climbed inside the rail car.

Amaranthe looked toward the front of the train, wondering if the engineer would come out of the locomotive. As far as she knew, he and his fireman were the only crew members. But nothing stirred up there beyond the plumes of smoke wafting from the stack.

Sicarius took the spyglass back. Men rolled up the flap on the back of the lorry, and Amaranthe blinked. It wasn’t an empty bed awaiting cargo. It was stuffed to the brim with...

“Are those rifles?” she whispered.

Two men climbed into the truck and started handing bundles to someone on the ground who passed the load to the men in the train. They definitely looked like rifles, shiny, new ones at that.

“That’s not the sort of produce one expects from a pumpkin patch,” Amaranthe whispered.

Next to her, Sicarius lay still, eye pressed to the spyglass, intent on the scene below. “Those aren’t percussion-cap or flintlock weapons.”

“Oh?” Amaranthe remembered stumbling across new military technology during a brief mission the summer before, but she’d thought those had been prototypes, weapons that were heavily guarded behind army fortress walls, not roaming the countryside in beat-up farm lorries.

“Cartridge-based guns where the powder and charge are self-contained in the bullet,” Sicarius said. “They appear to be able to hold multiple rounds.”

Amaranthe thought of the repeating crossbow in the train with her gear. One of the reasons she kept it—aside from the fact that, inside the city, black-powder weapons were outlawed to all except military personnel—was that it could hold five quarrels as opposed to the single shot capability most rifles and pistols offered.

Sicarius handed her the spyglass for a closer look. More bundles of sleek rifles went into the train, followed by crates of ammunition. Two men worked together to lift something larger out of the lorry. It resembled a cannon on a frame with two big wooden wheels, but it had multiple barrels and a hand-crank.

“Advanced artillery weapons as well,” Amaranthe murmured. “This train is on its way back to the city after its last stop. These people will have a hard time unloading that cargo in the main train yard.”

“Perhaps the engineer will make another detour,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe lowered the spyglass, amazed as more and more rifles and artillery devices were transferred into the train. “That’s a lot of weapons. You don’t think someone is... planning to occupy the city, do you?” It was hard to imagine. With Fort Urgot so close and with more soldiers stationed in the Imperial Barracks, how could anyone come up with the numbers necessary? There were a million people in the capital, half of them men. Most Turgonian men knew how to fight and were darned patriotic about doing it too.

Of course, a force with superior firepower would have an advantage. What if this was only one of many shipments of advanced weapons heading into the city?

“I can question the engineer,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe grimaced, knowing he did not differentiate between questioning and interrogation. “He’s probably just some paid-off lackey who doesn’t know much.”

She felt Sicarius’s gaze upon her. Was she putting feelings about torture and killing ahead of pragmatism again? Sicarius’s ways were heartless, but effective.

“He knows where the train is going,” Sicarius said.

“So will we, if we stay on it. Although... I’d like to know where those weapons originated, wouldn’t you? Maybe we could sneak into one of those wagons for a ride back to... wherever they came from.”

“We already have a mission to prepare for,” Sicarius said.

“We’ll have plenty of time to get back to the city and catch the train to Forkingrust, just as we planned. This should only be a short detour.” Amaranthe waved to the pumpkin sign on the cab door. “Those trucks look local.”

Sicarius’s gaze grew flinty. Amaranthe doubted he was thinking about her hair this time.

“We’ll take a quick look around, that’s all,” she said. “If there’s something worth investigating further, we can save that for after we get Sespian.”

“He must be the priority.”

“He is,” Amaranthe said, “though I’m sure he would put the city ahead of his personal welfare.”

Sicarius eyed the lorries, his jaw set. “If we do not finish in a timely manner, I will go get him on my own.”

Amaranthe had no intention of letting that happen—though he might get Sespian, his way would surely involve a lot of bloodshed—but she said, “I understand. I’ll wake the others.”

“What’s going on?” Books asked, when Amaranthe slipped back through the trapdoor.

“An interesting development,” she whispered. “Is everyone up?”

“I’m up,” Maldynado said, “though I’m disturbed that I woke to someone—who wasn’t a woman—massaging my chest.”

“Not me,” Akstyr said.

“You’re not a woman or you weren’t massaging me?” Maldynado asked.

“That’s three people awake,” Amaranthe said. “Basilard?”

A patting hand found her shoulder. Basilard. It must be hard on him, not being able to communicate in the dark, but she dared not light a lantern with so many men outside.

“Good.” Amaranthe patted his hand back. “Akstyr, Maldynado, and Basilard, I want you to stay on the train. It’s taking on a secret shipment of advanced weaponry, and I want to know where it gets delivered. We’ll meet you back at the Stumps hideout as soon as possible, so we can get ready for the kidnapping mission.”

Basilard gripped her shoulder to let her know he agreed.

“All right,” Akstyr said. He did not sound excited, but he didn’t complain about taking on a job where payment wouldn’t be involved either. Unusual for him.

“Back to the city is good,” Maldynado said. “Someone here needs a woman.”

“Dolt,” Books said, “you were probably massaging yourself.”

“Books,” Amaranthe said before their conversation could grow any more colorful. “Come with Sicarius and me, please. We’re going to sneak aboard the lorries and see where the guns came from.” She was tempted to send him with the others since stealth wasn’t his strongest skill, but his knowledge might prove useful in figuring out what was going on.

“How delightful,” Books said. “Field work.”

Amaranthe smiled. Though she might never get enthusiasm from him for such a project, at least he did not sound nervous or intimidated by the task. He would have once.

Amaranthe patted around to find her and Sicarius’s rucksacks. Her hand brushed someone’s clothing laid out to dry. “It probably goes without saying, but more than ever we want to make sure the engineer doesn’t find out that we were here, so make sure to take everything with you.”

Akstyr groaned. “We have to clean?”

There was the complaining Amaranthe expected from him. “I’ll compensate you later.”

She belted on her short sword, shouldered both rucksacks, and slung her crossbow across her torso. Being stealthy while laden down with all of one’s gear was always a challenge. She hoped the noise from the train and lorry engines would drown out any crunches and clunks she might make out there.

When Amaranthe and Books joined Sicarius, he took his rucksack and led the way to the ground via the back side of the train. Nobody was working over there, but Amaranthe was careful to step lightly on the gravel.

Darkness stretched across a harvested cornfield on the backside of the train, and the night air smelled of damp earth and freshly cut plant matter. Sicarius stopped behind the coal car and hopped onto the connector. After checking in both directions, he glided into a harvested cornfield on the opposite side, a cornfield in full view of the loading dock and the men working there.

His willingness to stride into the open surprised Amaranthe, but nobody raised an alarm. Indeed, she soon lost sight of Sicarius herself. The moon had set, and clouds blotted out most of the stars, leaving visibility poor.

Amaranthe gave Books a “let’s go” pat, hopped over the coupling, and eased out from between the cars. After a glance to make sure Books was following and none of the workers were looking in their direction, she took the same route Sicarius had.

Fifteen meters away, the workers continued to load the weapons. Amaranthe took careful steps down a row in the harvested cornfield. Though common sense told her the workers’ eyes would be night-blind after being near the light, she felt vulnerable with nothing more than the six-inch-high stalk remains offering concealment. Sneaking should only be done in mature, un-harvested cornfields, she decided.

Every time dry foliage crunched beneath her or Books’s boots, Amaranthe winced, but none of the workers looked their way. Whoever this group was, they seemed confident that nobody was around to witness their cargo being loaded.

Once she had put twenty or thirty meters between her and the tracks, Amaranthe paused, looking for Sicarius.

Books tapped her on the shoulder and, apparently of a similar mind, whispered, “Where’d he go?”

Amaranthe could only offer a vague, “That way, probably.”

She turned parallel to the tracks, stepping over the rows of corn stubble and heading toward the back of the depot building. They reached its protective shadow without trouble. Amaranthe poked her head around the far corner as the lorry closest to the freight cars started up. It headed straight toward her, following the road that led past the depot and into the fields from whence it had come.

Amaranthe jumped back from the corner. The wall did not offer any alcoves or decorative architectural features that would create shadows for hiding in.

The lorry rumbled closer, and its twin running lanterns pushed back the darkness near the road.

“Suck it in,” Amaranthe whispered and pressed herself against the back of the building.

“It’s sucked,” Books responded.

She hoped the vehicle would drive past and disappear down the road, but it parked not ten feet away, the cab and the two men inside fully visible to Amaranthe. If they turned their heads in her direction...

Worried about discovery, she almost decided to dart out of hiding and slip into the back of the lorry, hoping she’d make it before anyone noticed her. But the second vehicle was being directed into position for unloading now, and there were too many people with far too many lanterns glowing in the area.

“Back the way we came,” Amaranthe whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Slowly.”

With Books leading this time, they eased back toward the far side of the building.

“Now where?” he asked when they reached the corner.

“Out into the field.” Amaranthe pointed diagonally away from the building and away from the lorry. “We’ll go out there and angle around to the road. We’ll have to catch one of the lorries as it’s driving away.”

“Jump onto the back of a moving vehicle?” Books asked. “That sounds perilous.”

“We’ve been doing worse on the train all week. It’ll be easy.”

Easy might be an optimistic word, but Amaranthe had to sound confident in front of her team. Speaking of her team, where was Sicarius? Had he already slipped into one of the lorries?

After waiting another moment to see if he would appear, Amaranthe said, “This way.”

She led the way into the field before circling toward the road. She wished she could find a drainage ditch or a small depression that would hide them, but nothing other than the harvested rows presented itself. They would have to drop to their bellies when the lorries passed and hope nobody with keen eyes was watching the sides of the road.

Amaranthe knelt to wait on the final stages of the loading. When Books sank down beside her, she asked, “Any idea where we are?”

“Besides in a cold, dark field?”

“Yes.”

“There are a couple of possibilities for an abandoned railway stub in Agricultural District...” Books peered toward the mountains. “Is this Three?”

“That’s what Sicarius said.”

“Ah, then we’re within fifty miles north or south of the byway we took into the mountains last spring. This might be the old Archcrest Plantation. Several warrior-caste landowners with timber or agricultural properties had railway stubs run onto their property when the lines were first being built last century. The last Archcrest heir died in the Western Sea Conflict a generation ago, and the land reverted to the empire until such time that a distinguished soldier earns entry into the warrior caste. This being rather fertile land so close to the capital, though, it’s being reserved for someone extremely noteworthy.” Books craned his neck, peering in all sorts of directions now. “I wonder if the old Archcrest manor is still around. Did you know that family’s history goes all the way back to the Battle of Aquenerfarus when the empire routed the native civilization by the lake? The history books pretend they were primitive clans, but—”

Amaranthe cleared her throat as loudly as she dared. “So, your answer is, ‘Yes, we’re probably on the Archcrest Plantation.’”

“Er, correct.”

The workers raised the gate on the second lorry and dropped the flap, apparently finished unloading cargo. To Amaranthe’s surprise, the men who had been at the depot when the train first rolled in grabbed weapons and rucksacks and climbed into the rail car. Eight men in all. The last one pulled the rolling door shut from within.

“That might not be good,” Amaranthe whispered.

“Let’s hope they stay in that car and that the others are able to avoid them,” Books said.

“Let’s hope they’re smart enough to avoid them.” Amaranthe knew Basilard would not be a problem, but Akstyr did have a tendency to make reckless choices now and then, and Maldynado would probably smirk and let him.

“Would you be?” Books asked.

Amaranthe frowned at him.

“I simply meant that you’d probably want to spy on them for information,” Books said. “Stroll in and chat with them perhaps.”

“Oh, please, I haven’t done anything that imprudent in ages.”

“Hm.”

“Two months at least,” Amaranthe amended. In part because of the lecture Books had given her that summer, she’d been trying to make more thoughtful, wiser choices when it came to dealing with the opposition. She did still have a tendency toward... impulsive actions. Like hopping off a perfectly good train in the middle of the night to—

“They’re coming,” Books said.

Amaranthe dropped to her belly, keeping her head just high enough to see over the rows of corn stubble. Books stretched out next to her.

The first lorry was rolling away from the depot, and the remaining two men climbed into the cab of the second. Amaranthe eyed the cargo bed on the back vehicle. That’d be the most likely place to hop on and stow away.

As the men were closing the doors, a shadow moved at the back of the second lorry. If Amaranthe hadn’t been staring right at the spot, she would have missed it, and, even so, it was gone so quickly she almost thought it her imagination, but she knew it wasn’t.

Sicarius was aboard. Now it was time for her and Books to join him.

The first lorry approached their position. Amaranthe lowered her head until dirt scraped at her chin. The vehicle bumped and rattled past on the weed-choked road without slowing. In fact, she was surprised—and concerned—with how fast the lorry was moving. Catching up and jumping aboard would be a challenge. She pressed her palms into the damp earth, ready to spring up as soon as the second vehicle drew even with her and Books.

“Now,” Amaranthe whispered.

She jumped to her feet, and, staying low, ran toward the road. The lorry rumbled forward, pulling away from them. As soon as Amaranthe’s boots hit the road, she straightened and turned her run into a sprint. Books’s boots pounded the earth right behind her. The lorry picked up speed. The weeds and ruts made for difficult running, and Amaranthe misstepped, almost twisting her ankle. Books passed her.

Amaranthe urged her legs to greater speed. Her rucksack bumped on her back, thumping against her shoulders, but she gained ground.

Books reached the lorry first. He reached out and caught the back gate with one hand. His jump was ungraceful, but he made it, disappearing beneath the tarp amidst a tangle of long legs.

The road curved, and Amaranthe closed the distance. She reached out, fingertips brushing the cold metal gate. When the road straightened, the lorry picked up speed again and pulled away from her. The flap lifted, and Sicarius peered out.

Cursed ancestors, she wasn’t going to fail in front of him, not when Books had made it. Amaranthe pumped her legs faster. She closed the distance and grasped at the gate again. This time, she caught the top with both hands. Holding on to the accelerating lorry turned her running strides into leaping bounds, barely held in control. Turning one of those bounds into a jump in order to thrust herself inside was a daunting task, especially with the rucksack’s weight on her back.

If Amaranthe looked up and met Sicarius’s eyes, he would probably help her inside, but she mulishly set her jaw.

She sprang and pulled at the same time. Her belly hammered the top of the gate, and her knee thumped unyielding metal. Growling, Amaranthe wriggled and pulled herself inside, possibly with less grace than Books had displayed.

She collapsed, her back against the inside of the gate. The darkness in the cargo bed prevented her from seeing anything, though she could hear Books’s labored breathing. Or maybe that was her own. She hoped it wasn’t loud enough for the men in the cab to hear, or all this would be for naught. But the boiler and furnace were mounted between them and the cargo bed, so Amaranthe hoped that would offer noise insulation.

“Are you all right?” Books whispered.

“Of course,” Amaranthe replied. “I’m finally warm.”

Books snorted.

Someone settled beside her, shoulder to shoulder. Sicarius? Amaranthe surreptitiously wiped sweat from her brow and stomped down a goofy thought that popped into her mind. She was not going to ask him how she smelled now. Instead, she leaned her head on his shoulder, figuring it was best to rest while they could. Who knew what kind of adventure she had just signed her team up for?

* * * * *

The train had started up again, heading away from the isolated depot, and Akstyr was trying to get some sleep, but Maldynado kept climbing in and out through the trapdoor. More than once, hindered by the dark interior, he stepped on Akstyr with his big feet.

“What’re you doing?” Akstyr finally asked.

A hand covered his mouth, not Maldynado’s—Akstyr could see Maldynado dangling, legs halfway through the trapdoor. It had to be Basilard.

Akstyr pushed the hand away and asked more softly, “What’re you doing? Both of you.”

Maldynado dropped down again and slid the trapdoor shut, careful not to make any noise. The darkness inside the car thickened.

“They’re done loading the train,” Maldynado said.

“That usually happens before the train starts moving, yes,” Akstyr said. “Why don’t we all go back to sleep?”

“They didn’t get off the train once they finished loading.”

“They’re riding along with their guns? That’s not real surprising.”

“I guess not.”

Akstyr flopped back, throwing his arm over his eyes. “If they stay in their car, and we stay in ours, it shouldn’t matter.”

“As long as we don’t stumble across each other.” Maldynado laughed. “Could be kind of awkward if one of us and one of them decide to hop up on top of the train at the same time to water the shrubs.”

Akstyr rolled his eyes. Maldynado was at least ten years older than he was, but he didn’t act like it sometimes. It was like he was still a boy. Probably because he had grown up in some wealthy aristocrat’s house, not a backward street drowning in sewage where, if one didn’t pay attention, one got kidnapped and sold downriver to be enslaved in the boiler room on a steamer for years and years. Or worse. Akstyr had lost a friend with a pretty face to one of the slimy brothels in the ghetto where nobody cared if the kids were willing screws or not.

The train picked up speed, leaving the depot far behind. Akstyr relaxed. Whenever Sicarius was gone, he felt more at ease, and, with Amaranthe gone too, he could plan his next move without worrying about—

“We could check up on them,” Maldynado said.

Akstyr sighed.

“Maybe they’re in there, talking about their weapons and where they’re going,” Maldynado said. “I reckon the boss would like to have as much information as possible.”

“Go check then. Me and Basilard will wait here.” Akstyr had no idea what Basilard wanted to do—it was impossible to talk to him in the dark—but he had more common sense than Maldynado, so he probably wouldn’t go hunting for trouble.

“How is it that you command as large of a cut on payday as I do, when you only ever look out for yourself and your interests?” Maldynado asked.

“I’ve got charms.”

Maldynado snorted. “Sure, you do. That’s why you’re always asking me to find you women.”

“I can get women without you.” Actually, Akstyr hadn’t had much success at that, but he’d never admit it.

“Women with teeth?”

“Maldynado, eat street.”

“Uh huh, you’re about as charming as my hairy—”

A clunk sounded outside, somewhere nearby, and Maldynado fell silent. Akstyr lifted his head. The men had been loading the weapons ten cars farther down the train. That noise had sounded much nearer.

“Move away from the trapdoor,” Maldynado whispered. “Take your gear too.”

Akstyr’s first thought was one of huffiness—who had put him in charge?—but a heavy thump sounded, this time almost above him, and he hurried to obey. Someone had to be walking along the tops of the cars, maybe jumping from one to the next. Another thump followed the first. Maybe two someones were up there walking.

A whisper of cold air wafted down from the trapdoor. Maldynado had shut it most of the way, but a half an inch remained open.

A surge of anxiety swept through Akstyr. What if the men saw the open door and shut it and locked it from the outside? The rolling side door was already locked. They’d be trapped down here, in this dark hole, with no way out.

Relax, Akstyr told himself. He had the mental sciences. He might be a long way from reaching mastery at anything, but he could surely thwart a lock.

The footsteps stopped. The trapdoor scraped open a few inches. Light glowed above the crack, then descended, and a brass lantern eased into view, flame dancing behind its dirty glass panes. Stubby fingers with dirt wedged beneath the nails held the handle. The tip of a rifle edged through the opening as well.

The low roof forced Akstyr to crouch so deeply that his knees were bumping his chin and his head was brushing the ceiling, but he pressed himself against the wall, sucking his belly in and hugging the shadows the best he could. After hours in darkness, the light half-blinded him, but he didn’t see Maldynado or Basilard or anybody’s gear or blanket within the lantern’s sphere of influence. Though—Akstyr cringed—someone’s underwear lay draped across a bundle of poles near the wall.

“See anything, Rov?” a man asked outside. “It’s a might suspicious that this here door ain’t secured.”

Akstyr closed his eyes and concentrated on the flame. He didn’t know how to manipulate air or gases yet, so he couldn’t simply blow it out or suck all the oxygen from inside the lantern casing. He did know how to tie and cut things, thanks to that book Amaranthe had found him on healing. One had to do those things in the body sometimes.

“Not sure.” The lantern dropped a few inches lower, bringing a hairy wrist inside with it. “There’s something over...”

Akstyr formed a razor blade in his mind. It sliced through the lantern’s wick, extinguishing the flame.

“Emperor’s bunions,” the voice growled. “You got a match?”

“Yeah, you see anything?”

“Some underwear, I think.”

Akstyr sighed.

“Underwear! What’ve we got, some hobos down there sodomizing each other?” The man laughed at his own joke.

Akstyr’s thighs were starting to burn. If the men came down here, he was done hiding. He, Basilard, and Maldynado could take these idiots. Though, if a rifle went off, the rest of that gang might hear. And if Akstyr and the others were supposed to follow these people to their drop-off point without being seen... An out-and-out brawl with the entire force wasn’t exactly not being seen.

Akstyr shook his head. He didn’t care. It wasn’t as if there was money riding on this job.

The trapdoor scraped the rest of the way open. Light appeared again, then two figures dropped into the car, landing in crouches, their rifles raised.

Akstyr focused on the closest man. More precisely, he focused on the lantern the man held, letting his eyelids droop as he concentrated. Just before the flame winked out, Basilard leaped out of the darkness on the far side of the car and barreled toward the intruders.

Darkness fell, and Akstyr didn’t see what happened next, but the grunts of pain and sounds of flesh smacking against flesh told much. He pushed away from the wall, ready to jump into the fray, but the noises gave him little hint as to who was where.

Something banged against Akstyr’s toe. He patted around and found a rifle. The scuffle died down before he’d done more than pick it up.

“Akstyr, how about a light?” Maldynado asked from a few feet away. “It’s hard to tie people up in the dark.”

“Why not just throw them from the train?” Akstyr asked, though he closed his eyes and pictured a ball of light in his head. Creating illumination with the mental sciences involved bending and enhancing existing light, sort of like putting a mirror behind a candle to increase its output, so it was hard to do anything in extremely dark conditions, but he’d learned a trick or two in studying illusions.

“That might make more sense,” Maldynado said, “though the boss would probably be upset if we killed these thugs.”

Akstyr stretched his thoughts out, bringing the light from his head to the air in front of him. A silvery ball the size of his fist blushed into existence. Since the trapdoor was still open, he kept the intensity low. It provided enough light to see Maldynado and Basilard, kneeling on the backs of the downed men, Basilard with a knife to one’s throat, Maldynado simply applying force to twist his foe’s arms into chicken wings. Though the intruders’ faces were scrunched up in pain, their eyes bulged when they spotted the otherworldly light.

“Nobody has to tell her,” Akstyr said.

Basilard frowned at him.

“What?” Akstyr picked up a second rifle and admired the sleek barrel. He’d never seen anything like the loading mechanism. He thumbed open a latch, revealing a chamber that held a bullet, no, multiple bullets. “These are brilliant.”

“I guess,” Maldynado said in response to something Basilard signed when Akstyr wasn’t looking. “It doesn’t make sense to risk ourselves, trying to keep them prisoner all the way back to the city.”

The intruders’ eyes had been riveted to the light, but one started paying attention to Maldynado’s words, and concern crinkled his brow. “Listen, we’re just following orders. We wouldn’t have tossed you out at fifty miles an hour. That’s break-your-neck speed.”

“Shut up, Rov,” the second man growled.

“No, we like you chatty,” Maldynado said. “While your tongue is dancing, why don’t you tell us what you know about these weapons? Like who had them made, where they came from, and where they’re going.”

“Eat street,” the more belligerent man said.

That drew Akstyr’s attention, and he tore his gaze from the rifle. That saying was one common on the streets where he had grown up. Nobody had bothered putting the oldest section of the city on the sewer system, and people dumped piss pots out of their windows. Akstyr checked for gang brands on the men’s hands, but only dirt marked their skin.

“Easy, Motty,” the more talkative man said. “They’ve got magic.” Some new thought must have entered his little brain, because his eyes bugged out even more. “They must have a witch!” Though he couldn’t move his head, not with Basilard’s knife to his neck, his buggy eyes darted about like marbles in a jar.

Akstyr snorted. “There are male practitioners, you know.”

Maldynado roughed Motty up for a minute, then said, “Listen, we can drop you from the train nicely, or you can go under the wheels. Tell us about those weapons, and I’ll make sure you live.”

Blood trickled from Motty’s nose, but he managed a sneer. Since the notion of magic bothered both men, Akstyr formed an illusion, a knife similar to the solid black blade Sicarius carried. He eyed it critically as it floated in the air, thinking it could have appeared to be more realistic—he would have to work on improving his artistic talents—but both men focused on it, their belligerence fading.

“We don’t know who the guns are for,” Rov blurted. “We just got hired to deliver ’em. We weren’t told where they’re going, just to help unload them and do whatever the bloke waiting there wants.”

“Who’s paying your salary?” Maldynado asked.

Rov hesitated. Akstyr made blood drip down the knife and splash onto a box in front of the prisoners. Of course, there wouldn’t be any real moisture in the drops, but neither man was in a position to reach out and check.

“Jo—Jovak!” Rov nearly swallowed his tongue in the rush to get the name out. “He’s the foreman in the factory. I don’t know who pays him or anything else, I swear it. The money’s real good, so we don’t ask questions. Beats thieving in the Buccaneers territory.”

Huh, so they were from the streets. The Buccaneers had been a rival gang to Akstyr’s own Black Arrows, but it didn’t sound like these two were members, so that didn’t give him much of a clue as to who might be behind things.

The knife and the light flickered, and he grimaced, refocusing his concentration. Even with simple illusions, one had to keep thinking about maintaining them, or they blinked out. Nobody seemed to notice.

“This Jovak hired you?” Maldynado asked.

“Yes, he’s the only one we’ve ever seen that’s in charge.”

“That go for you too?” Maldynado shook his man.

“Lick my sweaty balls, Dung-for-Brains.”

“Oh, yes, this one’s definitely going under the wheels,” Maldynado said.

Basilard smirked and managed to sign with one hand, I think he likes you.

“He’s too ugly for my tastes,” Maldynado said. “Let’s get them out of here.”

Akstyr extinguished his illusions and helped Basilard and Maldynado drag the prisoners onto the roof. Despite Maldynado’s threats, he didn’t throw anyone under the train, but he was none too gentle with chucking the surly one into the passing fields. He lowered Rov down more carefully, though both men tumbled away like empty cans hurtling down a cobblestone street in a windstorm. Their speed and the train’s own noise muted whatever yells they might have made.

Once the three of them were back inside, Maldynado shut the trapdoor, found a lantern, and lit it. He kept the flame down low, but not so low that Akstyr didn’t see his grin.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“They called you a witch,” Maldynado said.

Basilard smiled faintly too.

“That’s because they’re idiots,” Akstyr said.

Perhaps, Basilard signed, you should consider a haircut.

Akstyr scowled and patted his locks. Because he hadn’t bothered greasing them into spikes for the train adventure, his hair hung limply to his shoulders. He was positive it didn’t look girlie though.

“Now, now, Basilard,” Maldynado said. “Not everybody wants to go through life with a head so shiny it can confuse ships if it’s near a lighthouse.”

Basilard made a sign Akstyr didn’t recognize, but he noted it for later use since it seemed to indicate Maldynado could stuff something somewhere unpleasant.

“We get to go back to sleep now?” Akstyr asked.

Maldynado shrugged. “Until the rest of those people start wondering where their comrades went and come looking.”

“Guess we gotta put someone on watch then,” Akstyr said.

“Excellent idea. Thanks for volunteering.” Maldynado promptly lay back down and closed his eyes.

Basilard winked and did the same.

“What?” Akstyr scowled again. “That’s not fair. You know who should stand watch? Whoever owns the underwear that started this whole problem.”

Overzealous snores answered him.

“I hate you two.”

Chapter 3

Amaranthe woke to sunlight on her face. It was slanting through a gap in the canvas flap hanging over the lorry gate. The vehicle still bumped and thumped over dirt roads, and an uneasy feeling crept into her stomach. How far were they going? As Sicarius had said, the team needed to return to the city in time to catch the train that would allow them to intercept Sespian’s transport.

Books lay flat on his back, eyes closed, mouth agape. Fortunately, he wasn’t snoring. The drivers might notice their stowaways if thunderous nasal noises competed with the engine reverberations.

Sicarius lay next to Amaranthe, propped against his rucksack. The relaxation of sleep softened his face, and, not for the first time, she caught herself thinking how young he looked for a man with a son who would be twenty this winter. No creases lined his forehead or mouth, and no lines edged his eyes. Maybe it was because he never laughed or changed expressions. Or maybe those horrible travel bars he ate had rejuvenating properties.

Sicarius’s eyes opened and focused upon her. Amaranthe blushed, embarrassed to be caught staring.

“We’re slowing down,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe nodded, as if she had noticed the same thing and had been about to wake him. She lifted the flap to peer outside. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but she got more fields. Rows of butternut squash and pumpkin, some harvested, some still on the vine, stretched on either side of the dirt road.

Sicarius rose to a crouch. “If we don’t wish to be discovered, we should get out now.”

“We might just be slowing for a turnoff.”

“I’m hungry as a bear fresh out of hibernation,” came one of the men’s voices from the front. “Think we can filch some eggs and ham off Ma Kettle?”

“She’s getting paid to look the other way, not feed your fat caboose,” the second man replied.

“The woman can do both.”

Amaranthe waited, hoping the conversation would steer into more illuminating areas, but the men were done talking. The lorry turned and slowed further.

Amaranthe shook Books’s foot. Sicarius already had his pack over his shoulders and was poised to hop out. He pushed the tarp aside, checked behind them, and then climbed onto the gate so he could gaze out over the front of the vehicle.

“Come,” Sicarius said, ducking back in. “There’s little time.”

Books lifted his head. “Huh?”

Sicarius leaped out.

“Time to go,” Amaranthe whispered, shrugging into her own pack.

She waited for Books to grab his gear before jumping out. They’d timed it well, since the lorry was rolling past a cross section of split-rail fencing. Amaranthe ducked low and followed its contours. While it didn’t provide full cover, it was better than streaking through the pumpkin patch. Books clambered after her. She had already lost track of Sicarius.

“Horrible leader,” Amaranthe grumped, heading for a small shed.

Ahead of the lorries, a two-story farmhouse waited. A number of outbuildings dotted the property as well. Carriage house, canning facility, smoking sheds, a bunkhouse... Amaranthe didn’t see anything remotely resembling a weapons manufacturing factory. Smoke drifted from the stovepipe of the farmhouse and also a chimney on the canning building.

Amaranthe slipped behind the shed and waited for Books. Morning sun beat against her face. Normally she would appreciate it, but not when it would make sneaking about difficult. Rolling hills started to the east, and a few deciduous trees with brown and red leaves lined a distant stream, but fields dominated the nearby landscape.

The two lorries rolled into the carriage house. The tall doors stood open, apparently awaiting their arrival. Though it was hard to see inside the building from her vantage point, Amaranthe spotted a tractor and a wall full of hand tools. No rifles. Nothing that even looked like a forge.

She told herself it was too early to worry that she’d made a mistake and that they were now stuck someplace far from the main road and railway. If nothing else, the men who had driven the trucks would know something. Sicarius might get to question somebody yet.

“Where’d he go now?” Books asked.

“I don’t know,” Amaranthe said, continuing to watch the carriage house.

Two of the men stayed behind to put out the vehicles’ furnace fires while the other two headed for the bunkhouse. Usually such a building would be used by workers hired to help with the harvest. Was it possible these fellows were hired hands who had taken the farm’s lorries to deal with their insidious side business? But, no, the one had said “Ma” was being paid to look the other way.

Books removed his pack and sat on the ground. “It’d be nice if he stayed with us, especially to help with such fraught activities as sneaking into the enemy’s transport vehicles.”

“I imagine he leaves us during such endeavors because we’re more likely to get caught. If he stuck by our sides, he’d be caught too.”

“So, for self-preservation purposes, he abandons us at every opportunity?” Books asked.

“Er, yes, but in doing so he puts himself in a position where he can rescue us if we’re apprehended.”

Books snorted. “I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him to rescue me.”

“Didn’t you say he came to your assistance the first time you two met?” Amaranthe eased back from the corner. The last two men had gone inside, leaving little of interest to watch.

“Because he needed something,” Books said. “I don’t believe for a moment he’d put us ahead of his own interests, or even that he’d bother to ‘rescue’ us if he had something more interesting on his plate.”

When Amaranthe faced Books, she found Sicarius leaning against the far corner of the shed behind him. She wondered how much of the conversation he had heard. All of it probably. Oh, well. By now he knew his aloof ways had not won him many friends in the group.

“I doubt that. Have you seen the sorts of meals he puts on his plate?” Amaranthe met Sicarius’s eyes and smirked at him. “I wouldn’t call any of those interesting.”

Sicarius held her gaze in return. “Only because your palate is accustomed to sweets.”

Books jerked his head around and cursed under his breath.

“I know,” Amaranthe said. “The worst part about being out here is the distance from Curi’s Bakery.” She hadn’t told him that she paid a university student to buy sweets for her a couple of times a month—she wouldn’t risk going to Curi’s on her own, not when it was a popular stop for enforcers—but a girl couldn’t let outlaw status get in the way of apple cinnamon tarts.

Sicarius said nothing, though she knew he disapproved of her vice. Time to get back to work.

Amaranthe waved to encompass the farm. “I don’t see anything blatantly inimical happening here. It seems I was a tad impulsive in assuming that following those boys home would lead us to the source of those weapons.”

“Perhaps not.” Sicarius crouched and placed the flat of his palm on the ground.

Amaranthe lifted an eyebrow but did the same. Dry tufts of grass scrapped at her palm. She focused on the cool earth beneath them, trying to feel... whatever he thought was worth feeling.

Slight tremors pulsed through the ground, similar to what one might sense touching a railway track when a train was still miles off. More, faint rhythmic clanks reverberated through the earth as well.

“It could be machinery in that canning building.” Amaranthe pointed to the smoke wafting from its chimney.

“We wouldn’t feel that this far away,” Sicarius said. “Also, the banging is irregular, made by man, not machine.”

Books also placed a hand on the ground. “An engine... and a smith at a forge?” he guessed.

Amaranthe stood, her interest in the farm rekindling. “Like someone hammering steel into gun barrels?”

“That process is usually automated these days,” Books said, “but, yes, a smith would still be required for fastening the stock and firing mechanism.”

“And where would this be happening?” Amaranthe waved toward the bucolic setting.

“Underground,” Sicarius said. “There are a number of sleeping areas in that bunkhouse, far more than there are people visible working on the farm right now.”

“People on the day shift, eh?” Amaranthe said.

“It’ll be difficult for us to explore with the sun out,” Books said.

Sicarius flicked a glance down at him, and, though his expression never changed, Amaranthe thought she read “Speak for yourself” in it.

“Maybe you can scout around,” Amaranthe said to Sicarius, “while Books and I seek out...”

“Trouble?” Sicarius suggested.

Books’s eyes narrowed.

“Not necessarily. I thought we might have a chat with this Ma Kettle.” Amaranthe smiled and took up her idea of a backwoods drawl. “On account of how we come up from the south, hoping to help with the harvest, and mayhap she has some work left here for a couple of sturdy hands.”

“Trouble,” Sicarius said.

“I concur,” Books said.

“So nice when you two are in agreement.”

* * * * *

Amaranthe adjusted her borrowed straw hat, pulling it lower over her face, then walked up the porch steps to the farmhouse’s front door. To her side, Books alternated glancing over his shoulder toward the bunkhouse and fidgeting with his own straw hat, one she’d embellished with feather-and-bead tassels dangling from the brim. “So they won’t recognize it,” she’d told Books while he glowered fearsomely at her. They’d found the headwear in the shed, and, while hers was plain and forgettable, his had blue flowers on the brim, flowers now hidden by the tassels. She was glad Maldynado wasn’t there to comment, though she wasn’t sure whether it would have been to mock or approve; she’d seen him wearing hats as silly, and he had no qualms about donning tassel-bedecked clothing.

To further their disguises, Amaranthe and Books had smeared dirt on their faces—after the night’s adventure there’d been no need to add grime to their clothing. Amaranthe’s fingers kept straying toward a kerchief in her pocket, and she had to clench her fist to keep from grabbing it and cleaning the mess off.

She knocked on the door, putting the fist to good use. Books checked over his shoulder again.

“Relax,” Amaranthe said, ostensibly to him though the word could have been for her as well. She worried that the information they might get out of this woman wasn’t worth the risk of being identified later. She glanced at the shuttered windows on either side of the wooden porch.

“I’m not very good at extemporaneous mendacity,” Books said. “Or carefully rehearsed mendacity either.”

“Think of it as acting.”

“What, in the credentials I gave you when we met, suggested I’d be good at acting?” Books asked.

“You can’t be any worse than...” Amaranthe inclined her head toward the field, though naturally they could not see Sicarius about anywhere.

“He acts?”

“He stands there and goes along with me, answering my prods in a monosyllabic monotone.”

“So, the same as usual,” Books said.

“Essentially.” Amaranthe knocked on the door again. She’d seen a woman come out onto the porch earlier to beat dust from a rug, so she knew someone was home.

A shutter on one of the windows opened an inch. Amaranthe pretended not to notice, figuring the person wanted to make a secret inspection of them. Though she doubted rural farmers were up on the latest wanted posters, she kept her chin tilted downward, so the hat would hide part of her face.

Wooden floorboards creaked on the other side of the door.

“Who is it, Ma?” a voice called from the depths of the house. “That enforcer woman again?”

For a stunned second, Amaranthe thought “enforcer woman” referenced her, but nine months had passed since she’d been employed in that capacity, and she’d certainly never visited this place. Because there weren’t many female enforcers, her next thought was of Sergeant Yara, the woman they’d dealt with on the dam mission. This was her district.

“No,” came a voice from the other side of the door. “Go back upstairs.”

Her mind caught on the notion of enforcers visiting, Amaranthe barely heard the words. If the local authorities were already snooping around, aware of illegal weapons being manufactured in their district, that was good, but it meant this might not be quite the discovery she’d thought.

“What do you want?” a woman asked, voice directed toward the door this time, though she did not open it.

“Friendly,” Amaranthe mouthed to Books, before calling out, “We’re two hard workers wondering if you’re hiring help for the harvest, ma’am.”

“No.”

“And blunt,” Books mouthed back.

“We’re real good workers, ma’am, and help for nothing more than a hot meal and a chance to sleep in one of your sheds.” Or perhaps whatever building was hiding the machinery they’d felt...

“Don’t need no more help,” the woman responded. “Go away.”

“It seems my acting skills won’t be called upon after all,” Books murmured.

Amaranthe liked to think she was decent at negotiating, or, as the men put it, talking people into things, but it was hard to get a read on someone through a door. If the woman was already being paid well to look the other way, Amaranthe didn’t know what she might entice her with. Perhaps simply an appeal to her humanity?

“Please, ma’am, would you let us talk to you for a moment? We’ve come down out of the mountains on foot. Our rations are low. If you don’t have work, we understand, but perhaps you could point us in the direction of—”

“If you ain’t off my porch in five seconds, I’ll sic the hounds on you.”

Books scooted down the steps so quickly, Amaranthe wondered if he had a dog phobia. She followed, though she hated admitting defeat.

“It seems I’ve lost my touch for talking people into things,” she said as they walked away.

“I don’t know about that.” Books removed the hat and flicked at the tassels. “You got me to wear this.”

* * * * *

It didn’t take long for men to come searching for their missing comrades. Akstyr was standing guard—actually he was sitting and practicing some of his mental science exercises—when new footsteps clomped on the roof. He kicked Maldynado’s boot to wake him up and stop a bout of snoring that had probably already given away their position. He tossed an empty food tin at Basilard, clunking him in the chin and waking him instantly. Akstyr might have woken them more gently, but he wasn’t feeling accommodating after they stuck him with the watch.

Overhead, the footsteps ceased. Akstyr grabbed one of their new rifles. By the early morning light slanting through gaps in the wooden car walls, he’d figured out that it was loaded with six rounds.

Basilard squatted next to him and put a restraining hand on his arm. Akstyr squinted to read Basilard’s hand signs in the morning gloom.

That’ll make too much noise. The engineer might hear and halt the train. We need him to make the weapons delivery, so we can see where they go.

Akstyr doubted the engineer could hear anything over the noise of the locomotive, but he shrugged and set the rifle aside. He had other ways to deal with people.

The footsteps resumed, and Akstyr tracked them across the top of their car. It sounded like two men again, but this pair didn’t try to open the trapdoor. They moved on to the next car.

“What do you boys think?” Maldynado asked when the footsteps had been gone for a minute. “Should we try to pick them off on their way back?”

Perhaps they will give up and return to their car when they don’t find their comrades, Basilard signed.

“They’ll think it’s strange that their buddies are missing. It’s not like the train has stopped and people could have strolled away. I think they’ll keep looking. I’d look for you two if you went missing.”

“Yeah,” Akstyr said, “but you probably like us more than they like each other. We’ve been through heaps together.”

“Easy, boy, don’t get sentimental on me.”

Akstyr snorted. He should have kicked Maldynado harder.

Maldynado slid the trapdoor open a couple of inches, and a slash of early-morning light slipped into the car. He winked. “Let’s see how observant they are on the way back.”

Basilard signed, Same plan?

“What plan is that?” Akstyr asked. “The one where you two pummel them while they’re looking at your underwear?”

“That’s the one.” Maldynado scooted into the shadows. “Though it’s too bad Amaranthe’s pack isn’t here. Her underwear would be a lot more likely to distract hardworking rural men who probably haven’t seen too many ladies in a while.”

Basilard and Akstyr eased away from the trapdoor to hug the shadows as well. They did not have long to wait before the two men returned, and the fellows did indeed stop to investigate the open door. Subduing them was painless, and Maldynado and Basilard were soon atop the rail car, dusting their hands off and sharing congratulatory pats for work well done.

Akstyr rolled his eyes as he climbed outside with them. After the months of training they had spent under Sicarius’s elite tutelage, subduing two common laborers and dumping them off a train wasn’t a meaningful victory. At least he’d gotten to practice a little more of his art.

Basilard signed, What now? Wait to do it again?

“Did anyone see how many men stayed on the train with the weapons?” Maldynado asked.

Basilard shook his head.

“I can figure it out,” Akstyr said.

With the freight car trembling beneath him and wind tearing through his hair, he wasn’t sure how well he could concentrate, but he liked it when he got a chance to show off how useful his skills could be. He sat cross-legged on the roof and closed his eyes.

The first Science book he had found, the one from Larocka Myll’s mansion, had been on Thermodynamics. It was a beastly hard text to understand, and it didn’t help that Akstyr had to have Books translate the language for him, but Akstyr had figured a couple of things out from it. For one, he had learned how to sense heat. At first, that hadn’t seemed very useful, until he’d realized that living things had body heat, and he could detect it at a distance. Not a great distance, but he was improving all the time, and he thought he could sense people a few cars away.

It seemed strange that he could get tired from using his brain in a big way, but Akstyr always did when he was exercising the mental sciences, and he had to wipe sweat off his forehead when he finished. That didn’t keep him from giving a triumphant smirk and saying, “Four.”

Basilard and Maldynado had flopped down on their bellies and were pointing at something in the countryside and arguing. Akstyr always lost track of time when he was practicing. Since neither man seemed to hear him, he thumped Maldynado on the boot to get his attention, then repeated himself.

“Oh, good,” Maldynado said. “As long as that was taking, I thought we might have to wait and count people as they came out for their morning bush watering.”

Akstyr scowled. Maldynado had no idea how much work went into the mental sciences. He—

Basilard patted Akstyr on the shoulder and signed, Good job.

Akstyr’s disgruntlement faded slightly. He appreciated the words—at least somebody noticed that he was useful in the group—but he shrugged and said, “Whatever.” It was important not to let people know that what they thought mattered. That gave them too much power.

“Let’s pay them a visit, shall we?” Maldynado asked.

Basilard signed, What happens when the train stops to make its delivery and nobody’s there to help unload the goods? The recipients might be suspicious.

“They’d be more suspicious if the people who did arrive said half of their team had gone missing on the ride over,” Maldynado said. “This way, they’ll think there was a mix-up in the communications phase of their plan.”

“That’s actually a good point,” Akstyr said.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Maldynado nodded toward the weapons car. “Let’s be quieter about our approach than those lard-brains were. Maybe we can take out these four before they wake up.”

Akstyr appreciated that Maldynado wasn’t so strictly warrior-caste that he insisted on challenging the enemy to a duel or fair fight or some heroic storybook thing like that. Sometimes aristocrats didn’t have a clue about the real world.

Maldynado led the way across the rail cars, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, until they reached the one just before their destination. They paused to kneel on the edge before crossing over to it.

“Anyone have a plan?” Maldynado asked.

“That doesn’t involve underwear?” Akstyr asked.

“Preferably. We didn’t bring any along.”

Basilard signed, Akstyr, do you know where in the car the four people are located?

“Two were sitting across from the door, smoking.” Akstyr had sensed the bright points of heat and been tickled when he realized he’d identified cigars. “One was on the floor, so maybe sleeping. Another was by himself in the back.” He waved to indicate the end of the car farthest from them.

“Sleeping?” Maldynado asked.

“I don’t think so. He was sitting or maybe crouching. Reminded me of Sicarius off by himself cleaning his weapons.”

Maldynado grimaced. “I hope we don’t run into any Sicarius types with this crew, or we’re in trouble. Basilard, do you want to charge that fellow? He’ll have the most time to bring a gun to bear, but you’re deadly and scary, so maybe he’ll get worried when he sees your scars.”

If Maldynado had told Akstyr to charge some idiot that probably had a gun, Akstyr would have told him to stuff his fist in his mouth and gag on it. But Basilard nodded. He probably figured he was the best fighter and the logical choice. Akstyr was happy to be a mediocre fighter if it meant not being assigned deranged tasks like that.

“I’ll take the smoking men,” Maldynado said. “Akstyr, you get that fourth bloke and be ready to clean up the mess.”

Akstyr wondered if cleaning up the mess would involve healing Basilard when he got shot.

Maldynado shimmied across the coupling, then reached around and grabbed the ladder. He climbed a few rungs, careful not to clomp loudly at any point, and waved for Basilard to come next. Basilard skimmed down and over, almost as deft as Sicarius. Instead of staying on the ladder, he slid across the door, having no trouble navigating the inch-wide threshold, and perched on the other side. Akstyr couldn’t guess what tiny nubs Basilard was using for hand and footholds. With the train speeding across the flatlands and harsh winds whistling down the tracks, it seemed a tenuous position.

Akstyr clambered down and settled beneath Maldynado on the ladder. He withdrew his sword, a sturdy cutlass good for close-quarters skirmishes, and nodded that he was ready. Basilard grabbed the latch and pulled the door open with one swift motion. He and Maldynado leaped into the car as if they practiced the move all the time. They landed side-by-side and charged into the interior.

Akstyr gave them a second to get out of the way—and to make sure no bullets were flying—before jumping in after them. He landed with his sword in hand, his feet pointed in the direction he was supposed to run.

Before Akstyr had taken more than a step toward the man on the floor, an invisible force slammed into him. It knocked him backward, then smashed him to the floor. He tried to push himself up, but a weight kept him pressed flat. The memory of a similar situation, at the hands of the wizard Arbitan Losk, flashed through his mind. Against all likelihood, these thugs had a practitioner with them.

“I can’t hold them for long,” a strained voice said from the rear of the cab. “Hurry up and kill them.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Akstyr could see Maldynado and Basilard flattened to the floor as well. Two of their enemies were already down in unmoving heaps, but one remained standing. He nodded firmly at the order and yanked out a dagger.

Akstyr focused on the practitioner. Already, sweat beaded on the man’s forehead and dribbled down his cheeks to drip off his stubbled jaw. This wasn’t someone of Losk’s caliber, and Akstyr himself had grown a lot since the previous winter. Having his physical body restrained did not mean he couldn’t use his own mental powers.

He pursued the first tactic that came to mind. Using telekinetics, he unbuckled the man’s belt. The practitioner’s eyes widened, and his hand dropped in a startled jerk for his trousers.

The pressure weighing down Akstyr vanished. He lunged to one knee and hurled his cutlass. He ran in after it, not expecting the blade to do more than surprise the practitioner and keep him from reapplying his spell, but the sharp sword cut into the man’s neck. He dropped, clutching at his throat as blood gushed out between his fingers.

Akstyr grabbed his fallen cutlass and finished the man off. One couldn’t be too careful when practitioners were involved, though this fellow didn’t look much older than Akstyr himself, and he’d sounded like a Turgonian. An unfamiliar sense of remorse touched Akstyr as he watched the man’s life fade away. What if this had been someone like him? A Turgonian trying to teach himself the best he could?

“Nice work,” Maldynado said.

The praise surprised Akstyr out of his musings. Maldynado never praised him.

Yes, Basilard signed. Good work.

“Uh, thanks,” Akstyr said.

“That move with the cutlass was smooth,” Maldynado said. “You were like a little Sicarius.”

Akstyr snorted. “Whatever.” Despite the snort, he had to wrestle with his lips to keep them from a grin. Sure, he wanted to be a practitioner, not a warrior, but being compared to an assassin was nice.

Basilard gestured to the fallen men—he and Maldynado had finished off their three—and signed, Now what do we do?

Unsecured crates of ammunition and bundles of firearms bounced with the train’s vibrations. Akstyr was lucky he hadn’t tripped over something on his way to the back. Behind the dead practitioner, the bigger artillery weapons were strapped to the wall.

“The original plan was to see where these weapons were being delivered,” Maldynado said, “and I imagine we can still do that. I’m curious myself, now that we’ve seen these people weren’t above employing magic to help things along. That’s not exactly standard imperial operating procedure.”

“I think he was a local boy keeping his skills a secret, to most of his comrades anyway.” Akstyr thought of the way the first two men they’d subdued had seemed terrified by the idea of magic, not like people who’d been exposed to it often.

Someone must have known about his skills and hired him, Basilard signed.

“If we want to find out who,” Maldynado said, “we better remove the bodies and clean up the mess. If the people receiving the delivery think someone forgot to send the help, they won’t suspect we’re around.”

“It’ll take a lot of cleaning to make it look like people didn’t die in here.” Akstyr eyed blood puddles on the floor and spatters on the crates. “Too bad Am’ranthe isn’t here. She likes cleaning.”

I doubt she’d enjoy mopping up blood, Basilard signed. That’s an unpleasant task for anyone.

“I don’t know,” Akstyr said, “she likes spending time with Sicarius, and that’s about the most unpleasant thing I can imagine.”

Chapter 4

Twilight descended upon the farm, and someone lit lanterns in the house. Amaranthe watched from behind trees lining the stream a few hundred meters away. After her failure to win a meeting with “Ma,” she and Books had retreated to the area to wait for Sicarius. Fallen leaves carpeted the banks, and old gnarled roots that had survived more than a few floods rose hip-high in places, offering cover from farmer eyes.

Under the dying light, Books sat on a fat root, squinting and scribbling notes in a journal he had been carrying everywhere for the last couple of months. It contained the information he’d been compiling on Forge and its members.

Amaranthe nodded toward his work. “Any new thoughts?”

“I think,” Books said, “that it’s wretched that one can’t acquire a fresh newspaper anywhere out here. Don’t these rural bumpkins care about what’s going on in the world?”

“We won’t stay much longer.”

“I can’t be expected to further my research under these conditions.” Books gave her a pointed look. When Amaranthe had first announced the multi-day training exercise by rail, Books had argued that his time would be better spent in the city, continuing his fact-finding mission. She’d almost relented, but she would need everyone to infiltrate the emperor’s train, and Books would more likely be a hindrance than a help if he hadn’t practiced with the team. “But,” he said, “I have been mulling over the names I’ve recorded thus far, trying to decide who might be behind the building of these weapons.”

“It’s possible this isn’t a Forge plot. If the weapons are meant to disrupt the city, it could be a scheme concocted by foreigners, especially if it was timed to coincide with the emperor’s travels.” Amaranthe tapped her finger on one of the roots. “Though, you’d think they would have chosen to move earlier, when he was out on the West Coast, if they wanted to take advantage of his absence. He’s almost home now. Maybe they meant to act sooner, but manufacturing was delayed.”

“I believe it’s too early to speculate on motivations—we don’t yet know what the weapons will be used for. I imagine, though, that setting up this enterprise required a great deal of funds, both for construction of the manufacturing facility and for crafting the weapons themselves. And let’s not forget about the preliminary research and development that would have been done. Someone well-financed must be behind this.” Books lifted his journal. “I have seventeen confirmed Forge names in here and more than thirty other suspected ones. One controls a metallurgy factory and another mills timber, so they could easily provide the raw materials. Also, a surprising number of people on my list are bankers or own shares in banking interests.”

“Fifty people,” Amaranthe said.

“That we know of. I’m certain there are more.”

“So many. Is it possible...” She nibbled on her lip and gazed at the water wending its way around rocks and roots stretching into the stream.

“What?” Books asked.

“I certainly don’t approve of their methods, but if there are so many business leaders in the city vying for a change in the government... Are we sure we’re right, Books? I don’t believe it’s wrong to protect Sespian, not for a moment, but are we—is the throne—standing in the way of progress?”

“The fact that a lot of people believe in something doesn’t make it right. If they wanted to effect change, there are legal routes they could have pursued.”

“Really? This isn’t the Kyatt Islands. You can’t hold demonstrations or print whatever you want in periodicals. Those with dissenting opinions have to go underground.”

“It’s true that the empire could stand to adopt more flexibility and offer more freedoms to its citizens,” Books said, “but murdering people and loosing monsters on the city isn’t an acceptable method of protest.”

Amaranthe didn’t answer him. She was thinking of all the destruction her team had wrought, however inadvertently, in her pursuit to protect the emperor and thwart Forge. She wished she might have a chance to walk into Forge’s secret meeting room, wherever that might be, and to talk to the leaders, to see exactly how much they wanted, and to find out if there was some compromise that might suit both sides. Wouldn’t that be a better solution than ongoing plots and schemes that put the city at risk? Or was it too late for negotiations? Maybe she was crazy for thinking of dealing with such people.

“Do you have addresses for any of the members?” Amaranthe asked.

“Some, yes. Business addresses if not residential ones.”

“Keep up the research. After we’ve helped the emperor, maybe—”

A shadow appeared behind Books, and Amaranthe twitched in surprise.

“You did not get into trouble,” Sicarius said.

Books fell off the root he was sitting on and his journal tipped into the mud.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Amaranthe told Sicarius while giving Books a hand up, “but the best I could manage was to have a cranky woman threaten to sic her dog after us.”

Books picked up his journal and brushed off the mud-spattered pages, pointedly not looking at Sicarius.

Sicarius noticed the open pages, or perhaps the list they contained. “What is that?”

“This?” Books held up the journal. “Though your training regimen leaves me little time for academic pursuits, Amaranthe has further burdened me with the task of—”

“You like the research,” Amaranthe said.

Books smiled. “Perhaps. Amaranthe has had me researching Forge as relentlessly as possible the last couple of months, and I’ve put together an extensive list of key members and sympathizers.”

“I talked to Deret Mancrest a while back,” Amaranthe said, “and he said, should the situation become desperate, he’d be willing to risk himself to print everything we have on the organization. Names, businesses, and the fact that they were behind the poisoning of the water last spring. If we can get proof of other misdeeds, he’ll include those too.” Amaranthe had actually asked Deret to print up the information if she and her team were killed, but she decided mentioning that might not be good for morale. It bolstered her though. If she left no other legacy, she could leave that, a warning to the public and information for anyone who might care enough to use it.

“I see.” As was so often the case, Sicarius’s tone was difficult to read. He tended to grow extra flinty when Amaranthe mentioned the journalist’s name. “Come,” he said, “I’ve located the secret entrance. The workers have gone to the bunkhouse for the night.”

“Any guards to worry about?” Amaranthe brushed dirt off Books’s jacket and trousers.

Sicarius hesitated—or perhaps he was simply watching her fastidious streak in action—before saying, “No.”

“Anything else to worry about?”

“Likely.”

Sicarius headed into the gloom without bothering to share details.

“I believe we’ll have some trouble yet.” Books straightened his jacket. “Thank you for the help. I think I’m clean enough until we return to the city.”

“If you change your mind, I have a lint brush.”

“You brought a lint brush on a training mission into the rural hinterlands?”

Amaranthe cleared her throat. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“I don’t believe so, no.”

“How odd.”

Amaranthe waved for Books to follow her in the direction Sicarius had gone. This time, she made sure they kept up. The three of them steered wide of the bunkhouse and main house, where more lanterns burned inside windows, circling instead to the carriage house. It was dark.

Without a word, Sicarius jogged inside. Amaranthe followed more slowly, sliding her fingers along the wall for guidance. The darkness lay thick inside. While night had some lovely benefits when it came to sneaking around, it also increased one’s odds of tripping over a pile of tins and alerting the entire farm to one’s presence. She heard Books crunch on something behind her and made an effort to slide her feet along, toes probing before she committed to each step.

From what Amaranthe had seen of the building from outside, the two lorries and a couple of other pieces of large machinery occupied much of the space, so she continued to hug the wall. Her boots stirred sawdust, and she crinkled her nose at the scent of spilled engine oil.

A soft thump came from somewhere ahead. Amaranthe tensed. Had Sicarius been wrong? Was there a guard on duty in there?

She reached for her sword, all the while thinking it’d be a pitiful weapon if someone had one of those new rifles pointed in her direction.

The sawdust swished. Amaranthe lowered into a crouch and pressed her back against the wall. Something whispered past. She squinted into the gloom but saw nothing.

Books patted her arm and waved toward the door. Amaranthe looked in time to see a cat trot outside.

“Ah,” she said, trying not to feel silly.

“Here,” Sicarius whispered from the middle of the room.

Using his voice as a guide, Amaranthe left the wall. She patted her way around one of the lorries and held out a hand until she bumped into him. Books came up from behind, finding her in a similar manner. Clouds had come in that afternoon, so neither moon nor stars helped to brighten the night outside.

A soft creak stirred the silence, and something about the noise made Amaranthe’s neck hairs sit up and take notice. Just a trapdoor opening, she told herself.

“There’s a ladder down,” Sicarius said.

“Shouldn’t we stop to light lamps?” Books asked. “Climbing down into a pitch-black secret weapons bunker sounds potentially damaging to one’s health. We do have lamps, don’t we?”

“I do.” As if Amaranthe would remember a lint brush and not a lantern. She slung her pack off her shoulder. “I thought you had one too.”

Books hesitated. “I can’t remember where I packed it. I don’t think it’s on top.”

“Ah, perhaps we can impose an organizational system on your rucksack later.”

“Should it worry me that you seem to find that notion exciting?”

“Probably.”

Amaranthe withdrew a tin of matches and a compact, nearly indestructible lantern. She lit the wick, and a soft bubble of light came to life, throwing Books’s shadow against the canvas covered cargo bed of the closest lorry. Sicarius had already disappeared into a rough square hole that descended... Amaranthe frowned and lowered the light. She couldn’t see him or the bottom.

“How far down is it?” she whispered into the hole.

“No more than fifteen feet,” came Sicarius’s voice in return, echoing softly in the narrow space.

“Ah, not so bad then.”

“So long as there aren’t booby traps, monsters, and nefarious men with guns down below,” Books said, a curl to his lip as he regarded the drop.

“Why don’t you stay here and stand guard?” Amaranthe suggested.

“Excellent idea.”

“Better not light the other lantern,” Amaranthe said as she swung onto the ladder. They didn’t need anyone noticing a flame in the carriage house and investigating.

“Understood,” Books said.

As Amaranthe descended, the dark, narrow hole invited a feeling of claustrophobia. If she hadn’t left her rucksack up top, she might have gotten stuck in the tight passage. If this was indeed an underground manufacturing facility, the owners must have another, larger exit they used for toting out the big weapons.

Before her boots hit the ground, Amaranthe bumped into an obstruction. She reached out and found a head of short soft hair that was, as usual, sticking out in myriad directions.

“Problem?” Amaranthe asked.

“I haven’t been able to determine how to open the door,” Sicarius said without commenting on her groping hand.

“What? With me and Books up there blathering for so long, I thought you’d have picked the lock and vanquished whatever guard might lie within.”

“There is no lock.” Sicarius responded in his usual monotone, with no hint that he appreciated her teasing or knew it for what it was.

Business, right. Amaranthe squeezed past Sicarius to find the bottom. They could stand shoulder-to-shoulder, looking at the door opposite of the ladder, but not without pressing against the walls and each other.

“Not quite as cozy as the Imperial Gardens, eh?” Amaranthe murmured, not wanting Books to hear.

Sicarius ignored her and probed around the door with his fingers.

Under the light of the lantern, Amaranthe decided “door” might be an optimistic term for the flat cement wall before them. Vertical cracks at the corners were the only indication that the gray slab might be movable. It seemed to be designed to slide to the side somehow, but there was no lock, knob, or latch to be seen.

She put a hand on the cool cement and tried to push it. Not only did it not move, but Sicarius gave her a flat look.

“You already tried that, eh?” Amaranthe shrugged and shuffled in a circle to face the ladder. She tried twisting the rungs—they were the only ornamentation in the confining space—but nothing budged.

After a pat down of everything around the door and on the floor, Sicarius reached over her head and climbed up the ladder.

“That man never wants to linger in dark nooks with me,” Amaranthe muttered. “Or explain where he’s going when he rushes off. It’s enough to damage a girl’s self-esteem. And cause her to start talking to herself.”

Up top, Books asked a soft question, but Sicarius didn’t explain anything to him either.

Left alone, Amaranthe reapplied herself to the task of finding a latch or trigger. She would love to locate one when Sicarius had failed to, but she wouldn’t hold her breath waiting for that to happen.

Amaranthe laid an ear against the cement, thinking she might hear some machinery ticking inside. The Imperial Barracks had doors controlled by steam engines that opened automatically when someone approached. One didn’t expect such sophistication from the basement of a farm’s carriage house, but maybe—

The door rumbled to the side.

Amaranthe skittered backward, clunking her shoulders on the ladder. Her first silly thought was that her ear had somehow triggered the door to open, but Sicarius soon reappeared.

“There’s a hoe on the wall that opens it,” he said, climbing down.

“Ah, how’d you find it so quickly?” Amaranthe told herself it wasn’t important that he’d located the trigger first. “There must be fifty farm tools hanging on the walls.”

“Closer to a hundred, but only one had all the sawdust worn away beneath it.”

“You saw which one he pulled, Books?” Amaranthe called up as Sicarius slipped past her, stepping onto a dark threshold.

“Yes,” Books said.

Sicarius removed his rucksack and withdrew a lantern of his own.

“If the door closes behind us,” Amaranthe said, “and we’re not out in fifteen minutes, open it again, please.”

“Yes, of course. Understood.”

Amaranthe followed Sicarius inside. He had only gone a couple of steps. His lit lantern rested on the floor while he crouched beside it, eying the room’s contents thoroughly before moving forward. When Amaranthe looked around herself, she decided “room” was a weak word to describe what stretched before them.

The small flame illuminated only their corner of the space, but it revealed rows of racks filled with rifles, shotguns, and other firearms Amaranthe couldn’t name. The underground chamber’s boundaries stretched well beyond the walls of the carriage house above. Beyond the rows of racks, at the far end of the rectangular space, dark blocky shapes—machinery?—loomed. Bland gray cement comprised the walls, floor, and a high ceiling, and Amaranthe decided no woman had been involved with designing the facility. It would take someone like Sicarius to choose such a monochromatic palate. He probably thought it was practical.

The door rasped behind them, cement rubbing against cement as it slid closed. Amaranthe stifled a surge of panic over the idea of being trapped inside. There ought to be a switch on a nearby wall—surely the workers had to be able to leave to pee whenever they wished—and, even if there wasn’t, Books waited up top.

“Shall we explore?” Amaranthe asked.

Sicarius rose from his crouch, but when she started to step forward, he stopped her with a hand. He pointed to the wall a couple of feet ahead of them. At first, Amaranthe saw nothing, but when he lifted the lantern, she spotted a tiny hole in the cement. It didn’t appear unnatural in the porous wall, until she realized there were five such holes, all in a vertical line. The first was at calf level while the top was over her head.

“Interesting,” Amaranthe said. “Booby trap?”

She drew a knife and waved it before one of the holes, figuring anything that popped out would be deflected by her blade.

A click sounded and shapes buzzed through Amaranthe’s field of vision. Before she could figure out what they were, Sicarius pulled her back and pressed her against the door behind him. Several items clinked off the walls and floors, but with her view smothered by Sicarius’s shoulder, it was hard to tell what they were. She did, with the projectiles bouncing off everything and skidding everywhere, belatedly realize that triggering the trap hadn’t been a good idea.

Sicarius stepped away before Amaranthe’s curiosity prompted her to try and wriggle past him. He gave her a head-to-foot check before kneeling to pick something up. A tiny bolt. Others lay scattered where they had landed after caroming off the walls. Something viscous gleamed on the tips. Poison?

Amaranthe swallowed. “Booby trap number one?”

“Yes. That was a foolish way to trigger it.” Sicarius slanted her a hard look.

“I know.” She thought of the conversation she had had a few months earlier with Books, the one where she had resolved to pursue prudence in dealing with enemies. She would need to adopt a policy of prudence for all deadly situations, enemies present or not. “Sorry, that was thoughtless.” Especially since one could have hit him.

Sicarius dropped the bolt, and Amaranthe patted his shoulder. “I do appreciate your willingness to throw yourself in front of ricocheting darts to protect me.”

Sicarius ignored her pat and turned his attention back to the chamber.

“And your ability to ignore the human need to socialize in order to remain focused on the mission,” Amaranthe added.

“This is not the time for burbling.”

A retort rose to Amaranthe’s lips, but she stopped herself. He was right.

After another inspection of the booby trap, Sicarius moved past it. He led the way down the first aisle, heading for a worktable full of sketches. As he walked, his gaze roved about, probing every inch of wall, floor, and ceiling for signs of more traps. Though Amaranthe wanted to investigate the racks of weapons, she followed close on his heels. If he triggered a booby trap, he could probably avoid the consequences with those reflexes of his. She would likely trip and fall into the path of the poisoned dart.

When they reached the workstation, Sicarius picked up a rifle with four barrels and examined it. Amaranthe’s fingers strayed toward the sketches scattered on the table, but she caught herself before her hands could rearrange the clutter into neat piles. As the men were quick to tell her, spies weren’t supposed to clean while they snooped.

Sicarius set the rifle aside and pulled a crate off one of the racks. He slid his black dagger under a lid that was nailed shut. Using it as a crowbar was not likely to damage that blade. Amaranthe was still waiting for the story of where it had come from and what the indestructible material comprising it was.

Sicarius popped the lid off the crate. It was filled with rectangular brown boxes that read Brakhork D-1 Rifle Ammunition.

“Brakhork?” Amaranthe fished a notebook out of her pocket and wrote the name down. “That’s interesting. You wouldn’t expect someone to put the family name on something that’s going to be used for inimical purposes. Of course, it could simply be a made-up name.”

When Sicarius glanced at her, Amaranthe said, “I’m not burbling. I’m musing constructively.”

“I see.”

She tried to decide if he sounded amused while he opened one of the boxes and pulled out a long slender cartridge wrapped in a coppery casing. It had a pointed tip and three concentric rings circling the bottom.

Sicarius thumbed the rings. “I’ve not seen a design like this before.”

“How many designs have you seen?”

“Many. Everything the army’s been working on for the last ten years,” Sicarius said. “They’ve had the technology to make repeating firearms, and there have been experimental trials, but they haven’t rushed to get production on line.”

“Why not, I wonder? Surely, these repeating firearms offer significant advantages over flintlock and percussion-cap weapons.” Amaranthe found a rifle labeled D-1 and pulled it off the rack. She opened the lid on the side and peered into an empty chamber, guessing there would be room to load six or eight cartridges.

“With most of our enemies still using bows and crossbows, our existing black powder weapons already provide an advantage.”

“So, they’ve been waiting to upgrade until there’s a need?” Amaranthe asked.

“There’s also the warrior-caste mentality to deal with.”

“Ah, yes. Turgonian honor dictates it’s preferable to challenge the enemy to a sword fight rather than shooting him from afar.” She slipped a finger into the chamber, trying to figure out what role those grooves at the base of the bullet might serve. “Want to disassemble a rifle?”

She checked the desk for tools, but it seemed to be the designer’s spot, and only sketches and drawing implements occupied the drawers. Sicarius took the weapon from her and simply used his knife to unfasten a couple of screws. He proceeded to remove the stock from the barrel and disassemble the loading mechanism, as if he’d done it hundreds of times.

“How are you familiar with all of the army’s weapons developments from the last ten years?” Amaranthe asked. “Didn’t you part ways with the throne when Raumesys died? And then worked as an independent without any ties to the emperor? In fact, Sespian put that bounty on your head before he even came into legal power, right?”

Sicarius laid the pieces of the rifle out on the desk as he continued to break it down.

“For the record, I’m still not burbling. I’m just...”

“Interrogating?” Sicarius suggested.

“Maybe so, but I’m not using hot irons or other torture devices, so it shouldn’t be objectionable.” Amaranthe wriggled her eyebrows at him, though he was focused on the rifle disassembly. “If nothing else, you could tell me why you chose to assassinate a satrap governor and other important lords and diplomats when you were out there working for the highest bidder. You must have known that would give Sespian more reason to hate and distrust you.”

Sicarius laid the last pieces of the rifle on the table. “This isn’t the place for this discussion.”

“No, I suppose not, but if I’m to help argue your case when we meet Sespian—which, if things go according to plan, will be soon— I need more of the facts at some point. Or at least, your version of the truth.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. Maybe that hadn’t been the most tactful word choice. Before she could fumble an apology, Sicarius said, “They were plotting against Sespian.”

“What? Who?”

“Satrap Governor Lumous, Lord Admiral Antavak, the city officials, diplomats, and two warrior-caste officers. Lumous and Antavak headed a scheme to have Sespian assassinated the year after Raumesys died, before he’d even reached his majority and come into power. I killed them first.” Sicarius picked up the bolt and firing pin assembly to study. “It’s what I was trained to do. In reflection, perhaps I should have gathered evidence, so there’d be some record. Something to show to Sespian.”

Amaranthe stared at him with wide eyes. “All along you were acting on his behalf? Trying to protect him?”

“The fact that he has no heirs has always made him a target. You know that.”

“Yes, but I thought... I guess everyone thought you were just a rogue assassin available for hire by the highest bidder.”

Sicarius gave her one of his flat looks.

“I mean, I knew it wasn’t money that drew you,” Amaranthe said. He’d had little money when she met him—just enough to hire that shaman to heal her—and he certainly didn’t seem to have any vices that would require substantial funds. He didn’t even own more than three sets of clothing, all identical. “I thought perhaps you might be motivated by the challenge factor.”

“Rarely.”

“Sicarius, this changes everything. Your methods trample all over the idea of justice and having a fair say in front of the magistrate, but all this time you were working to help Sespian? For the good of the empire? You’re practically a hero.” She grinned at him, and, blessed ancestors, she was tempted to hug him.

Sicarius snorted. “The empire is nothing to me. If Sespian were some deviant crime lord, I’d still kill those who meant him harm.”

His words failed to steal Amaranthe’s grin. “It’s all right. I won’t tell the world you’re not quite the malevolent butcher everyone thinks.”

He looked like he might glare or otherwise object to this softening of his image, but he caught himself. Instead, he said, “Just tell one person.”

“I will.” Amaranthe took the rifle’s bolt from him and studied the interior. By the poor light of the lantern, it was hard to see inside, but she thought she detected raised bumps to fit the groves in the cartridge. It seemed like an odd addition from a functionality standpoint. Why not simply keep the bullet smooth? Wouldn’t it have better aerodynamics that way? Then something clicked in her brain. “It’s a proprietary design, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Amaranthe waved to the racks of weapons and crates of ammunition. “If they made all the rifles the same way as this one, then only these particular cartridges will work in them. No smith could simply reproduce these. It’d take a sophisticated facility like this one to duplicate the design. So, the buyers of these weapons will have to continue to order ammunition from the sellers for life.” She picked up one of the bullets and rubbed it between her fingers. “Maybe this is a Forge plot after all. That seems like the sort of quasi-shady business practice one of their people might try.”

Three thumps came from behind and above them.

“Books,” Amaranthe said. “Someone must be coming.”

Sicarius started toward the door, but Amaranthe caught his arm. “Wait, you have to put the rifle back together. We don’t want anyone to know we were here. Especially not if there’s a link to Forge.”

“I opened a crate,” Sicarius said, but he returned to the table and started assembling.

“Maybe they won’t notice that right away.”

While he worked on the weapon, Amaranthe slipped a handful of the cartridges into her pocket. Being able to show someone the unique bullets later might prove useful. She tucked the ammo box back into the crate, trying to hide the fact that it had been opened, and affixed the lid. She manhandled the crate back onto the rack.

Ker-thunk!

“Uhm.” Amaranthe lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. That had been much louder than the earlier thumps, and if she had to guess where the sound had originated, she’d say above them and outside of the carriage house. “I don’t think that was Books.”

Sicarius finished reassembling the rifle and returned it to the rack. He jogged toward the door, pausing briefly to test the booby trap and make sure it had not reset.

Amaranthe waved to the cement slab. “Can we open it from in here?”

Sicarius patted about the walls, but he didn’t find a lever.

“Maybe the hoe is the only way in.” Amaranthe thought about knocking on the door, but if Books hadn’t caused that second noise, she didn’t want to alert whoever had to their presence.

A long scrape grated at the rear of the chamber, in the dark back half they had not yet explored. Tendrils of unease curled through Amaranthe’s belly. That noise hadn’t come from above. Something was down there with them.

Maybe someone already knew about their presence.

Soft whirs and clanks emanated from the darkness. A grinding followed, and Amaranthe thought it sounded like wheels or treads rolling over the cement floor.

“Oh, good, it’s been a while since I’ve been chased by a machine. It ought to be good training, right?” Amaranthe smiled.

Sicarius did not.

Chapter 5

Amaranthe shifted from foot to foot while watching the darkness behind the racks of weapons. The grinding noise and soft clanks were growing louder.

Sicarius was trying to lever his black dagger into a crack to open the door, but it didn’t sit flush with the jamb—the cement slab had slid a couple of inches into an indention. Amaranthe had a feeling they weren’t getting out that way, not unless Books returned and let them out. She also had a feeling that someone up there was keeping him from doing just that. She hoped he was only hiding and hadn’t been captured. Amaranthe cursed herself for standing down there and burbling when they should have been getting in and out as quickly as possible.

Sicarius sheathed his blade. “We’ll look for another way out.”

Amaranthe eyed the shadows behind the racks. “Back there?”

Sicarius was already heading down the aisle with the worktable. The source of the clanking sounds seemed to be coming up an aisle on the opposite side of the rectangular chamber. Amaranthe jogged after Sicarius. Maybe they could bypass... whatever it was. But before she reached the aisle entrance, something metallic rolled out from behind the racks on the opposite side of the room.

Not rolled... It seemed to hover an inch off the ground. The two-foot-wide black semicircle looked like a ball someone had cut in half. Brass shingles plated it like an armadillo’s shell, and four waving antennae-type structures rose from each of its quadrants. Small glowing red balls perched on the tops. The way they moved about gave Amaranthe the impression of eyes scanning the area.

“That’s not your standard farm equipment,” she observed.

The machine turned in place, and all four of the antennae stretched out, the “eyes” staring at her. A single word was engraved on the front of its body: Deklu.

Amaranthe stepped backward, and her heel thumped against the concrete wall. She thought about sprinting down the aisle after Sicarius—he had already moved out of sight—but she hesitated. She should figure out what the device could do first. It didn’t have any obvious weapons protruding from it. Maybe it had another purpose. Maybe—

A hum emanated from the machine, a strange, otherworldly sound that raked across Amaranthe’s nerves like a claws. Her instincts propelled her to lunge into the aisle, putting three rows of racks between herself and the construct.

Four red beams blasted into the cement wall where she’d been standing. Smoke blossomed, and chunks of aggregate flew, cracking against the rifles and racks. As quickly as they had come, the beams winked out. Amaranthe raced down the aisle without waiting to see how much damage the thing had done to the wall. Anything that could shatter cement had to be powerful enough to burn right through a human.

“Definitely not a farm machine.”

Amaranthe came out of the aisle on the far end and almost crashed into one of four smithy stations spanning the chamber. She lifted a hand to stop herself from tumbling into the closest one. The bricks beneath her palm still radiated heat from the day’s activity, and she craned her head back, eyeing the spot where the chimney met the ceiling. Maybe that was a way out? But they’d seen no smoking vents in the yard, so perhaps not. The smoke was probably diverted somewhere far away.

The construct floated into the entrance of the aisle Amaranthe had raced down. She’d taken her lantern when she ran, leaving the machine in darkness, but its glowing red eyes identified it. She darted to the side, using the racks for cover again.

A red beam knifed out of the darkness, slicing into the space she’d occupied.

“Watch out,” Amaranthe called for Sicarius’s sake. She didn’t see him—only the hint of his light somewhere deeper in the room—but she didn’t want him getting a stray beam in the back. “I made a friend.”

As she spoke, Amaranthe dodged between two of the freestanding forges, jumped over a bin of coal, and came face-to-face with a flywheel so tall it nearly brushed the ceiling. It was part of some towering device for stamping metal. Other machines loomed in the shadows.

The grinding from the ambulatory construct grew louder behind her, and she continued into the maze of machines, picking her way toward the other lantern.

“Find a door yet?” Amaranthe asked. “Because we don’t want to be trapped by—” She rounded a machine and almost ran into a pair of black-clad legs dangling in the air.

Sicarius hung by one hand from the frame of a wooden double door set in the ceiling. His fingers gripped a thin reinforcing board no more than an inch thick, and Amaranthe had no idea how he could hold his body up that way. He held his knife in his other hand and was probing the crack between the two doors.

“It’s secured from above,” Sicarius said, as calmly as if he were standing beside her. “I’m attempting to see if there’s a bar that can be dislodged.”

“I’m not sure there’s time for that.” Amaranthe checked the route behind her. The machines offered some cover, but they were not solid obstacles, so it was possible the construct could fire through them. “I have a... Deklu after me,” she said, naming the word on the machine, though she didn’t know if it was a description or a name or something else entirely.

“Sentry,” Sicarius translated.

“In what language?”

“Mangdorian.”

“Hm, another machine made by that shaman who wanted your head?” If so, Amaranthe wondered anew if Forge might be involved here.

A red beam streaked out of the darkness. A flywheel on a machine deflected part of it, but it also caught the side of Sicarius’s arm.

He dropped to the floor. Amaranthe stepped forward to help him, but he grabbed his lantern and pointed her toward the side of the chamber. Smoke wafted from his sleeve; she couldn’t tell if the beam had struck flesh as well.

Before they had gone more than a few feet, something pounded against the overhead door. Books?

Laughter sounded, muffled by earth and wood. Not Books.

“That’s right ya vagrant thieves,” someone called, “stay down there and die!”

“Thieves,” Amaranthe said as Sicarius led her to the wall. “At the worst, we’re spies.” A wall aisle lay clear for them to run back to the front door if they wished, but she saw little point in that.

“You took some of their ammunition.” Sicarius parted from her side and hopped onto a machine to check the sentry’s progress.

“Just a couple of bullets. That’s more like sampling than thieving, don’t you think?”

“Did that argument work on you when you were an enforcer?” His gaze shifted to the ceiling, searching for weaknesses to exploit perhaps.

“No, but I’ve changed this last year. You’ve influenced me with your law-skirting ways.”

“I see your classification of me as heroic was short-lived.”

The grinding of the sentry drew closer, and Amaranthe glimpsed it moving through the open space beneath the overhead door. Sicarius jumped down from his perch a second before another beam split the air. It burned into the cement wall behind them, hurling pieces to the floor.

With few other options, Amaranthe and Sicarius ran past the forges and toward the front of the chamber.

Sicarius glanced back. “Those beams remind me of technology I saw once before, a long time ago.”

“A long time ago?” Amaranthe stopped before several crates of ammunition. “It looks irritatingly modern and deadly to me. It’s made from the Science, I’d assumed.” She tapped a crate thoughtfully, wondering if whatever was in the cartridges was as flammable as black powder.

“The body perhaps.” Sicarius eyed her tapping fingers. “Causing an explosion might not be the wisest course when we’re beneath so much concrete and earth.”

“How’d you know that’s what I had in mind?” Amaranthe had been about to ask for his help in opening a crate. Despite his warning, she held out a hand for his sturdy dagger.

“I know you.” Sicarius waved her hand away and nodded toward the front of the chamber. “Come, there are kegs of black powder in the middle aisles. It’ll be easier to work with in free form.”

To their rear, the sentry floated out from behind one of the forges, still hovering an inch above the floor. Amaranthe sprinted after Sicarius as its red eyeballs rotated in their direction. She caught the end of the rack and used it to swing herself around the corner ahead of not one but four beams. They shot forth in a scattered high-and-low pattern, taking chunks out of another wall.

“At least that thing’s slow,” Amaranthe said, chasing Sicarius past two rows of racks and down a middle aisle, though she silently acknowledged that the device was fast enough to make it difficult to find time to make a bomb for blowing a hole out of their prison. “We can keep ahead of it,” she said to reassure herself.

An ominous grating sounded at the back of the chamber. Another gate being opened, and another sentry rolling out? Or something else?

“Spoke too soon,” Amaranthe said.

Sicarius stopped before a series of upright kegs and pried the lid off one.

“Blessed ancestors,” Amaranthe said, “there’s enough here to blow up this whole facility.”

“Unwise while we’re inside.”

“I know, I was just—”

The grinding rasp of the sentry grew louder as it approached their row. Sicarius grabbed Amaranthe’s arm and headed for the opposite end. She snatched a fistful of black powder before he dragged her away.

They ran out of the aisle on the far end before the sentry appeared at the front and shot at them again. As soon as they turned the corner, Amaranthe heard the grinding tread of a second device somewhere amongst the machines. She and Sicarius crept to the worktable wall again and started to turn up the aisle, intending to circle back to the one with powder once the first sentry had gone down it, but it was waiting for them at the end of that row, all four crimson eyes focused in their direction.

Amaranthe stumbled in her rush to jump back under cover. Two of the eyeballs flared into burning embers, and the beams might have caught her in the chest, but Sicarius pulled her to safety.

“Is it just me or are they getting smarter?” Amaranthe whispered, heart thumping against her ribs.

The second sentry rolled out from behind a flywheel, its wavering antennae in view above one of the forges.

“I’ll distract them.” Sicarius opened her hand and took her fistful of black powder. “You make the explosives.”

Amaranthe knew that was best, but she remembered the savage wound he’d received once before when distracting something dangerous for her, the deadly soul construct in Larocka Myll’s house. She had to force herself to nod. “All right. Be careful.”

He was already slipping past the forge toward the second sentry.

“That’s not being careful,” Amaranthe whispered.

Sicarius acknowledged her with a lift of the fist that held the black powder. Amaranthe grumbled to herself, but resolved to focus on her half of the problem.

She peeked back into the aisle closest to the wall. A blur of red streaked toward her. She jerked her head back as the beam cut into the corner of the rack, inches from her nose. The metal support bar melted before her eyes. The top corner of the unit crumpled, and a handful of rifles spilled onto the floor. On a whim, she snatched one, though she feared firearms might not work on the sentries. Using a few of the cartridges she’d pocketed earlier, she fumbled through loading the rifle. She hoped she wasn’t putting the bullets in backward.

One last time, she ducked her head into the aisle where the first sentry waited. Predictably it fired its beams at her. She tiptoed back over to the row that held the kegs of black powder.

A boom shattered the stillness.

Amaranthe winced and gripped one of the racks for support. “What was that?”

“The beams will ignite black powder,” Sicarius observed with bland detachment.

Amaranthe snorted. That she could have guessed, especially after seeing the first sentry melt the pole. “Did you destroy it?”

“The explosion blew off an antenna, but its armor protected it from further damage.”

Realizing Amaranthe had given away her position by speaking, she decided not to head down the powder aisle yet. She trotted across to the opposite side of the chamber, grabbed a fancy two-barreled pistol off a rack, and tossed it down the aisle next to the wall. It clattered hard onto the cement floor.

She waited around the corner to see if the noise drew the first sentry. As she crouched there, she began to feel silly. As far as she knew, the things had no ears. Why assume they hunted by sound?

Amaranthe was about to pull away when the familiar grinding reached her own ears. It was coming. She closed her eyes, listening. Just before she thought it would appear at the end of the wall aisle, she eased backward and headed for the powder row.

“I’ll try to get them both to one end of the chamber,” Sicarius called from a nearby row.

Not wanting to give away her position, Amaranthe didn’t respond, though she thanked him silently. He’d have his hands full if they were both in one area with him.

She rushed to the powder kegs, pausing only to grab a couple of canvas sacks from a stack on a shelf. Nothing so handy as a scooping cup rested nearby, so she shoveled powder into the bags by hand.

Cracks and thuds came from the front of the chamber, cement shattering and shards being flung. Amaranthe shoveled powder faster. When she had two full bags, she grabbed a third, and cut it into strips. She tied the strips together into two long lengths and fastened them around the tops of the bags. Unfortunately, her shortsighted enforcer academy instructors hadn’t included classes on how to make explosives. She could only hope her handiwork would be effective—and that she wouldn’t blow herself up. She sacrificed her light to pour the kerosene out of her lantern and douse the fuse.

Blackness descended upon her aisle. Up front, a single light glowed somewhere to the side, its illumination dulled by the cement dust clouding the air. The light wasn’t fluctuating or moving about, and Amaranthe hoped that meant Sicarius had set it down in a central location, not that he’d been hit.

“I’ve got two done,” Amaranthe called. “I’m going to try and put them where they’ll take out part of the ceiling.”

“Understood,” came Sicarius’s response, somehow still calm, though dodging those beams must be frazzling.

Amaranthe felt her way down her aisle, deeper into the darkness. Cement cracked behind her, and enough pieces banged to the ground that she suspected at least a partial cave-in. Maybe the sentries would destroy enough of the ceiling for her and Sicarius to escape without explosives.

She found the brick forges by feel and eased between two. With the full bags pressed against her chest, she groped her way toward the big machine with the towering flywheel. She had a spot in mind for placing the powder, but groaned and halted. With her lantern out, she had no way to light the fuse.

“Don’t kick over that lantern,” she called out. “I’m going to need that flame in a moment.”

Amaranthe pressed onward. She’d set the bag into place first and then go for it.

“I see. It’s the—” The sound of rubble raining down interrupted Sicarius’s words. He coughed before saying again, “It’s the lantern you’re worried about.”

Amaranthe smiled. If he could make a joke, he must be managing sufficiently up there.

She found the flywheel by clunking her knee against it. Grumbling, she leaned the rifle against it, left one bag of powder on the floor, and climbed the wheel with the second in hand. There were only a couple of inches of space between the top of the machine and the ceiling. She stuffed the bag into the gap and unraveled the fuse so that it hung to the floor. If it hadn’t been cavern dark at her end of the chamber, she might have jumped off, but she took care to climb back down carefully.

When she turned to grab the rife, four blazing crimson eyes stared at her.

“Bloody ancestors!” Amaranthe blurted and dropped to her belly.

Beams shot out, burning through the air inches above her head. She grabbed the rifle and scrambled behind the machine. She tried to find the second bag of black powder as she fled, but couldn’t find it and wasn’t about to go back. That cursed thing was only a few feet away. And she wagered it could see a lot better in the dark than she could.

The grinding clanks approached. Amaranthe rounded the back of the stamping machine, using it for cover. Through the gaps in the flywheel, she glimpsed red eyes burning in the darkness as the sentry rolled past the front.

“Did you lose something?” Amaranthe shouted.

A couple of heartbeats passed before Sicarius answered, “No.”

“Then there’re three now.”

Amaranthe rose from her knees to a low crouch. She circled to the left, trying to keep the machine between her and the sentry.

It paused, and one of those eyes swiveled. A beam sizzled through a gap in the machine. The metal deflected part of the attack, and it missed Amaranthe, but it sliced into the nearby brick of a forge. Shards pelted her back and bare neck.

The sentry rolled back into motion, and she moved again. She’d come all the way around and almost tripped over the discarded bag of powder. The darkness was disorienting, and she wished the glowing eyes put out light. Something warm trickled down the back of her neck. Blood.

“I’ve been able to cut off several of the antennae,” Sicarius called.

Amaranthe was reaching down for the bag when his words came. She left it, instead taking cover behind a forge, and she lifted the rifle to her shoulder. If his fancy knife could cut the antennae, maybe one of these fancy bullets could do the same thing.

Amaranthe leaned out, and as soon as one of the red eyes came into sight, she fired. In the dark, she could only estimate where her target lay, but her shot was true, and the crimson ball fell to the ground with a soft clink. The glow winked out.

“Hah!” Amaranthe said.

Her victory was short-lived, for the three remaining eyes swiveled to point at her.

She ducked behind the forge, hoping the solid construction offered enough protection. Three beams chiseled into the bricks, spraying shrapnel and dust everywhere.

Staying in a low crouch, Amaranthe scrambled around the forge, wanting to catch the sentry from behind while it was still firing at her original position. She made it to the other side and raised the rifle to shoot, only to have nothing happen when she pulled the trigger.

She cursed under her breath. There’d been some kind of loading lever, hadn’t there? To push the next round into the barrel? She fumbled for it, but the sentry was already spinning toward her. She dove across empty ground and skittered behind the machine with the flywheel again.

A beam lanced out, but missed her. It hit something though, for the scent of burning kerosene wafted into the air.

Amaranthe’s eyes widened. Her fuse.

She bolted back toward the forges. Her hip clipped one, and she gasped but didn’t slow down. Hands outstretched, she groped her way down one of the aisles toward Sicarius’s lantern.

“Boom coming!” she yelled.

Before the last word escaped her mouth, light flared behind Amaranthe, and an explosion roared through the chamber. The ground heaved beneath her running feet. Around her, the racks rattled and wobbled, hurling weapons off the shelves. Behind her, thumps and bangs sounded as earth and cement sloughed to the ground.

She raised her arms, deflecting the weapons flying from the racks, and she sprinted the last few meters to come out in the front of the chamber. She almost tumbled into Sicarius’s arms. He caught her and grabbed his lantern. His two sentries were rolling about, their antennae chopped down to stumps, their eyes missing. The constructs kept bumping into piles of sod and cement on the floor.

“Emperor’s eye teeth,” someone outside snarled.

“Watch out,” another said. “Don’t get too close to the edge.”

The voices were no longer muffled, and a draft of cold air whispered against Amaranthe’s cheek. She took note of Sicarius’s lantern and said, “There’s another bag of powder wrapped up with a fuse. If it didn’t explode when the first one went off...”

Sicarius cut off the lantern and placed it in her hand. “Stay back for a minute. They’ll be watching the hole.”

He headed for the shadows made by flames dancing on the other end of the chamber. Though she remembered mostly metal in that machine area, there must have been a few things capable of catching fire.

She followed him, navigating over and around heaps of rubble. She passed the workbench where he’d disassembled the rifle and snorted. They could have left it disassembled. There was no hiding that they’d been there now.

Voices drifted to her from outside, but the men were being quieter now. Lying in wait.

When Amaranthe reached the first forge, a gaping ten-foot-wide hole in the ceiling came into view. A set of metal reinforcing bars had survived the blast and stretched across the gap, but they were far enough apart that she and Sicarius ought to be able to wriggle out. Lanterns burned somewhere above the hole, highlighting singed tufts of grass dangling over the rim. On the floor below, scattered pieces of coal that had flown from one of the bins were burning or smoldering.

A shadow moved above the hole, but the men were careful not to step into view. Amaranthe imagined them up there, on their bellies, rifles aimed at the gap, ready to shoot anything that came out.

She looked for the machine with the flywheel, figuring Sicarius would be there, hunting for the other bag of powder. She almost didn’t recognize it. The giant wheel was warped and had toppled against one of the forges. What was left of the forges, that was. Two of them were nothing more than heaps of rubble.

Something brushed her arm, and Amaranthe jumped.

“I found it,” Sicarius whispered.

“Good. We can light it, throw it up there for a distraction, and sneak out under the cover of the smoke.”

Sicarius considered her for a moment, but all he said was, “Stay by the wall.”

While he darted in to pick up one of the burning coals on the flat of his dagger, Amaranthe watched the hole, making sure nobody leaned in. Sicarius held the smoldering ember to the fuse. He had cut it much shorter than the one she’d originally made, so when he lit it, Amaranthe gulped, realizing how quickly it would burn down.

In one sure movement, Sicarius tossed the bag toward the hole. If it bumped into one of the bars and dropped back down...

But Sicarius’s aim was better than that. The powder-filled bag lofted between the bars, sailing above ground toward the earth outside the hole.

Guns fired. It sounded like an entire army out there.

The powder exploded with a boom. The charge wasn’t as powerful or loud as the first, but the ground still trembled beneath Amaranthe’s feet, and she had to brace herself against the wall. More rubble rained down around them, though fortunately small pieces. Smoke filled the air outside. Men coughed and cursed.

Sicarius wasn’t watching the hole; he was watching her. Amaranthe tilted her head, expecting him to ask her something. For a second, it looked like he might, but then he firmed his jaw and simply said, “Give me two minutes, then follow.”

Before she could ask what he meant to do, he bounded on top of one of the machines and launched himself toward the hole as easily as a squirrel navigating trees. He slipped between two bars and disappeared into the smoke.

Amaranthe waited, anticipating the sound of gunfire. Concern for Sicarius formed a lump in her throat. As seconds passed and the silence went on, her concern shifted to what Sicarius was doing.

She climbed on top of the machine closest to the hole, hurrying now, her own safety forgotten. She had said sneak out. If he was up there killing everybody...

Smoke stung her eyes before she stuck her head through the bars. She couldn’t see anything and hesitated before thrusting her arms through. It hadn’t been two minutes. It might not have been one. Someone standing up there with a rifle aimed at the hole could decide to shoot, even if he didn’t see more than an indistinct shape.

A breeze whispered through, stirring the smoke. It brought the scent of freshly spilled blood to Amaranthe’s nose, and her gut clenched. With unfailing certainty, she knew nobody was going to shoot her. Nobody was left alive to do so.

She pulled herself through the bars and had no more than stood when a dark shadow strode out of the smoke.

“They’re dead?” Amaranthe asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened to sneak out?” she asked in a harsh whisper, though there was probably no need to whisper at that point.

Cursed ancestors, she hadn’t wanted to kill anyone. She hadn’t even wanted to leave a sign that they’d been there. All she’d wanted to do was look around, see what was going on, and then leave without anyone the wiser. Or the deader. Curse it all, why didn’t anything ever go as planned?

Sicarius took her arm and guided her away from the hole. A numbness grew in her chest, and all Amaranthe managed to say was, “We need to find Books.”

“Yes,” Sicarius repeated and kept walking.

They were trying to kill us, Amaranthe told herself, attempting to justify his actions, but she sneered as soon as the thought passed. Of course they were trying to kill us, her mind countered. We were trespassing on their property and, for all they knew, stealing months of their work.

It was illegal to own firearms, she reminded herself. Making them had to be even worse. Whatever these people had been doing, they weren’t guiltless. Except Sicarius hadn’t likely killed the masterminds behind... whatever this plot was exactly. He’d killed a bunch of men who’d probably only hired on because they needed the pay. Still, even if they had been simple workers, they had chosen to get involved in manufacturing firearms. They had to have known their work was against the law.

Amaranthe moaned and grabbed her head with both hands. She wanted to yell at her brain to shut up, and might have, but Sicarius’s presence stayed her tongue. Only crazy out-of-control people shouted at themselves, and she wasn’t going to be either, not in front of anyone.

A fence materialized out of the darkness, the one by the shed where they’d hidden that morning. Amaranthe gripped the cold, rough wood and leaned against one of the supports. She looked back the way they had come.

Up the road, the farmhouse remained, its shutters pulled tight. Lantern light glowed in an upstairs room, but there was no sign that anyone was going to come out and look at what had happened or search for those who had done it. The bunkhouse was dark and silent. All of the workers must have come outside, or perhaps those left inside were too afraid to venture out. The smoke over the hole had cleared. A few lanterns burning near the carriage house, providing light enough to hint at unmoving bodies in the grass. A coyote pack yipped in the distance, their high-pitched yells sending a shiver down Amaranthe’s spine. The unwelcome thought that they smelled a meal came to her mind.

“You knew I wouldn’t want this,” Amaranthe whispered. She remembered that long look Sicarius had given her before jumping out of the hole and the way she’d thought he might ask her something. He’d known then that he meant to kill everyone out there, and he’d known she wouldn’t wish it. Yet he’d done it anyway. “Why would you choose to kill them?”

“Sneaking past them wasn’t practical. Smoke offers camouflage, yes, but not cover. With those rapid-fire weapons, they could have hit us by shooting blindly.”

Yes, true, but... “Why couldn’t you have knocked them out? Why’d you have to...?”

“Rendering a man unconscious takes longer than killing him.”

“Oh, dear ancestors, that’s a sage piece of advice, now isn’t it?” Amaranthe’s voice had grown loud and high-pitched. Calm, she told herself. Yelling at Sicarius wouldn’t change anything. He was who he was. Had she truly been thinking him heroic earlier? She rubbed her face with both hands. Moisture dampened her fingertips. Tears for the dead? No, she hadn’t even known those men, and they had been ready to shoot at her. Tears of frustration, she decided and dashed them away. Time to find Books and move on. Though she couldn’t resist one last question, “How come you could sneak around well enough to kill people but not to escape?”

For a moment, Sicarius said nothing. He simply stood next to her, straight as a ramrod, with his hands clasped behind his back. Why the silence now? Was he sparing her some truth?

“I had to clear the way for two,” Sicarius said.

Oh. So, maybe he would have been able to sneak out if it’d just been him, but he had to think about her.

“I...” Amaranthe swallowed. “I would have been willing to accept the risk of getting a stray bullet in my backside if it meant not slaying everyone.”

“I was not willing to accept that risk,” Sicarius said.

So, he’d done this for her. Amaranthe closed her eyes. The idea of him watching her back, protecting her, had warmed her when he’d been saving her from booby traps. Killing people on her behalf wasn’t quite as endearing.

“All right.” Amaranthe couldn’t bring herself to thank him, not for this.

“They weren’t enforcers,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe stared at him. Of course they weren’t enforcers. It was a strange thing to say. Unless... Oh. He was referencing the time he had killed her old partner and several other enforcers to help her and Maldynado with an ambush. She had been furious at him for that. Now... now, she knew what he was. She couldn’t walk around with a lion and then be surprised when it bit someone.

“I know they weren’t,” Amaranthe said, wondering if he could understand that she hated being responsible for anyone’s death, stalwart citizens or not. Yes, she decided, thinking again of that look. He understood. He had known she would be upset with his choice, but hadn’t believed there’d been time to come up with a better one. So be it. “Let’s find Books.”

Amaranthe pushed away from the fence, intending to help him search, but he lifted a hand.

“Stay. I’ll be able to search faster alone.”

She flopped back against the fence again and tried not to find his statement insulting. Sicarius disappeared into the darkness.

Long moments passed before a rumble started up from the direction of the carriage house. One of the vehicles that had been used in the weapons delivery rolled outside.

Amaranthe moved to the side of the shed, so she wouldn’t be visible from the road. Maybe Sicarius hadn’t killed all of the men, and the remaining ones had sneaked out to escape. It was too dark to see who occupied the cab, and the tarp on the back hid the cargo area from view too.

When the lorry drew even with the shed, it stopped. Amaranthe sank low in the shadows and found the hilt of her sword.

The door opened. “Amaranthe?” came Books’s low voice, barely audible over the rumbling engine.

Ah. And that must be Sicarius in the driver’s seat. Yes, killing people wasn’t enough of a crime. They should steal a vehicle too.

Amaranthe walked toward the lorry and resolved to keep her sarcasm to herself. It was an abysmal night, but she couldn’t fault Sicarius’s logic. They needed to get back to the city, and it wasn’t as if those men needed a vehicle any more. At least Books sounded like he was uninjured.

He climbed out as she approached and held the door open, offering her the seat beside Sicarius. She wondered if that meant he had seen the pile of bodies and didn’t want to sit next to the person responsible.

“What happened?” Amaranthe asked him before getting in. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Books said, “and I’m sorry I didn’t get the door open before they charged in. Two of the men came running out of the bunkhouse, and I barely had time to thump the floor in warning and hide behind the lorries. They knew someone was down there and ran to pull some lever to release... the hounds, that’s what they called them. Did you trip over some kind of alarm?”

Amaranthe thought of the darts that had shot out of the wall, the darts she triggered. Emperor’s warts, she truly was responsible for all this carnage. If she’d been less impulsive and let Sicarius find a way to disarm the trap, none of the killing would have happened. They might have walked in and out without anyone ever knowing.

“Thank you, Books,” Amaranthe said numbly. “I’m glad you weren’t injured.” She climbed into the lorry and sat next to Sicarius. Something rustled beneath her boot. She patted the cab floor and found a crinkled newspaper. In case it was recent, she smoothed the crinkles and laid it on the seat for Books. “Let’s get going.”

“Back to the city, correct?” Sicarius asked as Books climbed in.

Amaranthe wanted to say yes—the sooner they left the country and this night behind the better—but hearing the matron of the farmhouse speak of a female enforcer had left Amaranthe wanting to investigate further.

“Do you know where Ag District Three’s enforcer headquarters is?” she asked.

“No.” Sicarius’s tone suggested he did not want to know.

“It’s on the way back to the city. I’d like to visit Sergeant Yara.”

Sicarius turned on the seat to face her fully. “Explain.” Amazing how much displeasure one clipped word could evoke.

Amaranthe told him what she and Books had overheard from the farmhouse porch.

“Explain why that warrants a side trip,” Sicarius said.

“Should I step outside?” Books asked.

The lorry was still idling, and Amaranthe figured they shouldn’t linger on the farm. “No,” she said at the same time as Sicarius said, “Yes.”

“I see,” Books said. “I believe I’ll listen to the person with the most knives.” He eased out of the cab and walked several paces away from the lorry.

“We’ve been delayed for long enough,” Sicarius said. “We need to return to the city to ensure we’re in time to catch the last train to Forkingrust. I’m not driving anywhere else.”

“Sergeant Yara was useful to us once,” Amaranthe said, “and she may be again. If she was the one out here, investigating things, she may know more about the weapons manufacturing scheme. What if this isn’t the only facility? What if they’re all over the place out here, funneling supplies into the city?”

Sicarius, she reminded herself in the silence that followed her questions, wouldn’t care about this jaunt to investigate weapons. He was focused on Sespian.

“Remember the note she sent us?” Amaranthe asked softly so Books wouldn’t hear. “Yara has seen Sespian more recently than either of us. She wrote of advisors being present when she met with him, so she may know more about the pressures being applied to him. If we can get more information about how he’s doing before we attempt to kidnap him, we’ll have more to go on. Right now, we don’t even know if he genuinely wants our help or if he’s setting us up for a trap.”

Seconds floated past as Sicarius continued to face her, but she thought his gaze felt less hard, less intense. He finally released her from his stare and sat back in the seat.

“You should be negotiating with these Forge people instead of sneaking about,” Sicarius said.

“What? Why?” Amaranthe asked, startled by the topic shift.

“Because talking people into things is your gift.”

Despite the bleakness of the night’s events, Amaranthe managed a faint smile. “Does this mean you’ll drive after all?”

Chapter 6

Akstyr jumped and caught the lip of the trapdoor. He pulled his head through the opening and braced his elbows on the roof. Dawn was creeping into the sky, revealing the outskirts of Stumps. The greenhouse supplies in their car and everything else on the train—except the secret weapons—had been delivered at a stop in Ag District Number Seven. Apparently the last stop would be in the capital.

Akstyr looked forward to returning to town so he could put his plans into motion. He had some ideas on who he wanted to contact first and had ruled out gang members. Some of them had money, but they couldn’t be trusted not to backstab him. There were a few mercenaries and bounty hunters he’d heard of with reasonably honorable reputations. They charged enough for their services that they might be able to afford Akstyr’s finder’s fee, and they might be ambitious enough to want a chance at taking down Sicarius.

Maldynado popped up beside Akstyr and propped his elbows on the roof of the car. “Finally. We should be able to find out where those weapons are being delivered and get back to regular life for a couple days. And women.”

“Is that all you ever think about?”

The train was rumbling through the rolling hills north of Stumps where some of the oldest aristocratic families maintained orchards, farms, and ranches. Akstyr had heard that most of them didn’t even pay helpers, because it was supposed to be an honor to work for the warrior caste.

“After a week stuck with you, yes,” Maldynado said. “And don’t tell me you don’t think about girls. You’re too young not to. If you could actually talk to them, you might be able to get one without having to pull out your purse.”

“I can talk to girls just fine,” Akstyr said.

“Oh, yes, that stammering you do in front of them is endearing. I’ve been waiting to see if you’d grow out of that, but I think I’ll have to intervene. We need the young women of Stumps to find out that you’re the type of bloke who can hurl a cutlass across a moving train car to vanquish an enemy wizard. Girls love that stuff.”

The train crested a ridge, offering a view of the city core with its miles and miles of brick and stone houses, buildings, and factories. The black smoke of the industrial district smudged the horizon and hid the lake from sight. This time of year, thousands of other chimneys added to the pall, and it all settled in the old part of town where the gangs squabbled for territory. Akstyr hadn’t been sad to leave the cesspit, though it was true he wasn’t sure how to talk to girls from better parts of the city.

“Just because you failed to set Am’ranthe up with that journalist doesn’t mean you should start working on me,” Akstyr grumbled, though he wouldn’t object more vehemently than that. If Maldynado could find him someone who didn’t look at him like he was some mentally damaged gang thug... that might be all right.

“Someone has to,” Maldynado said. “You’re always holed up with those dusty magic tomes. That’s not entirely horrific for someone old and curmudgeonly like Books, but you’re a young fellow. Your snake will wither up and die if you don’t get it greased once in a...” Maldynado frowned at the tracks ahead. “Nobody’s out operating the switch.”

“Huh?”

Maldynado pointed toward a section of the railway where several tracks converged and split off, heading in different directions. “If the train’s going to turn south and into the city, someone needs to pull the switch.”

“Maybe we’re not going to the city.”

“Where else would we go?”

Akstyr shrugged. “A different city?”

“Obervosk?” Maldynado asked, naming the next closest population center to the east. “Why? There’s nothing going on there except pit mining and orchards. Besides that’s not on the official itinerary.”

“Neither was stopping to pick up secret weapons.”

Basilard squeezed in beside Akstyr and Maldynado to poke his head through the trapdoor opening. He yawned, rubbed an eye, and peered about. They had passed the switch and were barreling through the training grounds around Fort Urgot. Rows of trees edged the fields, dropping their red and orange leaves onto mud marked by vehicle tires and thousands of boots.

Basilard signed, We go to the army fort?

“Nah,” Maldynado said. “I’m sure we’re just passing through.”

Passing through to where?

While Maldynado pondered an answer, the rumble of the train grew less pronounced. The wheels were slowing.

The walls of Fort Urgot came into view. Running east to west, the railway passed north of the water tower and the army installation itself, but a depot station waited ahead. A pair of black lorries, their stacks sending plumes of smoke into the crisp morning air, idled before a warehouse with a loading dock.

Though Akstyr didn’t see any companies out for morning exercises yet, he decided it was light enough that some bright-eyed sentry might be able to see heads poking out of the top of the train, so he sank back down, out of view. The other two men joined him. Maldynado sat down hard, a stunned expression on his face.

“Did we thump up the wrong men?” he asked. “Are the blokes we threw from the train working for the army?”

“If we did, we might be in trouble once they wander back to civilization,” Akstyr said. “Especially if they’ve got broken bones and stuff. They’ll be madder than a Caymay fiend who got his sniff stolen.”

“Emperor’s warts.” Maldynado rubbed his face. “If Amaranthe and the others tracked the weapons to their source, I hope they didn’t do anything they’ll regret.”

“I don’t think Sicarius regrets anything, ever,” Akstyr said.

Basilard waved for their attention. Why would civilians be making weapons for the army?

“Somebody’s gotta make them,” Maldynado said. “The army has contracts with all sorts of civilian companies for everything from tins of food to blankets to steam vehicles. But if everything is legitimate, I don’t know why the manufacturing facility would be out in the hills or why there’d be all that secrecy during the loading.”

Perhaps the army doesn’t wish enemy spies to learn of their new weapons, Basilard signed.

“Can’t be that secret if the train is stopping at the depot beside the fort,” Akstyr said.

Maldynado stuck his head outside again briefly. “It’s in plain sight of the fort, but there’s not anyone around to watch the train.”

“That’s because it’s early.”

We have often jogged past the fort at this time of the morning, Basilard signed. Soldiers are usually out early doing exercises.

“Is it a holiday?” Akstyr couldn’t remember. Though Amaranthe was open to giving the men time off, Sicarius usually made them train in the mornings anyway, so Akstyr didn’t pay much attention to imperial holidays.

The train’s steam brakes squealed. Akstyr poked his head outside, though he kept his shoulders low. Voices sounded by the loading dock, but he couldn’t make them out over the rumble of the engine. A couple of cars down, a wooden L-shaped arm hung over the train for transferring mailbags, but nothing dangled from it now. This was a delivery run, not a pickup.

Maldynado crawled past Akstyr, keeping his head down as he eased onto the roof. “Let’s see who’s picking these weapons up.”

Akstyr shrugged and wriggled onto the roof beside him.

As the train came to a stop, two men stepped out of the closest lorry. One wore black fatigue trousers and jacket, typical workday wear for a soldier, though a brass emblem on his matching gray cap meant he was an officer, a high-ranking one if the amount of brass was any indication. Gray mixed with the brown in his hair, but he had the sort of chiseled jaw and rugged looks that women liked, and Akstyr promptly hated him for that. The man had an arrogant tilt to his chin too. In fact, he looked like an older, stuffier version of Maldynado.

The man at the officer’s side might have been a soldier too—his white hair was cut short in the military style—but he wore plain black clothing without a hint of insignia or ornament. While he waited for the train, he pulled out a wicked trench knife with brass knuckles incorporated into the handle and the sort of three-edged blade that tore a man up so much that surgeons couldn’t easily fix him. A crescent-moon-shaped scar cupped the bottom of his right eye.

The officer said something to him, then headed to the front of the train where the engineer was climbing down. Akstyr flattened himself to the roof to stay out of sight. Maldynado was already flat, his eyes rounder than cannon balls.

“That bastard looks like an older version of Sicarius,” Akstyr whispered, figuring Maldynado had made the connection too.

“That bastard is my brother.”

“Uh, are we talking about the same bastard?” Akstyr asked before realizing Maldynado must be referring to the officer, not the man in black.

Maldynado shook his head as much as he could with his cheek plastered to the roof of the rail car. “I don’t know the other one, but the officer is Ravido, my eldest brother. He made general last year, and, last I heard, was the fort commander at Averkorke down south.”

“What’s he doing up here?”

“I don’t know. My kin haven’t seen a need to keep me abreast of the latest familial developments.”

“Because you’re disowned?” Akstyr asked.

“No, because I forgot to leave a forwarding address for my mail.”

Tension tightened Maldynado’s eyes, a stark contrast to his usual insouciant mien. Akstyr didn’t know anything about Maldynado’s family or even what his surname was. Maybe he had a whole passel of older brothers who used to beat him up when he was a boy. Akstyr did not find that notion unpleasant.

Metal scraped, and a door rolled open a few cars away—the men checking on the weapons.

“Where’s the delivery team?” someone with a resonant baritone asked. That had to be Ravido. He even sounded like Maldynado.

Akstyr lifted his head again so he could see. The two men had disappeared into the rail car. Akstyr chewed on his lip and tried to remember if he, Basilard, and Maldynado had lifted up the crates next to the bodies to clean up blood that might have seeped under them. They hadn’t anticipated a military inspection.

Someone tapped on Akstyr’s shoulder. Basilard. He lay on his belly and signed, Anything suspicious?

“Maldynado’s brother is accepting delivery of the weapons,” Akstyr whispered.

I meant, have they found anything suspicious in the car? Basilard glanced at Maldynado who had his head down, buried beneath his hands. Though that information is surprising too.

Before Akstyr could respond, Ravido hollered, “Corporal Mitts!”

A man hustled out of the second lorry and ran up to peer into the rail car. “Yes, sir?”

“Get your team in here and take inventory. I want a complete report on my desk. If anything’s missing, Jovak better be prepared to replace it, or Wolf Company’s next training exercise is going to be headhunting the thieving, bottom-rung workers that hopped out of this train.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Looks like we’re not going to get in trouble,” Akstyr whispered.

As long as they don’t search the train, Basilard signed.

“And as long as Amaranthe and the others didn’t do anything to tear up things on the other end,” Maldynado said. “The last thing we want is to pick a fight with the army.” He slithered back through the open trapdoor and disappeared inside the car.

More soldiers were moving about below, going from the lorries to the rail car and moving weapons out. Akstyr lay flat on his back to stay out of sight.

“Looks like this whole side trip was a waste of time,” Akstyr whispered. “This is all legitimate. Weapons for the army.”

Basilard was still watching the scene. He’d produced a collapsible spyglass. Perhaps, he signed with one hand.

“You think there’s something going on?”

Basilard lowered the spyglass. Would a general normally oversee something so simple as a weapons shipment being delivered?

“I don’t know.”

Akstyr didn’t know much about the army, except that the only job open for ex-gang members was infantry. He’d heard they put anyone with a branded hand up front, where he could take the fire and shrapnel from the enemy’s artillery weapons. Some people thought that was better than being on the streets, but Akstyr couldn’t imagine it, and, sure as dogs pissed on lampposts, he couldn’t have studied the mental sciences in a barracks full of soldiers.

Who is this man in black? Basilard further wondered. He seems important. The general is speaking to him as if he were an equal.

“Dunno that either,” Akstyr said.

Marblecrest, Basilard signed.

“Huh?”

Officer’s name. Basilard must have used the spyglass to read it off the man’s jacket. Do you recognize the family? Is it notable in your history?

“How should I know?” Akstyr said. “Nobody cared a whole lot about warrior-caste dung-sticks where I grew up. You should ask Maldynado. It’d have to be his name, too, wouldn’t it?”

He and Basilard peered into the darkness below, but Maldynado had disappeared into the shadows.

* * * * *

Before dawn worked up any enthusiasm for the day, Amaranthe, Sicarius, and Books pulled away from the enforcer headquarters building in a tiny town in Ag District Number Three. Amaranthe clutched a piece of paper with an address in her hand.

Out here in the country, the enforcers didn’t maintain a jail, and nobody worked a night shift. A sign on the door informed those with an emergency to report to a lieutenant who lived a few doors down. It had been a simple matter of picking a lock to get inside and search through a file drawer for employee addresses.

“Left at the fountain,” Amaranthe said.

Sicarius was still driving, while Books sat with the newspaper in his lap, making contented grunts as he read by lantern light.

According to the purloined address, Sergeant Evrial Yara resided at the edge of town with her father, grandfather, and an older brother. Her personal record said she had three other married brothers who lived on the same street. Amaranthe hoped she could manage a meeting with Yara without having to subdue a whole clan of protective male family members.

The lorry rolled past a two-story building with a smithy on the first level and the windows of a residence on the second. A light burned behind shutters in a room upstairs. The light of an enforcer who had to rise early to be at work?

A wooden plaque near the double-door smith entrance held a name as well as a picture of an anvil, but darkness obscured the lettering. This little town did not have gas lamps along the streets, and the sparsely hung kerosene lanterns had long since burned out.

Amaranthe leaned across Books and squinted at the plaque. Fortunately the name was painted white on the dark wood, and she made it out. YARA.

“Park down the street, please,” she told Sicarius. “I’m guessing privately owned vehicles aren’t that common here.” Bicycles leaned beside most doors, and railway tracks ran through town, providing transportation for anyone who needed to go farther.

Sicarius parked with the vehicle facing down the main road out of town, and Amaranthe wondered if he anticipated having to leave in a hurry.

He grabbed a shovel and checked the coal box. “Empty. I’ll see if there’s more in the back.” He hopped out of the cab.

Amaranthe waved for Books to open the door so she could get out, too, but he was frowning down at the newspaper and didn’t seem to notice that they had stopped. “Books?” she asked. “Are you coming?”

“Yes, of course,” he murmured, eyes still focused on the paper. “I never met Sergeant Yara, but I owe her a thank you for arranging to have the bounty on my head removed. I should like to take this opportunity to offer it.” Despite his words, he did not move.

“Something scintillating?” Amaranthe noticed he was looking at a tintype of Sespian that dominated the front page. The emperor stood before a stone wall, perhaps in front of some military outpost, his face inscrutable as he gazed toward the camera. The headline read, “Emperor Sespian Soon to Return to the Capital. Festival Plans Underway.” Imperial citizens liked to work and train hard, but they were quick to find an excuse for a holiday too. “Everything still going according to schedule?” she asked.

“Hm?” Books said. “Oh, yes. I’m simply concerned over...” He touched the tintype.

“What?”

“Perhaps it’s simply the poor quality of the tintype, but do you notice something odd here? On the emperor’s neck?”

Amaranthe leaned in and squinted. “A smudge of ink? Or—no, it looks like a little bump. What—” Her mouth froze, and she couldn’t get another word out. A bump on his neck. She lifted a hand to rub her face, her mind lurching to her encounters the previous spring with two people who’d been afflicted with bumps in the flesh of their necks, bumps that disappeared, burrowing deeper beneath the skin, when investigated. One of those people had died in front of her eyes, overtaken by a violent seizure. The other had been dead when she walked into his cabin, dead in a room with no one else around.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” Amaranthe whispered, taking the lantern from Books. She held it close to the newspaper so she could get a better look. Her heart thumped in her chest.

If Sespian had been implanted with whatever device killed those other people, was he even now Forge’s puppet? Completely under their control? Worse, did the device’s presence mean that they could kill him remotely if Amaranthe and the others succeeded in kidnapping him? Her throat tightened at the thought of Sicarius pulling Sespian out of the enemy’s clutches only to have the emperor—his son—die in his arms.

“It does not appear to be a flaw of the tintype process,” Books observed.

“No.”

Amaranthe glanced toward the door Sicarius had left open. He hadn’t returned. A thump came from the cargo area behind the cab. The boiler hissed softly, and machinery rumbled and clanked even with the lorry idling. Back there, Sicarius wouldn’t have heard Books’s comment. Should she call him up and tell him? Or wait? He was already irritated by this side trip, and the knowledge that the emperor was in even greater danger than they’d thought might anger him further. Amaranthe remembered the one time she had seen him lose his temper. He’d smashed his fist into a cabinet—at times, she wondered if he’d been anywhere close to smashing that fist into her face—and stalked off to handle things on his own. She didn’t want to see that again. But he had a right to know. Sespian mattered more to him than anyone else. But what could he do with the knowledge? Right then, nothing.

Amaranthe gazed toward the Yara house, remembering that the enforcer sergeant had been part of the team that had first discovered Shaman Tarok’s secret workshop. Tarok had made numerous magical tools for Forge along with the artifact used to sabotage the city water supply. Might he have made these miniature control devices as well? If he had crafted them, maybe there were a few prototypes in that workshop, prototypes that Akstyr and Books could analyze. If so, maybe those two could figure out a way to get the device out of Sespian’s neck without harming him. Too bad Books had set the mines up to flood. Maybe Tarok’s workshop had survived—it had been on a higher level of the mine.

A lot of mights and maybes, Amaranthe admitted, but it was worth checking out. Yes. If her idea proved fruitful, then, when she told Sicarius about the implant, she could also offer him a solution. That’d be the more humane choice. He wouldn’t worry as much then. And—she admitted there was a selfish component to her considerations—he wouldn’t be tempted to abandon her and go off on his own. Now she had even more reason to question Yara, though she’d have to make sure and do it without Sicarius around.

“Are you coming?” Sicarius asked from outside the cab door.

Amaranthe flinched, nearly falling off the seat. “Er, yes.” She barely kept herself from snatching the newspaper and hurling it into the furnace, where it’d burn before Sicarius could see it. Feigning calm, she told Books, “Better put that away so we can complete this errand and return to the road.”

“Hm, yes.” Books folded the paper and tucked it away with his journal. He didn’t seem to notice the desperate don’t-say-a-word-about-this-to-anyone look Amaranthe implored him with. She’d have to remember to pull him aside later and make sure he knew.

Amaranthe led the men down a side street and up a stairway to the residential entrance of the smithy. The lamp was burning behind the shutters near the door, so Amaranthe paused on the landing to listen. Footsteps sounded, someone walking into the room. She couldn’t tell if the treads were male or female.

Amaranthe knocked softly. Without hesitation, the footsteps approached the door. It swung open. A man stood there, tall, burly, and wearing enforcer grays. His uniform tag read YARA, though he bore the rank of a corporal instead of a sergeant. He had a strong, square jaw and angular face similar to that of his sister, and he regarded Amaranthe and the men with narrow suspicious eyes also reminiscent of Sergeant Yara.

“Good morning,” Amaranthe said, “sorry to disturb you so early, but we were passing through and wondered if—”

The door slammed shut in her face.

“Am I losing my knack for chatting with people?” Amaranthe wondered.

The door whipped open again. This time the corporal had a repeating crossbow pressed to his shoulder, the quarrel targeting Sicarius. Or at least it was in the process of targeting him. Between one eye blink and the next, Sicarius stepped inside and tore the crossbow from the man’s hands. The burly corporal had fifty pounds on Sicarius, but was the one to stumble back. When he launched a fist, Sicarius caught it in his hand and twisted the corporal’s wrist while spinning him to face the wall by the door.

The corporal opened his mouth to yell something, but Sicarius stopped him with a palm smashed over his lips. Amaranthe stepped through the doorway and checked to see if anyone else occupied the room, but only a worn sofa and chairs on a forest-green rug greeted her. One wall held a fireplace with a sword and a number of antique smithy tools mounted above it.

“An admirable collection,” Books remarked from behind Amaranthe’s shoulder. “That hammer on the lower left is made from copper, so it predates iron as a—”

Yara’s brother growled.

“A discussion for another time,” Amaranthe suggested.

Footsteps sounded in a nearby room. Sergeant Yara came out, also dressed in her enforcer uniform, though she had not yet buttoned her jacket over the black undershirt. She held a brush to her head and was in the process of taming her short tousled hair when she saw the scene. She dropped the brush and tore the sword from its perch above the fireplace.

“This isn’t precisely how I imagined my ‘thank you’ going,” Books said.

Before Sicarius could decide he wanted to incapacitate Sergeant Yara as well as her brother, Amaranthe stepped forward, hands spread. “Good morning. Your brother is fine. He just decided to greet my comrade with a crossbow in the face.”

“Your comrade deserves much worse than that,” Sergeant Yara said.

In their last conversation—Yara might consider it a confrontation—Amaranthe had learned the woman lost some of her vitriol if one didn’t engage in arguments with her. “Do you have a moment before work?” Amaranthe asked, keeping her voice pleasant despite Yara’s hostile scowl. “We found something going on in your district and thought you should know about it.”

“Mevlar, are you hurt?” Yara asked.

Sicarius lowered his hand, though Mevlar’s face was still smashed against the wall.

“Do you know who these people are?” Mevlar demanded, ignoring her question. “There’s a wanted poster out for them, especially him.”

“I know,” Yara said, her eyes locked onto Amaranthe. “Why are you here?”

Amaranthe waved to Sicarius, hoping he would rearrange Mevlar so the man wouldn’t feel quite so uncomfortable. Though he gave her a long look first, Sicarius turned his captive around so they both faced the room. He kept his grip on the enforcer’s arm and pulled his black dagger out, holding it so the young man could see it. Though Sicarius’s head only came to the young enforcer’s chin, Mevlar stood quietly, an eye toward that inky blade.

Amaranthe reached into a pocket for one of the cartridges from the weapons manufacturing facility and tossed it. Yara plucked it from the air with her left hand; the sword in her right never wavered.

“Were you the enforcer investigating the farm at the end of Four Pond Lane?” Amaranthe asked.

Yara glanced at her brother.

“You went back out to the farms?” Mevlar frowned at his sister. “I thought the captain told you to let that—” Mevlar seemed to remember they had company and clamped his mouth shut.

“I haven’t been back out there since last month,” Yara said, her tone snappish, and Amaranthe guessed the two had argued over the matter before.

Yara opened her fist to examine the bullet, then sucked in a quick breath.

“What is it, Evy?” Mevlar asked.

Yara held up the cartridge so her brother could see, but she addressed Amaranthe. “I chanced across some of these and a broken rifle of a strange design two months ago. I’ve been trying to locate the source and find out if there are more or if they were prototypes.”

“There are more,” Amaranthe said. “A lot more.”

“Evy.” Mevlar shifted his weight, but Sicarius’s grip tightened on his arm, holding him in place. “These are criminals. The only discussion you should be having with them is to tell them their rights and how we’re going to escort them down to headquarters.”

Before Amaranthe could point out the unlikelihood of the enforcer leading them anywhere, given his current position, Books stepped forward and lifted a finger.

“I’m not a criminal. Thanks to your sister’s kindness, the indictment that was wrongly placed upon my head has been lifted. Would you object if I spoke to her?”

“I object to this whole situation!” Mevlar barked, his face growing red.

Yara was staring at the bullet in her hand, and Amaranthe didn’t know if she had noticed Books.

“If you go out to that farm today,” Amaranthe said, “you might be able to see some of the weapons and the remains of the manufacturing facility. I don’t know how quickly they’ll be able to clean up and hide everything again, considering...” She met Sicarius’s eyes for a moment. “Well, I think they’ll be delayed.”

“I’ll bet.” Yara’s jaw tightened and she gave Sicarius a hard stare, one utterly devoid of fear. “What’s your stake in all of this?”

Amaranthe smiled. “We’re simply concerned citizens.”

Yara snorted.

“We can leave now if you wish,” Amaranthe said, “but I believe you have a piece of knowledge that I need. Perhaps we could trade information for information? I could tell you what I know about the weapons and who might be behind them, and you could better decide if they represent a threat to your district.” Appealing to Yara’s sense of duty would be more likely to interest her than anything else. Such an offer would have swayed Amaranthe once.

“What knowledge are you looking for?” Nothing in Yara’s tone suggested she was in the mood to share information, but at least she was asking. That might represent a door being cracked open.

“Evrial.” Again, Mevlar tried to take a step forward, but Sicarius restrained him easily. That did not keep the enforcer from talking. “You can not spend time with these felons. I’ll be duty-bound to tell the captain that Sicarius was here in town and you did nothing to—”

“What do you want me to do?” Yara snapped at him. “He’s got you by the balls, and he could kill us both in half a second.”

“It might take a whole second,” Amaranthe said lightly, trying to alleviate the tension crackling between the two of them. She had a feeling she had walked into a brother-sister argument that had been simmering for some time. Had something about Yara’s investigations bothered her higher-ups? Maybe they had distracted her from her regular duties.

The only one who paid attention to her comment was Sicarius. He gave her the barest hint of an eyebrow twitch. Maybe he disagreed with the one-second estimation.

“Remember our adventures last spring?” Amaranthe said, drawing Yara’s eyes back to her. “With the makarovi and those magical machines? I need to know what happened to the shaman’s workshop in that mine.” She avoided looking at Sicarius, though she could feel his eyes upon her. He must be wondering at her opening topic choice.

Yara scowled. “Looking to acquire some of his toys for your own use?”

“No, but there’s still at least one of his creations out there, threatening people.” Amaranthe kept it vague and hoped Sicarius would think she was talking about the sentries in the weapons manufacturing facility.

Yara’s brow furrowed. Apparently, the vagueness wasn’t convincing her of much. Maybe Amaranthe should share a few details about the threat to the emperor. Not the bump under his skin, but the Forge group’s behind-the-throne machinations. If Yara knew the emperor was threatened, she might be more willing to assist the team.

“More than your district may be in jeopardy,” Amaranthe said. “A huge pile of weapons and ammunition is on its way to the capital, possibly to be used as part of a plot against the emperor.”

Yara lifted her hand and fingered the sergeant’s rank pin affixed to her collar. “Let’s go outside. I will speak with you.”

“Evy... don’t do this,” Mevlar said. “Being with them... this could destroy your career.”

“Not if nobody finds out.” Yara fisted her free hand and propped it on her hip. At six feet tall, with shoulders almost as broad as those of her brother, she was an imposing woman, but Mevlar glared right back at her.

“I can’t look the other way,” he said. “Going against your superior’s wishes to snoop was bad enough. What you do now could bring dishonor to the entire family. If you go with them, however briefly, I’ll have to tell the captain, lest he find out from someone else and—”

“Think you’re involved too? By all means then, tell him. Maybe tattling on your little sister will earn you the promotion you’ve coveted for so long.”

Mevlar clenched his jaw.

Ah, Amaranthe thought, Corporal Yara and Sergeant Yara. Yes, it must have rankled Mevlar to have his younger sister promoted over him.

Yara grabbed a gray enforcer parka from the back of a chair and stalked toward the door. Amaranthe stepped aside to let her lead. The woman brushed past Sicarius and her brother without sparing a glance for either.

“You coming, Lokdon?” she growled, stomping down the stairs.

“I hadn’t realized what a charismatic young lady she is,” Books said.

Before stepping outside, Amaranthe told Sicarius, “Make sure he doesn’t run off to tattle on his sister right away, please. In a manner that doesn’t leave him permanently damaged.” And, Amaranthe thought, in a manner that keeps you busy for the next ten minutes.

Sicarius gave her a curt return nod.

Outside, dawn was brightening the gray clouds spanning the sky, and Amaranthe resolved not to take too long with Yara. In a town this size, some early riser would note the oddity of a steam vehicle parked in the street, and she didn’t need enforcers being sent to investigate. Amaranthe had no wish to incriminate Yara, and already regretted that she hadn’t found a way to contact the woman without involving the brother.

Yara stopped at the last corner on the side street before it dwindled to a trail and headed out into a field. An old barn towered to one side, and she stepped into its shadow. A rooster crowed nearby.

“The soldiers blew up the mine,” Yara said.

At first Amaranthe was tickled that Yara was talking so readily, but it seemed less of a victory when she realized the information wouldn’t prove helpful. “Blew up? With everything still inside?”

Yara nodded. “They wanted to ensure none of the shaman’s foul tools were used again by anyone else, so they collapsed the entire side of the mountain.”

“I... see. Do you know if they—”

“The back entrance through the vertical shaft too.”

“Oh.”

“Now,” Yara said, “your information.”

Though disappointed, Amaranthe briefed her on the details of the last couple of days. She couldn’t bring herself to mention the pile of bodies Sicarius had left on the lawn, but she spoke of everything else.

Yara didn’t seem to notice the omission. “I’ve been trying to locate that sort of evidence for weeks. After I found the bullet and the broken rifle, I knew something was going on, and it disturbed me that it was happening in my district.”

A small lump formed in Amaranthe’s throat at the way the sergeant spoke of her territory. It was the same way she had once felt about her own district, a mingle of pride and protectiveness.

“When I showed the captain my findings,” Yara went on, “he dismissed it as nothing. When I started investigating on my own time and he found out about it, he ordered me to stop.”

“Hm,” Amaranthe said, mulling over the possibilities. If Yara had been investigating on enforcer time and it interfered with her regular duties, then an order to stop would be understandable, but if she was snooping about when she was off-duty, why would it matter to her superiors one way or another? “Was your captain surprised when you first showed him the rifle and cartridge? Or was it as if...”

“He was already familiar with it?” Yara suggested.

Amaranthe nodded. Maybe the captain had been paid to look the other way. As discreet as the delivery team had been, and as well hidden as the manufacturing base was, it would be hard to keep such an outfit secret forever.

“He just grunted and waved for me to take the stuff away,” Yara said. “His disinterest might have been an act. I don’t know.”

“And there’s not much you could do,” Amaranthe said, giving her voice a sympathetic nuance. “It’s not as if enforcers are encouraged to question their superiors.” She smiled ruefully, remembering her own encounters with Chief Gunarth.

“No.” Bitterness crept into Yara’s tone. “They’re not.”

Amaranthe was searching for a way to switch to subtly probing for information about Yara’s last meeting with the emperor, when Yara spoke again.

“What were you doing on the train?”

Amaranthe should have been ready for the question, but it startled her. She hoped her pause to think of an answer wasn’t suspicious. “Practicing maneuvers in case we ever have a mission that takes place on a train.”

“That sounds like something you’d only do if you had a mission on a train.”

“Does it?” Amaranthe asked innocently.

The hardness had returned to Yara’s voice. Maybe she thought Amaranthe was up to something illegal. Technically Amaranthe was up to something illegal. Even if Sespian had requested they kidnap him, that didn’t make it an act enforcers would sanction.

Yara shifted, her broad shoulders tensing. “It’s convenient that your group happened across these men loading weapons in the middle of the night.”

“It was luck.” Amaranthe wasn’t going to call it good luck, not when she didn’t know what the ramifications would be. “You seem to follow what’s going on in the city. Have you seen the newspapers lately? We’ve been mentioned a few times as people working for the good of the empire. We’re not colluding with Forge. They’re the villains.”

“This Forge group is behind the creation of those weapons?” Yara asked.

“It’s too soon to be positive, but we aim to find out.”

“And your train mission has something to do with finding out?”

“Not exactly.”

A part of Amaranthe wanted to tell her about their scheme to kidnap the emperor, if only so someone somewhere could come forward as a witness to testify on her behalf should things go... badly. She was still carrying around the note Sespian had given to Basilard. Though it wasn’t signed, if she let Yara see it, she might believe it was authentic. But Amaranthe hadn’t even spoken of the mission or shown the note to her journalist acquaintance, Deret Mancrest, and he was far closer to qualifying as an ally. Yara had grudgingly admitted that Amaranthe might have helped the empire get rid of the makarovi in the dam, but that was it.

Amaranthe wasn’t sure why she cared whether this woman might become an ally or not. Because they had similar backgrounds? Because she seemed to be in trouble with her superiors and might be open to stretching the rules of the law? Because Yara had an extra reason to feel loyal to the emperor too? Amaranthe wondered how much Yara had spoken to Sespian and how much he had looked into her record before promoting her. Had he simply been moved to encourage the satrapy’s female enforcers, or had he found something intriguing about her? Amaranthe wished she knew more about how Yara had first come to his awareness.

She laughed inwardly. Why? It wasn’t as if she was going to set them up on a date.

Her breath caught. Between one second and the next, an idea formed in her head. What if she could set Yara up with Sespian? Sure, emperors were supposed to marry warrior-caste women of suitable lineages, but Amaranthe had a feeling Sespian wasn’t the sort to fall for refined and sophisticated. Besides, anyone could look at Yara and see she had all the attributes imperial men supposedly wanted in the mothers of their children. Nobody would call her a beauty, but she could be considered handsome—when she wasn’t glowering—and with that height and brawn, she was sure to have strong children. Of course, Sespian would care more about love, but maybe they could have that too.

And if Sespian fell in love with Yara, Amaranthe wouldn’t have to worry that maybe he still held a hint of his former interest in her. She doubted he did anyway, but this would put the whole notion to rest. For her, and for Sicarius as well, because he claimed his main reason for not wishing to pursue a relationship with Amaranthe was that he didn’t want to give Sespian another reason to hate him. But if Sespian was happily in love with someone else...

“Should I be concerned that you’re grinning?” Yara asked.

“Yes,” Books said. He stood at the corner of the shed, and he had been staying out of the conversation, but that question apparently tempted him too much.

Amaranthe dropped the smile. She hadn’t realized it had grown light enough to read expressions, but she ought to keep her scheming thoughts off her face anyway. Besides, the threat to the emperor was the paramount concern, not this relationship twaddle. “I was thinking that you might be the perfect person to help us.”

Books sent a wary look in her direction. Amaranthe was glad Sicarius hadn’t reappeared. Telling an enforcer that her team planned to kidnap the emperor might not be a good idea, but if Amaranthe could enlist Yara’s help, it could be worth the risk.

“How so?” Yara asked warily.

“You know the emperor has been out inspecting the various forts around Turgonia?”

“Yes... by train.”

“Indeed so. We believe kidnappers are going to strike at him during the last leg of his journey.”

Books made a choking sound. Amaranthe hoped the look she shot him said, “Sssshh,” sufficiently.

“Kidnappers?” Yara asked. “Who?”

“All we have is a note,” Amaranthe said, being careful not to lie outright. “But if he is in danger, we intend to help him. If you want, you could join us at Forkingrust Station. We intend to slip onto his train there and be ready in case something happens while he’s en route to Stumps. If you come, you could assist us if things get out of hand. Just to be honest with you, I wouldn’t mind having a third party along who, if things go wrong, knows our intent was to help the emperor. Perhaps we’re foolish to want to risk ourselves to help him, but, as I’ve told you, we’re trying to earn exoneration.”

Amaranthe had been speaking rather rapidly, probably because she was afraid Yara would stop her with curses for her dead, deranged ancestors. She paused to collect her breath and wait for a response.

“I have duties here,” Yara said.

Amaranthe had expected a protest or a snort of disbelief. This response startled her. It was as if Yara was actually considering coming.

“Surely you have some leave you could take?” Amaranthe figured she’d better press before the woman came to her senses. “One way or another, this will be wrapped up in a week.” Meaning her team would either be dead for their audacity to challenge a train full of soldiers, or they’d have the emperor with them and... well, she had little idea what would happen at that point. They would have to see what Sespian wanted from them. “You owe him your promotion, don’t you? And he’s your emperor. Can you stand back and let these Forge fiends threaten him?”

“You believe that entity will be behind the kidnapping?” Yara asked.

Careful, Amaranthe told herself. “I believe they’re the major threat to the emperor, and they may represent a threat to the entire empire with the changes they want.”

“What do they want?”

“From what we’ve gathered, power in the government, favorable economic laws for their businesses, and... possibly to get rid of Sespian and replace him with a more amenable figurehead.” Sometimes Amaranthe wondered why Forge hadn’t already made that last move, especially if they had people in the Imperial Barracks where they could strike at Sespian. Maybe they figured they had him sufficiently under control, or maybe they were biding time until they could raise a private army to ensure they could come out on top in the civil war that would likely rise should Sespian die without an heir.

Amaranthe swallowed. Maybe that was what the weapons were for. A private army.

“I see,” Yara said, her tone neutral. “I’ll consider what you’ve told me. I must go to work. My shift starts shortly.”

Her measured words drove a spike of worry into Amaranthe. Had she just made the biggest mistake of the year? What if Yara warned someone and arranged to have swarms of enforcers and soldiers at Forkingrust Station when Amaranthe and her team of outlaws arrived?

Yara pulled her parka tight about her and strode up the street. Thoughts gibbered in Amaranthe’s head. Mistake, mistake, was the foremost cry among them. For a ludicrous moment, she thought of chasing after Yara, cracking her over the head, and kidnapping her, if only to detain her until the team had left for Forkingrust, and it was too late for Yara to do anything.

A shadow stirred beside Amaranthe, and a hand clamped down on her elbow.

“What were you thinking?” Sicarius asked.

Amaranthe jumped. She shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d finished with the brother and joined them, but his appearance rattled her nonetheless. That she’d been thinking of setting his son up with a date was probably not the right thing to say.

“That we could use another ally,” she said. Yes, that sounded safer. At least he wasn’t asking about her sudden interest in the shaman’s workshop.

“We don’t need her. She hasn’t been training with the team. She’ll be like you were when we first met.”

“Gee, thanks.” Amaranthe clasped Sicarius’s hand and attempted to pry his fingers loose. He wasn’t hurting her, but it was definitely a firm, you’ve-irritated-me-with-your-unpredictable-antics grip. “I want an outside witness in case something goes wrong. I don’t want to lose everything we’ve fought for because the papers assume we’re the villains again.”

Sicarius released her with a swift motion. “It’s more likely that her reputation will be ruined because she associated with us. If she joins and doesn’t simply tell the authorities what you told her.”

True. Amaranthe hated to admit it, but he was probably right. That had been impulsive and foolish of her. She forced herself to smile and say, “We’ll see.”

Sicarius stalked away without a word. Amaranthe had learned nothing useful in regard to those under-skin devices, and her plan to win Sicarius for herself seemed less likely to work than ever. Right now, she’d be lucky if he didn’t strangle her on the way back to the city.

Chapter 7

Akstyr strolled down the street with his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual despite the sweat slithering down his spine. Affluent pedestrians meandered down the cobblestone lane, chatting with vendors selling everything from exotic spices and flavored honeys to engraved wooden swords and shields for children. Now and then, enforcers strode past the carts, batons and short swords dangling from their hips. Akstyr subtly avoided them, glad he had tied his hair back in a knot so his usual spiky tufts wouldn’t draw attention. It seemed a strange neighborhood for his contact to frequent, but then the man wasn’t a criminal himself, so he had no reason to avoid the law.

A couple of thieves tried to “accidentally” bump Akstyr for a chance to fish in his pockets, making him feel a little more at home. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, he didn’t have any money for them to find. Amaranthe and the others weren’t back yet, so payday hadn’t come, and he’d spent his last fifty ranmyas to arrange a meeting with Khaalid, a sharpshooter and blade master who had, his reputation said, gotten wealthy by collecting bounties on gangsters and felons. His reputation also said the meaner the bastard he was hunting, the better. He might be crazy enough to want a stab at Sicarius and wealthy enough to pay for information on his whereabouts.

A brass sign hanging above a doorway ahead of Akstyr read, Juiced. He weaved around vendor stalls, heading for the shop.

To his side, someone darted out of sight, using a vegetable cart for cover. Akstyr paused. It probably had nothing to do with him, but nobody else was acting suspiciously in the neighborhood. He hadn’t had a good look, though he’d glimpsed long hair and a dress.

He waited for a moment, but he didn’t spot the person again. After resolving to keep an eye out on the way back to the hideout, Akstyr slipped into Juiced.

Warmth rolled from a furnace in the back where a boiler powered an engine driving a maze of moving pipes, gears, and levers that stretched along the walls and even across the ceiling. The complex apparatus smashed fruit and muddled the cafe’s “special blend of energizing herbs” before pouring the contents into giant glass carboys that filled shelves behind tables full of patrons. Some carboys were fermenting their concoctions, emitting a yeasty smell that competed with the fruity scents in the air, while other jars had spigots and simply held fresh juice.

While Akstyr watched, a woman wearing a grass skirt filled a glass with a greenish liquid and delivered it to a table where a slender, fit man dressed in dark green sat alone. He handed the server a couple of coins and sipped his beverage. Couples and groups occupied the other tables, so Akstyr figured this lone figure was his contact. The bounty hunter lacked a Sicarius-like knife collection, but he did have a pair of long blades in a torso harness that he’d draped over the back of his chair. If he carried a pistol, it wasn’t visible—not surprising since firearms were outlawed in the city. A few scars chipped at his weathered features, giving him the experienced visage of a veteran, and Akstyr vowed to be careful dealing with him.

The man nodded in his direction, and Akstyr joined him. The bounty hunter had taken a chair that put his back to a corner, and Akstyr grimaced at the only other option, a seat on the opposite side. After seeing that person darting out of his path, he didn’t want his back to the door either.

He dragged the free chair about so that the back faced a clanking, hissing tangle of pipes and sat down. He promptly felt silly since the position put him less than a foot away from the man’s arm.

“Khaalid.” The bounty hunter inclined his head in a nod, all business, but then a smirk teased his lips. “Do you find me attractive, or do you always sit this close to people you’ve just met?”

Akstyr’s instinct was to scowl and scoot the chair away, but it might be better to act as if the comment didn’t bother him. He wasn’t some young rube. He was calm and unflappable. “Enh, you’re decent.”

“Quite true, yes.” Khaalid eyed him up and down, and Akstyr struggled not to panic. He hadn’t offered some sort of flirtation, had he? “You’re either fearless or stupid to want a meeting with me,” Khaalid said. “Care to opine on which it might be?”

Relief washed over Akstyr when the bounty hunter switched to business, but he stiffened as soon as the man finished speaking. “Why do you say that?” Akstyr asked, figuring that sounded better than confessing to either of the two options.

Khaalid slipped a hand into his pocket. Akstyr tensed, thinking the man might pull out a weapon, but he removed a piece of paper. Rather leisurely, he unfolded it and held it up for Akstyr’s perusal.

On the paper was a clumsy sketch of himself. He wouldn’t have recognized it except for the spiky hair and an inset image of an oversized hand with a Black Arrow brand clearly displayed. Words under the drawing read, “Wanted dead: Akstyr, former Black Arrow and wizard. 5,000 ranmyas. To be paid upon proof of death by Trevast the Terror, the Madcats.”

It was the first Akstyr had heard of the bounty. It probably should have scared him, but mostly it irritated the piss out of him. Trevast was buddies with Tuskar, the Black Arrows’ leader and Akstyr’s old boss. Amaranthe had sweet-talked Tuskar into leaving Akstyr alone—there’d been an implied threat that Sicarius wouldn’t stand for an attack on Akstyr—but Tuskar was afraid of magic and had never liked Akstyr, so he’d probably talked Trevast into putting the bounty out. Too much of a coward to do it himself and risk Sicarius’s ire.

“Fresh news to you?” Khaalid returned the poster to his pocket.

Akstyr shrugged. “Only bounties put out by enforcers are legal. As far as I know, they don’t particularly want me.” Only because they didn’t know that he practiced the mental sciences, but he wasn’t about to bring that up. “From what I hear, you kill gangsters and are on good terms with the enforcers. You won’t turn me over to some street thug.”

“But you run with people who the enforcers do want. The emperor too for that matter.”

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I’m listening,” Khaalid said.

“They say you’re good, but you’re not nearly as well known as Sicarius.”

“Irrelevant,” Khaalid said, his eyebrows descending. “I hunt villains. I don’t assassinate honorable citizens.”

“He’s a villain, right? Why don’t you hunt him?”

Khaalid’s lips thinned.

“The villains you’re hunting would fear you more if you could say you’d taken him down,” Akstyr pointed out. “Think what it would do for your reputation. Think of the prices you could command then.”

Khaalid leaned back in his chair. “I’ve decided. You’re fearless and stupid. You’d betray someone you run with, someone exceedingly dangerous, and for what? You want me to kill him and give you a cut of the money?”

“Look, he’s as mean and cruel as they get.” Not really, Akstyr thought, but he did catch himself rubbing his neck and remembering the time Sicarius had threatened him if he didn’t do what Amaranthe said. “Somebody’s got to rid the world of him.”

“And you want it to be somebody else, somebody who will take the risk and share the bounty with you.”

“I don’t want a share of the bounty, and I wouldn’t openly go against him. But someone like you... If you’re as good as they say, maybe you could do it. All I’m asking is a finder’s fee for pointing you in the right direction. I’ll tell you where he is and what I know about him. Including... his one weakness.”

Khaalid drank some of his green juice, though he took longer consuming and contemplating the beverage than normal. Akstyr hoped he was thinking things over. As far as Akstyr knew, Sicarius had no weaknesses, but he could make something up to entice this man. All he had to do was capture Khaalid’s interest, arrange to collect the finder’s fee, and send him off in the wrong direction. A part of him couldn’t help but think that he’d never have to worry about Sicarius again if he sent Khaalid in the right direction, but this man probably couldn’t do the job. And if Sicarius found out Akstyr had been behind the setup...

“How much of a finder’s fee are you looking for?” Khaalid asked.

Akstyr leaned back and crossed his leg over his knee, trying to appear indifferent over the conversation’s outcome, but inside he was jumping up and down and clenching his fist. Khaalid was interested.

“Fifty thousand ranmyas,” Akstyr said, expecting to negotiate. Twenty-five thousand ought to get him out of the empire and into a good school.

“You don’t want much, do you?” Khaalid asked.

“I want to make sure the only people who try are serious and honestly believe they can succeed. It’s a big risk for me. If you fall at Sicarius’s feet, and he questions you before he kills you...” Akstyr twitched a shoulder. “I want that ugly lizard out of the world, but I’m not looking to die in the process.”

“Hence why you’re trying to get someone else to risk dying.”

“Someone else who’s capable of killing Sicarius. I know I lack the skills.”

“You flatter me, but I imagine you flatter everyone you’re trying to talk to their deaths.”

“You’re supposed to be good.”

“What’s Sicarius’s one weakness?” Khaalid asked. From the abrupt way he shifted the topic, Akstyr guessed the man was trying to catch him off guard so he’d let the information slip.

“I’ll need to see your payment before I give you such a key detail.”

“Uh huh.” Khaalid finished his juice, left a coin on the table, and stood. “I am good. And intelligent. That’s why I’m not touching your offer.” He buckled on his sword harness.

Akstyr cursed to himself. He’d thought he had enticed the man. “I’ll tell you everything I know for twenty-five-thousand ranmyas.”

Khaalid tossed the folded wanted poster onto the table. “No, and if I were you, I’d get out of town unless Sicarius likes you enough to protect you from the money-hungry gangsters who are going to be wrestling with each other for a chance to get your head first. Given what you’re trying to do to him, I doubt that’s the case.”

Khaalid strode out of the juice cafe without a backward glance. Not tempted by the offer after all. Maybe Khaalid had been stringing Akstyr along to get more information. Information he might send along to someone else?

A clank sounded on the wall above the chair the bounty hunter had vacated. A bunch of grapes had rolled into a glass box, and a series of alternating ceramic pestles came down, mercilessly squishing the fruit.

Akstyr cursed again, this time out loud, and strode out of the cafe. Worried that he’d made a huge mistake, he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. When a hand stretched out from behind a vendor’s cart to clasp his forearm, he jumped two feet.

He whirled toward the source, his own hand scrabbling for his knife, but he stopped before drawing the blade. A woman stood before him—a familiar woman. She was leaner than Akstyr remembered, with a hawkish nose and knobby wrists protruding from a clean but oft-patched dress. The long braid hanging over her shoulder was the same, though gray strands mingled with the black now.

Akstyr stepped back, pulling his arm from her grasp. With stiff formality, he said, “Mother.”

She smiled, a gesture he had rarely seen, and stepped forward, lifting her arms. She must have noticed his stiffness, for her hands dropped. “Son.” Her smile remained.

Akstyr searched the crowded street behind her. “Your sweet-thistle-dealing lover not around?”

“Lokvart? No. We... We’re not together any more.”

“I see.” Akstyr did not know if that made him glad or not. It’d been more than eight years since he’d seen his mother, and time had worn the edge off his bitterness. Sometimes he felt proud that he’d survived without her help, that he was learning the Science, and that he might be somebody who mattered someday.

“Yes.” His mother took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know that probably doesn’t mean anything to you at this point, but I was wrong to... I never should have been with someone like that. When he made me choose you or...”

“The sweet thistle?”

“You or him, I should have left. But I was afraid of being alone again with no roof and no job and.. I’m sorry,” she repeated, then found her smile again. “You look good. You’re a man now.”

“Why are you here?” Akstyr eyed the street again. Though this wasn’t the type of neighborhood gangsters roamed, the new bounty on his head left him uncomfortable standing out in the open. “You haven’t looked for me for eight years. Why now?”

“Eight years? Has it been that long? It’s only been since this summer that I was able to wean myself away from the thistle.” She slipped a hand into a dress pocket and pulled out a paper.

Akstyr tensed. Not someone else toting around his new wanted poster.

But she unfolded a pair of newspaper clippings. “I’d thought... I’d feared you had died on the streets all those years ago. Then I saw your name this summer and again last week, mentioned with those other people that are... helping the city, is that right?” Moisture brimmed in her eyes. “I know you won’t believe this, but I’m proud of you.”

“Uh. All right.” If his mother had ever shown that she cared for him, Akstyr might have felt more at her proclamations, but all they were doing was making him uncomfortable.

She dabbed at her eyes with a worn dress sleeve. “I never thought a child born of the blood of a thieving rapist could ever be anything special.”

Akstyr jammed his hands into his pockets and resisted the urge to say that her blood wasn’t anything special either.

“But you’re doing something with your life, aren’t you?” She met his eyes. “You’re not going to be worthless like your Ma.”

What was he supposed to say to that? All Akstyr remembered of his mother was yelling, mostly yelling about what a burden he was and that she wished he’d never been born. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had to fend for himself, stealing food and swiping clothes from lines strung between alley walls. These tears and kind words—apologies—were unfamiliar. A part of him wished to believe it was real, that time had changed things, changed her, but most of his parts were too busy being suspicious. To hunt him down after all these years, she had to want something.

“I have to go,” Akstyr said.

His mother stepped forward, a hand outstretched.

Akstyr stepped back again, and she dropped it. She closed her eyes and seemed to fight to mask a hurt expression on her face. Akstyr tried not to feel like a bastard, but she was making it hard.

“I’m busy,” Akstyr said. “That’s all. We’re getting ready for a mission.” Which was true. Amaranthe and the others might be back any hour.

“I understand,” his mother said. “But please tell me where I can find you again. It was chance that I saw you today.”

“I don’t know. We’re going to be out of the city for a while.”

“When do you leave? At least let me buy you one of those dog-shaped cookies that the bakers at West Quay make.”

The ones he used to steal as a boy; yes, they had been his favorites. He’d almost lost a hand to a humorless baker who’d moved surprisingly quickly for someone so ponderous. Boys shouldn’t have to steal cookies. Yet... it meant something that she remembered his fondness for them.

“You don’t have to buy me anything,” Akstyr mumbled. “I’ll try to get to the Quay tomorrow night if you want to meet me then. We’re leaving the morning after that.”

“I’ll be there,” she said.

Akstyr strode away without looking back. He didn’t want her to think her appearance mattered in his life, though he feared he’d volunteered himself up for disappointment. Either she wouldn’t show up, and he’d wish he hadn’t wasted time going, or she would show up, and she’d probably want money or something from him.

Maybe Sicarius would find out about Akstyr’s deception and kill him before then, making the whole situation moot. Great thought that.

* * * * *

Amaranthe and Books climbed creaky wooden stairs leading to the attic of an old print shop owned by the university. A newer building with steam-powered presses had precluded the need for the dusty screw presses housed below, and visitors were infrequent, usually students and rogue scholars printing subversive documents on the sly. Should any of those people chance upon the outlaws living in the attic, they couldn’t very well turn anybody in when they were participating in illicit activities themselves.

Outside, beneath the noonday sun, Sicarius was finding a place to hide their stolen farm lorry. At least Amaranthe hoped he was doing so. She had asked him to, but he hadn’t acknowledged her with a word or even a look. In fact, he hadn’t spoken since they left Sergeant Yara’s village. Part of it might be that he was worried about Sespian, but she knew part of it was irritation with her.

Amaranthe pushed open the door to the attic and found Maldynado and Basilard sitting across from each other at a desk, playing Strat Tiles on the railway map Amaranthe had laid out before they left for the training exercise. Akstyr sat cross-legged on a crate a few feet away from them, a book open in his lap, though she’d caught him gazing down at the floor instead of at the pages. He flinched when Amaranthe met his eyes.

“Hullo, boss.” Maldynado waved a tile in the air.

Amaranthe gave him a friendly nod, but added, “Nobody’s keeping a watch?”

“Oh, we didn’t need to,” Maldynado said.

Basilard lifted his eyebrows.

Maldynado pointed to a bank of southern-facing windows where sunlight peeped inside, leaving bright rectangles on the whitewashed floorboards. “The dust on those sills started cowering, so we knew it was you coming up the stairs.”

Amaranthe paused, torn between coming up with a rejoinder or rushing over to the windows with a kerchief.

“Don’t do it, boss,” Maldynado said, apparently guessing her thoughts. “It’s bad enough that you cleaned the glass last week. Secret hideouts are supposed to have grimy films over the windows, the better to camouflage one’s clandestine operations.”

“Yes, speaking of clandestine operations,” Amaranthe said, “now that we’re back together, we can collect the items on my shopping list and finalize our plans.”

“Shopping list?” Akstyr curled a lip. “I don’t want to go marketing.”

Maldynado’s lip twitched, too, perhaps because his pretty face made him the group’s designated shopper.

“Relax, gentlemen.” Amaranthe laid the list on their table. “We’re not talking about broccoli and lamb shanks here.”

Maldynado and Basilard leaned forward to read the list.

“Item number one,” Maldynado said, “blasting sticks. Two, knockout gas. Three, smoke grenades. Oh, good. Manly things.”

“Blasting sticks?” Akstyr asked. “What market has those?”

“More importantly,” Books said, “what are the blasting sticks for?”

“My plan.” Amaranthe smiled and glanced over her shoulder, wondering if Sicarius had joined them yet. She needed the blasting sticks for her kidnapping scheme, but she also hoped they could get enough of them to blow their way into the collapsed mine and the remains of Tarok’s shamanic workshop.

“Will the details of that plan be forthcoming soon?” Books asked.

“Yes,” Amaranthe said. “As some of you already know, the last train we can catch to reach Forkingrust in time to intercept the emperor leaves at dawn. We need to gather our supplies and be on it. Most of us, anyway.”

“Most?” Books asked.

Wait. Basilard pointed at Maldynado. Shouldn’t you tell her about your brother first? Might that knowledge not affect our plans?

Maldynado frowned. “I hope not.”

Amaranthe arched her eyebrows. “Brother?”

“Uhm, yes,” Maldynado said.

Also, she needs to know who got those weapons.

Amaranthe nodded. On the trip back to the city, she’d been so busy scheming ways to get that thing out of Sespian’s neck that she hadn’t thought much about what the other half of the team had been doing.

Basilard seemed to be waiting for Maldynado to start explaining, but when Maldynado merely sat there, shoulders hunched, grimace frozen on his face, Basilard started signing. His fingers flowed, explaining the details of their trip to the army fort.

Chagrin blossomed within Amaranthe as she “listened” to his words. The weapons had been for the military? Not for some coup against the government or the city? She and Sicarius had destroyed, or at least severely damaged, a weapons-making facility that shipped orders to the army?

Amaranthe found herself by the windowsill, wiping away the dust as her mind spun. Dear ancestors, she’d been worried about the kidnapping getting her team in trouble, but this would be a major blow if the authorities found out what she had done. And she’d been foolish enough to amble up and knock on that farmer lady’s door. As soon as someone questioned that woman...

Ugh, just when she’d managed to convince Deret Mancrest that her team was working for the good of the empire... Just when they’d started to see favorable stories printed in the newspapers...

“But there might still be some plot, right?” Akstyr asked.

Thoughts focused inward, Amaranthe had stopped seeing Basilard’s hand signs, but Akstyr’s words made her lift her head. “What?”

Akstyr looked from Maldynado—who was being oddly silent—to Basilard who shrugged, then nodded, then shrugged again. “On account of Maldynado’s brother not being stationed here regularly and him being with that evil-looking fellow in black,” Akstyr said.

At the mention of someone evil in black, all heads turned toward the door. This time, Sicarius was there, standing in the shadows, his face as frigid and unreadable as ever. Out of all of her mistakes over the last two days, Amaranthe was most regretting sharing their plans, however obliquely, with Yara. Sicarius hadn’t said as much, but she had a feeling he saw it as a betrayal of trust. She wasn’t sure he was wrong.

“Evil fellow in black?” Books asked.

“He looked like someone Sicarius would know,” Maldynado said, suddenly animated. Maybe he’d rather talk about anyone except this brother? “Same entirely unimaginative wardrobe, predilection for cruel weapons, and humorless face.” Maldynado draped his elbow over the back of his chair and considered Sicarius. “More scars though.”

“Describe him,” Sicarius said.

“Didn’t I just do that?”

He was an older, white-haired man with a scar, Basilard signed, then drew a semi-circle beneath his eye.

“A brand?” Sicarius asked.

“Yes,” Maldynado said at the same time as Basilard nodded. “It looked like someone stamped him with a hot iron, the way they brand sheep up in the hills.”

“Someone you know?” Amaranthe asked Sicarius. She caught a hopeful tone in her voice. She had to admit that she dearly wanted those weapons to be part of some villainous scheme, so she could justify her team’s interference.

“Major Pike,” Sicarius said.

“An army officer?” Amaranthe asked, though the lack of a “crest” name meant he wasn’t warrior caste. Though rare, ordinary soldiers did sometimes earn officer ranks through great deeds. Either way, it dashed her hopes that this fellow’s presence signified a nefarious plot. If he was an officer, he had a right to be there.

“A former officer, yes,” Sicarius said. “He was forced out of the service nearly thirty years ago for excessive cruelty.”

Basilard’s eyebrows flickered. You can be discharged from the Turgonian army for that? I thought it was a desirable trait.

“Easy, now,” Maldynado said. “We’re not that bad.”

“He was a rare case,” Sicarius said. “As a young officer, he made his superiors uneasy with his zealousness during interrogations. Later he tortured and raped young recruits, using his rank to force them to remain silent. When this was discovered, he was kicked out, and his family disowned him.”

That’s despicable, Basilard signed.

“Atrocious,” Books said.

“Agreed on both counts,” Amaranthe said.

“So, this fellow was one of the Pikecrests?” Maldynado asked. “They’re an old and honorable family. I can see why they’d want to disassociate themselves from someone of that, uhm, caliber.”

“After the incident,” Sicarius said, “Hollowcrest recruited the major to be the emperor’s Master Interrogator.”

Amaranthe snorted. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I’m not.” Maldynado smirked at Sicarius. “Is he the chap who taught you how to interact with folks in such a friendly and affable manner?”

Sicarius sent a stony glare in his direction.

Maldynado nodded. “Yes, like that.”

Amaranthe watched Sicarius, also wondering under what circumstances he might have been associated with this man. No, she supposed she needn’t wonder. Who better than a Master Interrogator to help train the emperor’s personal assassin? If this Pike had been forced out of the army thirty years earlier and promptly gone to work for Hollowcrest, Sicarius might have been young, less than ten years old, when they first met. Amaranthe had seen Sicarius get answers out of people efficiently—though she had a feeling she hadn’t seen the extremes he might go to if she were not around to influence him—but she’d also seen him take horrible wounds himself without flinching or acknowledging the pain. Somehow she doubted that was a... talent one could learn without having endured a lot of pain in one’s life. Though Sicarius spoke little of his past, she remembered him once saying he’d learned to think of other things when his mind had to be elsewhere.

Sicarius returned her gaze, and, not for the first time, Amaranthe wondered if he ever wondered what she was thinking.

“Am I correct in assuming he no longer works for the emperor?” she asked.

“Sespian saw to his dismissal shortly after Raumesys died,” Sicarius said.

“Good for him.” Maldynado pushed aside the tiles on the table and waved to the map. “Are we going to plan the emperor’s rescue, or sit around squawking like hens all day?”

Basilard pointed at the scattered tiles. You only did that because you were losing.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your brother, I believe,” Amaranthe said. “I’d like a few more details there, if you don’t mind. Is he an officer at Fort Urgot? Does it make sense that he’d be in charge of overseeing a delivery of weapons? Any idea what he’s doing with this Major Pike?”

“In no particular order, I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know,” Maldynado said. “I haven’t seen him in years, and I haven’t talked to anyone in my family since before I joined up with you.”

“Can you tell us his name, at least?”

“I like to call him Lord General Dungpile,” Maldynado said. “Technically it was Lord Lieutenant Dungpile when I was a boy, but both have a nice ring.”

“Maldynado,” Amaranthe said, “I can see there’s not a lot of love flowing between you and your family, but I’d appreciate a little help here.”

“Ravido,” Akstyr said. “That was it, right? General Ravido something-crest.”

“Thank you, Akstyr.” Amaranthe frowned at Maldynado, and he squirmed under her gaze, oozing discomfort. He was always so relaxed and unflappable that she could only imagine that his family was a source of painful memories. She wanted more details, but had a feeling she would have to get him somewhere private to extract them. Like a private shopping trip. “Maldynado, how would you like to help me purchase a few items this evening?”

He winced, though he covered it quickly with a smile. “With you? Why don’t you let me go on my own? You know I get the best deals when I operate solo.”

He must know she wanted to pump him for information. “Yes,” Amaranthe said, “something about you finding it easier to convince female businesswomen and vendors that they have a chance with you if there’s not a lady tagging along behind.”

Books had pulled out his journal and a fresh newspaper he’d picked up and seemed to be looking around for suitable workspace, but he paused to snort at the conversation.

“I need to go along to do the special knock,” Amaranthe went on. “I’ve already put in the order, but I’m concerned I won’t have enough funds to cover the fee she quoted me. I thought you might be able to talk her down a little. Any reason you can’t make it?”

“None that I can think of,” Maldynado muttered.

“Good.” Amaranthe faced Sicarius. “That farm lorry we... acquired—” truth though it may be, she couldn’t bring herself to say stole, “—do you think it’s in suitable shape to be driven up to the Scarlet Pass?”

“There will be snow in the mountains,” Sicarius said. “A storm could make the roads impassable.”

“Even to people with blasting sticks?” Amaranthe asked.

The look Sicarius gave her suggested her question did not deserve an answer.

Basilard signed, Aren’t we taking a train across the mountains?

“Most of us are,” Amaranthe said, “and we’ll infiltrate the emperor’s train at Forkingrust, but for my plan to work, I’ll need a couple of people to go to the pass separately, with a few blasting sticks, to create a slight distraction that will force the engineer to stop.”

“A distraction?” Books frowned. “Such as a landslide?”

“One that covers the railway completely, yes,” Amaranthe said.

Books’s frown deepened. “You intend to blockade one of the main supply lines to Stumps?”

“Not permanently. We’ll just drop a tiny bit of rubble across the tracks, so the soldiers need to climb out and work on clearing it.”

Basilard signed, While we pull the emperor out?

“That’s the idea,” Amaranthe said. “Once the train is delayed and we escape with the emperor, the team can get away in the lorry.”

“You’re going to ask the emperor to ride in that dilapidated pumpkin hauler?” Maldynado asked.

“He’s the one who asked mercenaries to kidnap him,” Amaranthe said. “He can’t expect us to pick him up in a velvet-cushioned steam carriage.”

“No, no. A clunker purloined from a farm will never do for this mission,” Maldynado said. “You need a reliable vehicle to get the blasting sticks into the mountains, one with enough size and comfort to fit everyone in afterward, including persons accustomed to fine things.”

“Do you know where we could get a more appropriate vehicle?” Amaranthe asked, wondering if she would regret it.

“Better, faster, you bet. I have a friend, well, more than a friend in truth... Lady Buckingcrest. She has all sorts of interesting conveyances. I’m certain I could arrange for a suitable transport for our needs, providing I’m not being tasked with the unchallenging task of bartering for lower prices on blasting sticks.”

The blasting sticks weren’t going to be inexpensive, and Amaranthe had a feeling Maldynado would be useful in that negotiation, but his eyes were gleaming, and he seemed quite pleased at the notion of talking to this Lady Buckingcrest. Amaranthe wondered if he wasn’t simply looking for a way to avoid spending time alone with her. Still, a better vehicle would be a boon.

“You think you can get us something suitable for a climb into the mountains?” Amaranthe asked. “For a low price?”

“For free, I should think.” Maldynado examined his nails and smiled. “Lady Buckingcrest and I have a special relationship. We’ve known each other since we were teenaged youths, first exploring carnal endeavors. She’s married these days, but she finds me quite fascinating now that I’m disowned and running with outlaws. Not that I wasn’t fascinating before. And she owes me for countless hours of—”

Amaranthe flung up a hand. “Those types of details aren’t necessary.”

Maldynado blinked innocently. “I was going to say witty conversation.”

“Please,” Books said.

“Either way, I’m certain I can acquire something suitable.” Maldynado winked, and Amaranthe had a feeling she should be worried.

“This isn’t going to go smoothly, I can tell.” Books pocketed his journal, pulled a chair up to the table, and laid out the newspaper. “Fraught. Already this mission is fraught with perilous dangers and morally ambiguous choices.”

“Booksie.” Maldynado flung an arm across Books’s shoulders. “Don’t say things like that.”

Books shoved the hand off. “Why not? They’re true.” He scooted his chair out of Maldynado’s reach.

“Well, of course they’re true. It’s an Amaranthe plan after all. But the way you say things makes you sound old and stodgy. You’ll never get a woman by blathering on like that.”

Amaranthe arched an eyebrow at Books. “I’m not sure which one of us he insulted more there.”

“Oh, it’s me,” Books said. “It’s always me.”

Maldynado smiled broadly. Books hunched over the newspaper and ignored him.

Sicarius had moved closer to the table, and, thinking he wanted to add input, Amaranthe asked him, “Any thoughts on the plan? Or whether I should feel more insulted than Books?”

“No.”

That surprised her. Actually it worried her. He had more at stake than any of them. If Books thought her plan was “fraught” she imagined Sicarius would find problems with it too. If he didn’t have any input, maybe it was because he’d already decided to go off on his own. He’d given her nothing but steely glares ever since she’d talked with Sergeant Yara.

“Any news on us?” Akstyr asked Books.

“No,” Books said.

Amaranthe wondered at Akstyr’s sudden interest in newspaper articles. He hadn’t noticeably cared when Books read the previous ones that mentioned the team.

“This is interesting though.” Books pointed to a front-page entry. “A banker was found in his bed, dead of a violent seizure.”

Akstyr’s nose crinkled. “You think that’s interesting?”

“It might be a signal of fractures amongst the Forge coalition. Or perhaps not everyone in the business world is choosing to sign on. This man was only thirty, and there’s mention of a mysterious bump at his neck.”

Amaranthe stepped toward Books, lifting a hand, afraid he would mention Sespian. She hadn’t had a chance to tell him she was keeping information about the implant from Sicarius.

Books didn’t see her. His sentence seemed to flow out as slowly as molasses, but at the same time Amaranthe couldn’t get to him to stop it in time. “It sounds like what we saw on Sespian’s throat in his photograph.”

“What?” Sicarius demanded.

Books looked up and blinked. “Oh, you didn’t see the other paper. That’s right.” He removed a torn-out page from the back of his journal and held it out.

Sicarius’s eyes were frozen, staring at Amaranthe, piercing her to the soul. She swallowed. Without breaking eye contact, Sicarius accepted the newspaper, though he continued to stare at Amaranthe. She wanted to tell him she’d only meant to keep him from worrying so much, but she didn’t know if she could say it when, in the back of her mind, she knew she’d also stayed silent to keep him from storming off and taking action on his own. Lying now could only make him resent her more. And she couldn’t explain herself, explain any of it, not with the whole team looking on. Even now, the men were shifting uneasily and sharing confused expressions over the icy silence in the attic.

Sicarius looked down at the paper. Amaranthe felt like she’d been released from the clutches of a glacier. She braced herself against the table while he scrutinized the picture.

“I have an idea,” Amaranthe said quietly. “We’ll get him first—there’s no time to alter our plans for the kidnapping—but then we’ll take him to—”

Sicarius crumpled the newspaper, dropped it, and stalked out the door.

Amaranthe groaned to herself. That was exactly what she’d been afraid would happen. There was no telling what he’d do now.

“What’s his problem?” Akstyr asked.

Books looked back and forth from Amaranthe to the door through which Sicarius had disappeared. His brown eyes were narrowed thoughtfully, and Amaranthe avoided them.

“The man obviously needs to find a woman,” Maldynado said. “Or a man. Whatever he prefers.”

“You offering?” Akstyr smirked.

“Oh, please.” Maldynado sniffed. “I can do far better than him.”

Basilard lifted his eyebrows.

“Speaking of the emperor and this device that may be in his neck,” Books said, pointedly ignoring the side conversation, “should this change our plans? What if we kidnap him, and Forge is able to... end his life from a remote location?”

“They’ve kept him alive this long,” Amaranthe said. “They must have some use for him.”

“Maybe they’re just keeping him to ensure peace in the city while Forge readies themselves for something,” Books said.

“Something involving the army and a lot of weapons?” Amaranthe asked and glanced at Maldynado. “Or a certain faction in the army?”

“Maybe the emperor wants us to kidnap him, so he gets out of range of that neck-bump thing,” Maldynado said, and Amaranthe wondered if he was deliberately steering the conversation away from family matters.

Perhaps that old woman we saw escorting him at the dinner last summer holds the controls to the device, Basilard signed.

“You’re suggesting there’s a range of effectiveness and he hopes that we can take him beyond that range so he can act freely?” Books asked. “If he couldn’t get away on his own, that might explain why he wanted to hire us. He must know about the device.” Books patted his pockets. “I wish I’d thought to research some of the technology and gadgets we’ve seen Forge employ. As it is, I’ve only got...” He frowned, gave himself another pat down, and delved into his pockets only to come out empty-handed. “It’s gone.”

“What is?” Amaranthe asked.

“My journal with the list of Forge names and addresses and everything I know about the outfit.” Frowning, he checked his pockets again. “That represents three months worth of research. I just had it. I didn’t leave it in the lorry, did I?”

Amaranthe stared at the open door, the door Sicarius had long since disappeared through.

Chapter 8

Metal shutters secured the windows of Ms. Sarevic’s Custom Works, and a lock secured the patchwork copper-and-steel door. Aside from a streetlamp burning at the closest intersection, darkness blanketed Molten Street. The owners of the smithies and metalworking shops along either side had gone home for the night. Mounted on the brick wall above Ms. Sarevic’s sign, a perpetual motion clock ticked softly, its gears turning behind a clear glass display. Five minutes until ten.

“I guess we didn’t need to rush.” Amaranthe waved at the clock. “We’re early.”

Books stood to her side, wearing an expression of disapproval. Amaranthe suspected it was for the shop and what one could purchase there rather than her overzealous punctuality. Maldynado would have been a more suitable companion for the night. She hoped his side-trip proved fruitful.

“One wouldn’t think someone who deals with the nocturnal criminal element would be able to worry about keeping precise shop hours,” Books said.

“I’ve heard Ms. Sarevic is a stickler.” Though only recently. Amaranthe had patrolled this neighborhood as an enforcer for years, and she’d had no idea that the proprietor kept two sets of shop hours.

Books’s lips puckered, reminding Amaranthe of an old lady contemplating a diatribe on the wayward nature of today’s youth. He’d been in a rotten mood all evening, railing at the others and demanding that whoever took his journal return it. As far as she knew, he didn’t suspect Sicarius. Amaranthe hadn’t told Books where the journal had gone or that it’d likely be returned with blood on the pages.

“You could have gone with Maldynado if you find this errand distasteful,” Amaranthe said.

“You think I’d find watching him seduce some businesswoman for the use of her very expensive private vehicle less reprehensible than purchasing illegal blasting sticks? A private vehicle that will likely, under our care, be shot full of bullets or perhaps crashed.”

“Should I be more offended that you find my shopping list reprehensible or that you’re certain we’ll wreck our getaway vehicle?”

“Given our history with stolen conveyances, it’d be shocking if we didn’t damage it.”

Amaranthe checked the clock. Three minutes to go. “We won’t be stealing this one, simply borrowing it, assuming Maldynado can sufficiently woo this woman with his talents.”

“Please, he’s as talented as a sock,” Books said. “Besides, didn’t you borrow that garbage lorry last summer? The most recent newspaper article I read on the subject said the Imperial Ash and Refuse Collection Service is still looking for one of the articulating arms.”

“It is not,” Amaranthe said, though the deadpan way Books had said it caused her to eye him with concern. There hadn’t truly been an article, had there? “As to the borrowing, no, I think the magistrate would find us guilty of theft in that case.”

As they so often did, Books’s comments showed her how flexible her morals had become of late. Amaranthe hoped the team would successfully snatch Sespian and earn a chance to talk to him. With a hand wave, he could remove their bounties and her new hobby of crime could come to an end. So long as he still had the power to act within the Imperial Barracks. Amaranthe winced, thinking of the implant.

Two minutes to go.

“You haven’t mentioned who will be responsible for the landslide,” Books said.

“I haven’t?”

“No.”

“Ah.

One minute to go on the clock. Amaranthe was tempted to knock early, so she wouldn’t have to answer Books right away, but she needed a good deal from Ms. Sarevic, and she didn’t want to risk irking her.

“Who is planting the blasting sticks?” Books asked.

Amaranthe cleared her throat. “I need my best fighters on the train. Even with smoke grenades and knockout gas—” she pointed to the appropriate items on her shopping list, “—it’s likely we’ll have to brawl with numerous well-trained soldiers.”

“I see. So, Akstyr and I get this portion of the mission.” Books couldn’t have sounded less tickled if a dog had peed on his leg.

“Why, thank you for volunteering, Books,” Amaranthe said, hoping enthusiasm on her part would encourage the same from him. “You’re the only one I can trust with an independent mission of such importance.”

“Uh huh. Even if you hadn’t just admitted you were choosing based on fighting prowess, I know you trust Sicarius more than me, though only your dead ancestors could guess why.”

“That’s... actually not true. I’d trust him to protect my back in a fight, but not necessarily to do things in a way that doesn’t endanger my plans.” Indeed, Amaranthe worried that he was off doing something like that as she spoke. “Trust me, you’re far more steady and reliable in this regard.”

“All right, you already have me. You can save your flattery for outsiders,” Books said, though his tone had lightened, and Amaranthe thought her words might mean something to him.

“If it makes you feel better, you’ll only be dealing with blasting sticks, not the empire’s elite bodyguard and a train full of soldiers. If the infiltration team gets itself killed, you’ll still be alive, and you can escape.”

“We’ll see. I’m not convinced sharing a vehicle with blasting sticks and a young wizard who likes to light things on fire with his mind is healthier than fighting soldiers.”

The minute hand had passed the hour, so Amaranthe knocked, a precise pattern she’d learned from Rockjaw, one of her rather despicable but frequently useful, underworld contacts. One of the “patches” on the multi-metaled door slid to the side, revealing a shallow cubby with a key nestled within.

Amaranthe removed it and headed through an alley to a side door. This one was made of steel. Should Ms. Sarevic’s side activities ever be discovered by the law, she could likely hold off a squad of soldiers with cannons for quite some time while she gathered her belongings and planned an escape.

The door lacked a handle, latch, or any other adornment aside from a small hole precisely in the center. Amaranthe slid the key in, turned it, and heard a soft click. The door swung open with a push. A worn wooden stairway led down into darkness.

Books plucked at a cobweb stretched across one corner of the low ceiling. “Charming.”

Amaranthe headed down the stairs without comment. She had been there a week earlier when she placed her order, so she knew what to expect. What she didn’t know was how much the final bill would be. The problem with working for the good of the empire was that it didn’t pay that well.

When Amaranthe reached the bottom, the door at the top of the stairs swung shut with a metallic thud.

“Uhm,” Books said.

Two candles flashed to life, one on either side of a dusty, rotting wooden door. When Books stopped next to Amaranthe on the landing, a fake brick in the wall popped open on hinges, and a glass sphere snaked out on a flexible coil shaft. The sphere rose to peer at Amaranthe’s face, then extended past her to examine Books.

“Magic?” he asked.

“No, and I hear Ms. Sarevic will be insulted if you suggest any of her work has supernatural elements.” Amaranthe pointed at the sphere as it retracted into its hidden cubby. “She’ll be on the other side, manipulating it with a crank.”

“Huh.”

On that auspicious grunt, the wooden door swung open. After the dimness of the stairwell, the light inside made Amaranthe blink. She’d forgotten about Ms. Sarevic’s experimental electricity balls that dangled from the ceiling.

“Yes, yes, come in, and shut the door,” a woman said, her voice coming from behind a pile of crates draped with greasy rags, rope, wires, and other items Amaranthe couldn’t name. “I’ll catch a chill with all that cold air flooding my workshop.”

Amaranthe and Books shuffled inside, careful not to bump against other stacks of crates or knock over toolboxes balanced on bins filled with old parts, screws and cogs. Parts too large for crates were stacked about the edges of the basement, a single room that would have felt spacious had it not been so cluttered. An L-shaped workbench and two stools were the only furnishings, and they huddled in the middle with half-constructed projects encroaching upon them from all sides. The whole place had Amaranthe thinking of brooms, dustpans, and scrub brushes.

The owner of the shop stepped into view. Her floral print dress hugged plump curves, and she wore her gray hair pulled back in a bun that emphasized thick, bright red spectacles. At first glance, Ms. Sarevic could have passed for a schoolteacher, but she wore a grease-stained apron over her dress and held a pair of pliers in calloused fingers with grime wedged beneath each and every nail.

A man strolled out from behind the crates as well, smiled at Amaranthe, and sat on one of the stools. She recognized him, though she had no idea why he was there. He wore a wool cap pulled down over his eyebrows, and mustachios hung to his collarbone, though he kept his broad, granite jaw shaved. Tattoos of spikes and chains circled his neck like a garish collar.

“Rockjaw,” Amaranthe said. “Good to see you.”

“Good?” Books whispered.

Rockjaw was a murderer and a rapist who ran a guild of thieves. Normally, Amaranthe would have avoided—or arrested—someone like him, but he had a talent for collecting information, and she’d found it useful to trade tidbits with him from time to time, even if she often wished she could scrub her soul with soap and water afterward.

“Good to see you, too, Ammy.” He winked and gave her a long look up and down. It wasn’t quite as long and lurid as the one he had given her the first time they met, so she decided to count that as progress.

Books growled.

“Who’s this, Ms. Lokdon?” Ms. Sarevic adjusted her spectacles and craned her neck to look Books in the eyes. “I thought you’d bring the pretty one to flirt with me and haggle for a better deal.”

Warmth blossomed behind Amaranthe’s cheeks. While that was exactly why she kept Maldynado around, she hadn’t realized others had figured it out and that he was becoming known as her dealmaker.

“Sorry, he was busy tonight,” Amaranthe said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I am a touch, yes. It’s not often that pretty young fellows flirt with me any more.”

Rockjaw withdrew a pipe and a tin of tobacco, and started preparing a smoke. Amaranthe stifled a frown. She hoped he wasn’t there to collect information on her. Though he had been the one to recommend Ms. Sarevic to her weeks before, it seemed to be too much of a coincidence that he was there at the same time as Amaranthe.

Ms. Sarevic poked into a box and headed for the drawers of a desk half-buried by scraps of leather and canvas. When she started rummaging, a tin fell to the ground and spilled washers across the floor. Ms. Sarevic ignored them, but Amaranthe watched them roll around, her fingers itching to pick them up and return them to their home.

“The blasting sticks are in that box over there.” Ms. Sarevic waved to a corner while continuing to poke through drawers. “Your man can carry them. No need to be overly careful. I created a more stable substrate than the army uses, so they’re less likely to spontaneously explode.”

“Less likely,” Books said. “Joy.”

“Blasting sticks, hm?” Rockjaw lit his pipe. “Whatever are you planning next, Ammy?”

Amaranthe tore her gaze from the spilled washers and flicked a dismissive hand. “The usual mayhem. Ms. Sarevic, why don’t you finish waiting on Rockjaw first, so he can be on his way? I’m sure he has mayhem of his own to pursue tonight, and I wouldn’t want to delay him.” She certainly wouldn’t want him piecing together her plans based on the supplies she’d ordered.

“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” Rockjaw scraped the end of his pipe through a mustachio, using it like a pick to detangle the rope of hair.

Ms. Sarevic, rummaging in a footlocker now, didn’t seem to hear them. “And then that box on my desk is full of your smoke grenades and—”

“I’m sure it’s all there,” Amaranthe blurted. “No need to detail everything. How much do we owe you?”

Rockjaw’s eyes narrowed. The spilled washers were bothering Amaranthe anyway, so she knelt and scooped them up to avoid his scrutiny. She dumped them into their tin, then looked around for a decent place to set the tin. Finding little open shelf space, she held onto it.

“Not much for a savvy businesswoman such as yourself,” Ms. Sarevic said, voice echoing oddly because she had her head stuffed in the metal locker. “Three thousand ranmyas should cover the parts and my time.”

“Three thousand?” Amaranthe forgot the washers and stared at the woman. “You said... I mean your estimate was closer to two thousand.”

“Yes, but the knockout gas was quite difficult. You specified that the canisters had to release an inhalant upon impact, and that involved many hours of intricate work. You don’t want shoddy craftsmanship for something like that, dear.”

Amaranthe groaned at the details Sarevic was leaking while Rockjaw grinned, not trying to hide his interest in the least. Again, she wondered what he was doing there. He couldn’t know about the kidnapping plans, could he? Amaranthe wished she had Sicarius around to glare at him and convince him to leave. Of course, if Ms. Sarevic were less oblivious, she wouldn’t be giving up a client’s information, but the woman seemed to lack any sort of tact in that area.

“Ah, there it is.” Sarevic pulled out a metal device that looked like a cross between a pistol and a teakettle with a cylindrical kerosene canister attached to the underside. She displayed it to Amaranthe with a proud grin plumping her round cheeks. “You said you needed something that would cut through metal. Concentrated flame will do that at a sufficiently high temperature.”

Rockjaw’s eyes grew brighter yet at this new hint. Amaranthe merely sighed. “Yes, I’ve seen something that could do that,” she said, thinking of the torch they’d used to cut through a hatch on that underwater laboratory.

Ms. Sarevic’s grin disappeared. “You have? Someone else made something like my blowtorch?”

“Oh, no, it was... The device we glimpsed wasn’t entirely technology-based.”

“Magic!” Sarevic spat.

“Yes, quite an inferior product though.” Actually, Amaranthe wished she had thought to keep that baton. It had been more compact than Ms. Sarevic’s mundane version and would have been easier to fit in a rucksack. She made a note to hoard future useful artifacts, even if she was busy dodging attacks from krakens at the time.

“Naturally,” Sarevic grumbled. “Do you have the three thousand ranmyas?”

Maybe if Sicarius hadn’t stormed off, and she could send him to a gambling house to win a few rounds, she would. “I don’t suppose you’d accept partial payment now and the rest later?”

“Partial payment gets you partial supplies.” Sarevic propped a grease-smeared fist against her hip. “And the irritation of the woman who worked hard to complete your order on time.”

“Perhaps charging your clients half up front and half once they’ve seen if everything works would be fair,” Books said.

Sarevic’s hands dropped. She grabbed the blowtorch and stomped toward Books like a squad of enforcers approaching a barricaded door with a battering ram. “If everything works? You doubt my skills?”

Displaying great bravery, Books stepped behind Amaranthe.

Rockjaw, watching the exchange with amusement, shook his head and lifted his eyes ceiling-ward. Amaranthe blushed, annoyed anew to have him there.

She turned, put a hand on Books’s arm, and whispered, “Don’t help,” before he could respond to Sarevic.

“Please forgive him, ma’am,” Amaranthe said, facing Sarevic again and withdrawing her purse. “Of course we know of your reputation and how skilled you are. We don’t doubt that your devices work as promised. We can pay you full price.” Amaranthe could feel Books’s gaze on the back of her head as she untied the purse strings. No doubt he was wondering if she had full price. “Although...” Amaranthe lifted her head, as if she’d just thought of a sterling idea. “Perhaps you’d be better served by partial payment and a trade.”

“A trade,” Sarevic said flatly.

“Indeed so.” Amaranthe spread an arm to encompass the basement. “It’s clear that you’re in need of a cleaning service, but I imagine the covert nature of your work makes you hesitant to invite outsiders down, outsiders who might blab about your special workshop and second set of office hours. Suppose we pay you two thousand ranmyas in cash tonight,” Amaranthe said, taking a guess at how much Sarevic had paid for parts and how much of her fee was the result of personal hours invested in the projects, “and then I come back several times over the next month or two to clean and organize everything here?”

“Organize?” Sarevic scratched her head while she considered her shop.

“Yes.” Warming to the idea, Amaranthe walked about, gesticulating as she explained. “We could do a rack over here with baskets, a shelving unit there, and all of those cogs, nuts, and bolts could have separate smaller containers that would go in a bin system. I’d put labels on everything, of course. Think how much time you could save if you didn’t have to hunt around for things.” Amaranthe went on for two or three minutes, describing her vision. By the time she finished with, “And we haven’t even talked about hooks and racks for ceiling storage,” Sarevic was gaping at her.

Amaranthe decided she had better let her potential new client have a moment to mull over the idea. Meanwhile, Rockjaw was stroking his mustachios and watching with an expression somewhere between bemusement and incredulity. Nothing new. Her men gave her those looks all the time.

“You are... qualified for such work?” Sarevic finally asked.

“Oh, yes,” Amaranthe said. “I’ve been inflicting, er, providing organizational paradigms for friends and relatives for years.”

“It’s true,” Books said. “You should see her work with rucksacks. Did you know underwear apparently won’t wrinkle when tucked into tight little rolls?”

Because Amaranthe’s roaming explanations had taken her from Books’s side, she couldn’t grab his arm and whisper, “Don’t help,” again. Fortunately, Ms. Sarevic threw her head back and laughed.

“You do look like a neat and prim little thing,” she said.

“She is,” Books said, before Amaranthe could decide if she wanted to encourage the new line the conversation had taken. He pointed at her. “Look, not a spec of dirt beneath her nails, nor a strand of hair gone stray from her bun. And you can probably tell she irons her fatigues. I bet you’ve never met a mercenary who does that. And look at the shine on those boots. You can view your own reflection if you gaze into them. Ask to see her sword and knife too. They’re spotless. Precisely sharpened and not a smudge on the blades. You’d think they just came from the smithy.”

Sarevic was nodding, so Amaranthe kept her mouth shut.

“Yes, yes,” Sarevic said, “you’re right. Organization would be good.” She lifted the blowtorch, propping it against her shoulder, and stuck out her free hand. “We have a pact.”

Amaranthe clasped the woman’s forearm to close the deal, and Sarevic demonstrated how to use the kerosene torch. When she pointed out the pump used to pressurize the fuel in the tank and explained the possible hazards, Amaranthe wondered if the blasting sticks might actually be the less dangerous item to tote around.

After Sarevic finished demonstrating her goods, Amaranthe helped Books cart their supplies out of the basement. She wasn’t surprised when Rockjaw followed them into the alley.

He stopped in front of them, blocking the way as he planted a hand on the brick wall and leaned against it.

“Are you certain you want to impede a man carrying a box full of blasting sticks?” Books asked.

Amaranthe simply waited to see what Rockjaw wanted.

“I’ve never seen anybody talk Ms. Sarevic down a single ranmya, much less a thousand,” he said. “Although I’d rather pay in solid gold than clean that place.”

Amaranthe knew he hadn’t stopped them to chat about her bargaining skills, so she kept her answer short. “I like to have projects like that. It gives my hands something to do while my head is worrying about things.”

And she knew her men preferred it when she had something legitimate to clean instead of trying to tidy them. Fortunately Books didn’t bring up underwear again.

“I see,” Rockjaw said. “What are you worrying about now?” His gaze flickered to the boxes Amaranthe and Books held.

“Nothing I’d care to share,” Amaranthe said.

“Not even for the right price?”

“With my deal complete, I’ve no need for extra coin right now.”

“I was thinking of information, not coin,” Rockjaw said. “I know something you’d like to know.”

“You sound positive.”

“Oh, I am. It involves your men.”

A jackrabbit hopped around in Amaranthe’s belly. Sicarius? Was he in trouble? It seemed unlikely—the only time he’d gotten in trouble had been when he was trying to do a favor for her. Somehow she doubted he had that in mind currently. Of course, if he had gone off on Sespian’s behalf... Amaranthe had no doubt that Sespian meant more to him than she did and that he would risk much on his son’s behalf.

“Is that so?” she asked, trying to keep any sign of her thoughts off her face. “What’s the price for this information?”

Rockjaw pushed away from the wall and strolled closer. Though he had put his pipe away, the scent of tobacco lingered about him. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with knockout gas, blasting sticks, and a torch that can cut through metal?”

“Sorry, but I need to keep the details of our next mission to myself,” Amaranthe said. “I don’t suppose you’d like me to clean and organize your hideout in trade for your information?”

“I don’t believe you’d care to visit the bowels of my hideout.” Rockjaw smirked. “I’ve learned enough about you to know you’d be horrified by the conditions for my workers and... guests. A clean environment is not their primary consideration.”

Books stirred at Amaranthe’s side. Though he said nothing, she could imagine him wondering what he’d done in his life to be condemned to standing in dark alleys, conversing with such unsavory sorts.

“Shouldn’t you cackle maniacally after you say things like that?” Amaranthe asked Rockjaw.

“Do you want the information or not, Lockdon? If you’re not going to tell me what you’re up to, I need something else useful in trade.”

Amaranthe still had one of the rifle cartridges in her pocket. She withdrew it and rolled it around in her hand, debating whether to give it to Rockjaw and tell him about the weapons. That the fancy firearms had been made in secrecy for the army meant she probably shouldn’t spread the word, but that proprietary design still made her wonder if there wasn’t something fishy going on. At the moment, it was the only interesting information she could part with.

She tossed Rockjaw the bullet and told him about the farm and what was out there. At her side, Books shifted uneasily as she shared the information, but he didn’t object at any point.

“Interesting.” Rockjaw rubbed the cartridge between his fingers. “And worth the information I have to offer you.”

Amaranthe suspected she’d given Rockjaw something worth far more than what he was going to tell her, but she managed a “Thank you” that wasn’t too dry.

“Your boy, Akstyr, tried to sell information on Sicarius’s whereabouts and secret weaknesses today.”

Books sucked in a breath. He probably didn’t care one way or another about Sicarius, but someone coming after Sicarius might endanger the whole team.

“I see.” Amaranthe was disappointed, but not surprised that Akstyr had tried to betray them. The part about “secret weaknesses” disconcerted her. Had Akstyr figured out Sicarius’s relationship to Sespian? It seemed impossible, but she couldn’t think of anything else that could be used against Sicarius. “To whom?” she asked Rockjaw.

“Khaalid the Knife.”

“That’s a bounty hunter, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but he refused the offer,” Rockjaw said. “He made a point to tell me, knowing I occasionally deal with you. I think he wouldn’t mind being on Sicarius’s good side.”

“Sicarius doesn’t have a good side,” Books said.

“Khaalid would like to not be on his bad side then,” Rockjaw said. “Of course, this altruism might be due to the fact that your boy wanted twenty-five-thousand ranmyas for the information.”

“What in the empire for?” Books asked. “All he does is read and visit brothels.”

Amaranthe could guess—she’d ferreted most of last summer’s scheme to kill Sicarius out of Basilard after he gave it up, and she knew Akstyr wanted to leave the empire to pursue his studies. She’d been trying to find him a local tutor, so he could further his education without leaving the group, but maybe it’d be better to let Akstyr go. He was her least reliable team member and always had been. But then, his skills had come in useful at times. She touched her belly, thinking of the scars beneath her clothing. Maybe it was worth talking to him before making any decisions. With Sicarius off doing who knew what, she could get Akstyr alone for a frank conversation without worrying about stealthy assassins overhearing.

“Thank you, Rockjaw,” Amaranthe said, more sincerely this time.

He gave her a mock military salute and sauntered away.

“Sicarius will kill Akstyr over this,” Books whispered.

“Not if I warn Akstyr and tell him to get out of the city before Sicarius finds out.” Amaranthe headed for the street. “Or if I can convince Akstyr that he’s made a big mistake and it would be in his best interest to stay loyal to us.”

Books fell into step beside her. “Are you sure he’s worth the trouble?”

“He’s young. It’d be nice to give him a chance to grow up and become a decent human being.”

“Some people never grow out of being selfish bastards who think only of themselves.”

“And some people just need encouragement to do so,” Amaranthe said.

“How can you be so optimistic?”

“Because I’m not the one holding a box full of blasting sticks.” Amaranthe managed a smile and sidled away from him. “I do hope you’re watching your steps.”

“You’re a dreadful young woman at times,” Books said.

“I know.” Amaranthe drummed her fingers on her thighs. “He wants the money to go to school, you know that right?”

“Real school or wizard school?”

“Now, now, outside of Turgonia, the study of the mental sciences is considered just as real and respectable as the study of history or languages.”

“I knew there was a reason I didn’t travel,” Books said.

“What if we paid for him to leave the empire and get an education?”

Books missed a step, and the box of blasting sticks lurched alarmingly. “What?”

“I haven’t put any focus into acquiring money, as is clear from my need to barter my services to merchants, but given our group’s talents, we ought to have no problem completing a wide variety of well-paying tasks. I even have contacts amongst the up-and-coming business mavens in Stumps, as I went to school with some of them.”

A young man and woman bicycled by, and Books did not answer right away. They had left the dead streets of the business district and were heading into the university neighborhood, where numerous eating and drinking houses remained open for the young clientele. Amaranthe tugged her hood up, ostensibly against the chill of the frosty night, but more to hide her face.

“Just so I’m clear,” Books said, “you’re proposing that the team finance the education of a scruffy, self-centered youngster who has no loyalty to the team and is, even as we speak, trying to arrange to have your beau killed?”

It was Amaranthe’s turn to stumble and nearly trip. “My what?”

“I thought you would find that description more apt than ‘your pet assassin’.”

“He’s not either,” Amaranthe said, watching the street and pretending to scan the coming intersection for enforcers or bounty hunters instead of meeting Books’s gaze. “And I’d find it apt if you called him by his name. You’ve been working together for nine months.”

Her tone was sharper than she meant it to be, but she didn’t apologize. His offhand remark had flustered her, and she wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by it. Did he think she and Sicarius were engaged in... more than they were? Or was he simply letting her know that he knew she had feelings for him? He’d figured that out a while ago and had made more than one subtle suggestion to the effect that she should abandon them. But by calling Sicarius her beau, Books seemed to be implying he thought Sicarius might feel something for her. Maybe...

Stop it, girl, Amaranthe told herself. None of that was important.

“Yes,” she said, “to answer your question. We have to finish with the emperor first, but after that, maybe we can do something to help Akstyr on his way, so he won’t feel he has to betray us for coin. A few lucrative assignments could probably pay his way, especially if I could convince the men to give up their share of the booty or take a reduced percentage for a while.”

“If anyone can, you can,” Books said and fortunately didn’t mention beaus again.

He and Amaranthe were approaching the campus when Maldynado and Basilard jogged around a corner and joined them. Maldynado wore a new fur cap with a raccoon tail dangling onto his shoulder. It might have looked like something out of the Northern Frontier, except that some creative haberdasher had dyed the fur pale blue. Only in the capital, Amaranthe thought.

In addition to the fur cap, Maldynado wore a grin almost as big as his ego.

“Success?” Amaranthe asked when the men joined her and Books.

“Oh, yes,” Maldynado said.

The concerned expression furrowing Basilard’s brow worried Amaranthe.

“You arranged for a vehicle suitable for carrying an emperor and that can make it over snowy roads?” she asked.

Maldynado’s grin widened, and he repeated, “Oh, yes.”

It flies, Basilard signed.

Books halted so quickly he nearly dumped his volatile cargo.

“Uhm, what?” Amaranthe asked.

Maldynado swatted Basilard. “I told you to let me tell her.” Before Basilard could respond, Maldynado said, “It’s a prototype, but Lady Buckingcrest has ridden in it and assures me it has everything we need. We won’t have to worry about snow-filled roads, not when we can fly right over them. The mountains won’t be a problem at all. She said the flyer can reach the pass in a day and a half instead of the three the train takes.”

“Are you aware of such devices?” Amaranthe asked Books. She’d heard of hot-air balloons, of course, and knew there were people experimenting with flight, but she’d certainly never seen aircraft cruising over Stumps.

“That would be safe enough to carry a box of blasting sticks?” Books scowled. “No.”

“Lady Buckingcrest’s family owns Experimental Aeronautics,” Maldynado said. “They haven’t gone public and started selling their craft yet, but they have lots of prototypes.”

“And you’ve seen them?” Amaranthe asked. “They work?”

Basilard shook his head.

Maldynado nodded. “I’ve seen the compound where they’re manufactured. It’s big and important looking.”

“Gee, why didn’t you say so?” Books asked. “That adds all sorts of veracity to the woman’s claims.”

“Whoever is going to the pass can pick up the flyer in the morning here.” Maldynado handed Amaranthe a piece of paper.

She gazed at it for a long moment, though it only contained a street address. Why did she have a feeling she’d made a mistake in letting him handle transportation?

“You needn’t look so glum.” Maldynado draped an arm across her shoulder. “It’ll be fantastic. Just think of the getaway. Instead of steaming off at ten miles an hour on windy, snow-filled roads, we’ll be able to take to the skies, with the soldiers left on the ground, gaping helplessly.”

“Who’s going to pilot this craft?” Books asked.

“Lady Buckingcrest said she’d send someone along.”

Great, someone else who would be privy to their plans. Amaranthe took Books by the arm and led him away from the others. “What do you think?”

“That this idea is more idiotic than Maldynado’s hat,” Books said, “but we don’t have time for something else.”

“All right.” Amaranthe handed him the slip of paper. “Check it out in the morning. If it doesn’t look feasible, come back and get the pumpkin lorry. We’ll hope for clear weather and no snow in the mountains.”

“Very well.”

“If it does look feasible... see if you can find a technical manual and learn how to fly the thing. I don’t want any extra witnesses.”

“I understand,” Books said.

Amaranthe was glad he didn’t mention Sergeant Yara. She didn’t need to be reminded that that might have been a big mistake. “Also,” she added, “if it’s as fast as Maldynado’s lady friend claims... go out east and see if those blasting sticks work to blow open the mines where the shaman’s workshop is buried. If we can get information on those implants—and how to remove them—before we pick up the emperor, so much the better.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” Books asked.

“I know you can handle it.”

“I don’t know why I always believe you when you say things like that.”

“Because you know I believe it, and it’s true.”

“Hm.”

Amaranthe rejoined the others. “Did Akstyr go with you two?” When she and Books had left, he had been reading one of his Science books. “Or is he still at the hideout?”

“No, and no.” Maldynado flipped the blue tail of his cap, so it rested over the other shoulder. “He went out. Probably for a booze-and-brothels night before we head off into the savage hinterlands.”

Amaranthe exchanged looks with Books, and, when he shook his head slowly, she knew exactly what he was thinking. They hadn’t even left the city yet, and her plan was in more danger of being mauled than the boulders in the mountain pass they were targeting.

* * * * *

Akstyr checked over his shoulder often on the way to West Quay, a modest but clean part of town with shops on the bottom floors of narrow brick buildings and residences above. The view of the lake might have made it a more upscale neighborhood, but factories to the north cast a pall of gray across the lowland streets, one that lingered even that late at night. Few pedestrians remained out, and those who did didn’t look like bounty hunters. For some reason that didn’t quell the nerves dancing in Akstyr’s stomach.

Hand on the hilt of the short sword hidden by his coat, he approached a worn brick square dominated by a fountain-statue of some old general. He eyed the benches around the area, telling himself not to expect his mother. She’d never been reliable, so why would that change? Unless she wanted something.

The bakery they had spoken of had closed for the day, but Akstyr found her sitting on a bench across from the building. She wore the same dress, though she’d added a scarf and mittens. A brown paper bag sat on the bench beside her. When she spotted him, she waved and smiled.

The friendly gesture did nothing to relax Akstyr—if anything it made him more uneasy. She’d arranged this meeting, and she could have very well arranged a trap. What if she knew about the bounty on his head?

“Mother,” he said, meeting her eyes for a moment before resuming his checks of the surrounding area.

If she noticed his wariness, she didn’t speak of it. “Sit down, son.” The bag crinkled as she delved into it, and she held up a frosted cookie shaped into a puppy-dog face. “I bought these for you.” She offered him the bag.

Akstyr accepted it, but he didn’t sit down. He didn’t want to have his back to the square and make it easy for someone to sneak up behind him.

“Thanks,” he said, lifting the bag, though the idea of returning to the hideout with it made him feel foolish. Sure, he’d liked the cookies as a little kid, but grown men didn’t eat sweets shaped like puppies. Maldynado would mock him for ages if he showed up with them.

“I’m glad you came,” his mother said. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

Ah, here it came. A request.

“Oh?” Akstyr asked.

“It seems you’re on the path to becoming somebody important. You’re working as a mercenary, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

“Sort of.”

“The pay decent?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” Her smile only faltered for a second before she added, “Maybe it will be one day.”

Akstyr shrugged and checked his surroundings again. A pair of soldiers in fatigues strode across the other side of the square. They looked like nothing more than men returning from a long day’s work at Fort Urgot, but he shifted to keep his face out of their view.

“If it does get decent,” his mother said, “maybe you’ll forget some of the wrong your ma’s done by you and help her out one day.”

Akstyr focused on her. “What?”

“I know you don’t have any reason to think fondly of me, but it’s hard getting work when you live where we live and got the skills that we got. Or don’t got.” Her lips twisted. “I’m making a way now, but my joints are already stiffening up.” She flexed her fingers and winced. “I don’t expect I’ll be able to work forever. I’m just hoping, if you end up in a good place, you’ll see fit to let me have a room somewhere in your home.”

Though she’d proven his suspicions founded by asking for something, Akstyr relaxed an iota while she spoke. If all she was looking for was a handout, then he probably didn’t need to worry about getting a dagger in his back, at least not that night.

“I guess,” Akstyr said.

Something flickered in her eyes—surprise?

“I mean, I’m not in a place to do much now, but maybe someday,” he said.

“That’s wonderful, son. Where are you off to now? Will it be dangerous?”

He wondered if she was only concerned because she’d learned he might be a meal ticket. Probably. “It was going to be Forkingrust, but now I think I might get stuck doing something in the Scarlet Pass, but probably it’ll be dangerous either way. It usually is.”

“Oh, dear. Up in the mountains? It’s getting cold. Take a scarf.”

If she hadn’t looked so earnest, Akstyr would have laughed. Where had this mothering instinct been when he’d been growing up? He remembered a time when he’d been playing on the floor, she’d stepped on him, then kicked him and cursed him for being in the way. Of course, he’d never known her when she wasn’t on some drug or another.

She wrapped her own scarf around his shoulders. “I’m sure you’re busy, so I won’t keep you. I’ll find you when you get back. Take care of yourself.” She smiled again and walked away.

Akstyr glanced around again, but nobody jumped out to attack him.

Chapter 9

Though a hint of pink brightened the eastern horizon, darkness filled the nooks and alleys of the train yard. Engines rumbled in the distance, and the scent of burning coal lingered in the crisp air.

Amaranthe, Maldynado, and Basilard padded alongside a freight train scheduled to depart for Forkingrust soon. A rucksack, her repeating crossbow, and the clunky blowtorch weighed down Amaranthe’s shoulders. A utility belt hung low on her waist, laden with her short sword, ammunition for the bow, vials of poison, and a couple of Ms. Sarevic’s smoke grenades. Canisters of knockout gas were nestled in her rucksack along with food, water, and other necessities for the trip. Maldynado and Basilard were similarly loaded down with supplies and weapons. It was a testament to good packing skills that nobody clanked and rattled as they walked. They weren’t paying for passage—Amaranthe didn’t want a record of their passing—so they needed to hop the train like the listless hobos who rode the empire’s rails, never staying in one place for long.

They’d left Books and Akstyr with orders to pick up the flying craft as soon as Lady Buckingcrest’s business opened. Only Sicarius was unaccounted for. Every few meters, Amaranthe glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see him jogging up behind them. She knew he was annoyed with her, and he had a right to be, but she couldn’t believe he wouldn’t show up.

This was the last train heading south in time to catch Sespian at Forkingrust. If Sicarius didn’t make it... he’d miss everything. Worse, she’d have to infiltrate a train full of elite soldiers without her best man.

A soft knock, knuckles against metal, drew Amaranthe back to the moment.

“That one?” Maldynado asked.

Basilard opened a freight door and peered inside. Yes. Only a few crates.

Maldynado stuck his head inside. “Completely empty. No chairs, sofas, bunks, or other decent furnishings. Again. Really, boss, when are we going to be established enough that we can afford a few comforts?”

“It’s a freight train, not a luxury passenger transport,” Amaranthe said.

“You say that as if it’s not a problem.”

“We’re lucky to find an empty car.” Most of the ones Amaranthe had peeked into were filled with apples, potatoes, turnips, carrots, and other local produce being shipped to various parts of the empire.

Basilard signed, In?

“Yes, you two go ahead,” Amaranthe said. “I’ll wait to see if Sicarius shows up.”

A dog barked in another part of the train yard.

“Maybe you should wait inside with us,” Maldynado said. “Station security will likely be along, banging on the doors and making sure there aren’t too many train-hopping vagrants weighing down the cars.”

Like us? Basilard signed.

“No, we’re vigilantes, not vagrants. They ought to feel lucky to have us along. I bet if highway men jump the train, the boss’ll insist we do something heroic like save the engineer’s life.”

Who would rob a train full of potatoes?

“Someone without my charisma and good looks,” Maldynado said. “In other words, poor saps who have to pay full price for groceries.”

“Get inside, you two,” Amaranthe said.

She wondered if leading these men was good practice for having children someday. If she kept herself alive long enough for that eventuality to come to pass.

Gravel crunched, someone jogging. The noise meant it wasn’t Sicarius.

Amaranthe pressed her back against the train to hide in its shadows and peered into the predawn gloom. Two figures were running her way. Before she could worry that it might be security, she recognized the familiar, long-legged gait of one. Books, and that must be Akstyr at his side.

Amaranthe stepped out of the shadows. “Here.”

Books jumped and Akstyr skidded to a stop, arms flailing for balance.

“Emperor’s bunions,” Akstyr whispered. “Don’t scare a man.”

He was out of breath. Books swiped sweat out of his eyes.

“News?” Amaranthe asked.

“News,” Books said.

“Good or bad?”

“When is it ever good?” A newspaper crinkled as Books pulled it out from his waistband and handed it to Amaranthe.

“It’s a little dark for—”

Akstyr waved a hand, and a small globe of light flared to life.

“—reading without an Akstyr around,” Amaranthe finished.

He smirked. The light did not reveal a hint of humor on Books’s flushed face. He simply pointed at the front-page headline.

ASSASSIN STRIKES: TWENTY-ONE PROMINENT ENTREPRENEURS FOUND MURDERED.

“I didn’t spend months putting that list together so your thrice-cursed assassin could kill everybody on it,” Books whispered, his voice cracking on the word kill.

Amaranthe sagged against the rail car and used the excuse of reading the story to avoid Books’s stare.

“That’s the tally as of last night when the paper was prepared.” Books started pacing back and forth, gravel crunching beneath his feet. “Only his dead ancestors know how many more he killed under the stars. Those people may all have been aligned with Forge, perhaps working toward a goal that’s at cross-purposes with ours, but you know they’re not all responsible for the threats to the city, to the empire. I’m sure some of them were just joining the coalition because they thought it was better to be with Forge than against them. Some of those names—” Books thrust a hand toward the paper, his movements stiff and jerky, “—weren’t even confirmed members. They were just people loosely associated with the organization. Dear emperor, I wasn’t sure on some of them. I put them on the list because they were suspects, people to research in more depth later. I—” Books sank into a crouch and buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Books,” Amaranthe said, wishing she could say something less inane. “That’s not the reason I had you collect the names. I never would have—”

“Oh, I know you’re not that callous. Or thoughtless.” Books jumped to his feet and resumed pacing, hands clenched at his sides. “He’s just declared war on Forge, that’s what he’s done. Did you read the article? They were all killed the same way, slit throats. It’s not going to take an enforcer detective to guess who was responsible. And what’s it gotten him? However many he’s slain, it’s not going to be all of them. It won’t be the ones that have the most power, the people like Larocka Myll and Arbitan Losk who could afford magical protection, and it won’t be the people who are in the Imperial Barracks, strong-arming the emperor. No, he’s out there killing journeymen and apprentices. All he’s going to do is make the higher powers angry. He may be able to dodge their wrath, but what about us?”

Akstyr stirred. Behind Amaranthe, Basilard and Maldynado came to the edge of the open freight car.

“Everybody knows we’re working with him,” Books said. “People will think... I don’t know what they’ll think. I don’t even know what he was thinking.”

Amaranthe knew exactly what Sicarius had been thinking. He’d learned that Sespian had one of those nodules in his neck, and he’d gone into a reckless place where parents went when their children were threatened.

Books’s pacing ended and he pressed his palms against the rail car. “Amaranthe, I put that list together,” he whispered. “I abetted a murderer.”

“If it helps,” Maldynado said, “we’ve decided we’re vigilantes, not murderers.”

Books launched a glare so fierce that Amaranthe thought he might leap into the train and pummel Maldynado. She put a hand on Books’s arm, lest he be tempted. He rammed his other hand against the wall of the rail car, but, after that, he let her guide him away from the others.

“I won’t say I know how you feel,” Amaranthe said quietly, “but...”

“You do. I know.” Books’s shoulders slumped, and the rage seemed to bleed out of him, though perhaps not the disappointment in himself. “I remember talking to you that night outside of the cannery. I don’t know how you could ever forgive him for killing your enforcer colleagues.”

“I... realized I’d chosen to work with him, knowing what he was, so the responsibility was mine. That doesn’t make it easier, I know.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“But I’d also be dead by now, a dozen times dead, if not for him,” Amaranthe said.

“Though I’m glad you are still among the living, does one saved life make up for countless others taken?”

“I don’t know.” Amaranthe liked to think that what she was doing for Sespian, and for the empire, put her life above that of business people trying to strong-arm the government, but she was undoubtedly biased when it came to her own subsistence. And the Strat Tiles had yet to all be played, so she didn’t know how history would see her in the end. As a hero? Or some fool who’d tried to fight on the wrong side and had done more harm than good? Or maybe it wouldn’t remember her at all. Depressing thought, that.

“Amaranthe.” Books gripped her arm and lowered his voice. Akstyr had joined the others in the car, so they’d lost their light, but Amaranthe had little trouble reading the earnestness on Books’s face and in his voice. “I make this request, not as your colleague or team member, but as your friend, as someone who cares about your soul. Get rid of him. Please. I know he means something to you, and he has skills that are valuable, but those aren’t good enough reasons to keep a murderer around, especially not if he’s going to turn into an Akstyr, someone who runs around doing random things that can have consequences without thinking about the welfare of the group.”

“Books...” Amaranthe wanted to tell him that Sicarius’s actions weren’t random, that she could predict them, indeed had predicted this, but she couldn’t, not without betraying secrets that she had sworn never to voice to anyone.

“Just think about it.” Books released her arm, took a deep breath, and straightened his spine. “I’ll collect Akstyr, and we’ll do our part to help the emperor.”

“Thank you, Books. Maybe helping Sespian here... maybe this can be the beginning of the end.” Amaranthe added, “In a good way,” when she realized the former might have negative connotations.

“Let’s hope.”

A steam whistle screeched.

“We have to go.” Amaranthe stuck her head inside the car. “Akstyr, Books is waiting for you.”

“Be careful out there,” Books said before he and Akstyr departed. “I’ve come to think of you all as family, albeit some members are more irritating than others—” he glanced toward the door where Maldynado leaned, mouth open for a noisy yawn, “—and I should be most disgruntled if you did not return from this mission.”

“Me too,” Akstyr said, the comment surprising Amaranthe. He might have surprised himself, too, because he was quick to add, “Being left alone with only Books to talk to would lick donkey balls.”

“If Sicarius doesn’t show up in the next minute or two, you may be left with him too,” Amaranthe said.

That comment inspired much grousing between Books and Akstyr as they walked away. The whistle screamed again, and the wheels of the train started rolling.

Amaranthe swung up into the rail car, though she didn’t shut the door. She waited, gazing at the stationary cars across from them, and then peering up and down the long gravel aisle. The train inched forward, gradually increasing speed.

She resigned herself to Sicarius not making it, and the team having to undertake the kidnapping without him. Then, as they were rolling out of the yard, he jogged out of the dim light beside the fence, his soft boots not making a sound on the gravel as he ran. He caught up to the train and leaped into the car beside Amaranthe. Without a word, he passed her and disappeared into the shadows on the opposite end from where Maldynado and Basilard were sitting.

* * * * *

Akstyr had never liked bicycling, and he liked it even less with a crate of blasting sticks fastened to the rack behind him. Books had been the one who refused to drive around in the stolen pumpkin lorry, and who had pointed out that people carrying explosives wouldn’t be welcome on the city trolleys, but somehow he wasn’t toting the volatile load. Worse, it was a long bicycle trip. Apparently flying machines took up a lot of space and weren’t stored in the city proper.

They spent the hour after sunrise peddling through frost-slick streets, past Barlovoc Stadium and the sporting fields at the south end of the city, and finally turning down a lane hedged by substantial fences. A couple of the barriers were made with wrought-iron bars, revealing warehouses and steam-equipment manufacturing plants, but stone and brick hid most of the large lots from sight.

Books lifted a hand and pointed to a cement wall with tangles of razor wire running along the top. Akstyr saw such security measures as a challenge and could have found a way over in a minute, but the front gate stood open beside a brass plaque that read Experimental Aeronautics.

A woman wearing a mink cap and a white leopard fur coat waved them inside. She could have been a successful businesswoman, but the haughty tilt to her pretty face made Akstyr think she was one of Maldynado’s warrior-caste cohorts.

“Lady Buckingcrest?” Books asked after he swung off his bicycle.

“Yes.” The woman peered down the street the way Books and Akstyr had come.

“Maldynado’s not coming, my lady.” Books bowed when the woman looked his way. “He said he’d let you know we were to pick up your... conveyance.”

Akstyr was glad Books was doing the talking, as he didn’t have it in him to “my lady” anyone. Warrior-caste people weren’t any better than him. All their titles meant was that they’d had an easier time of life.

“Yes, of course.” Buckingcrest pulled off her cap, and wavy black locks tumbled about her shoulders, a contrast to the white fur of her coat.

She smiled at them, and Akstyr gulped. He didn’t think he’d ever used the word voluptuous, but it popped into his head as he stared at her lips. When her gaze skimmed across him, he reconsidered his ability to spout honorifics. At that moment, he figured he could spout anything, especially if it meant she might take him off alone for a private meeting. He bowed low so she wouldn’t see that her regard, however brief, flustered him.

“I thought your comrade, the assassin, might be along,” Buckingcrest said.

“He’s busy.” Books’s voice was grim as a funeral pyre.

“Ah, but you’ll be meeting him, yes? Will he return with you on my vessel?” She was no longer looking at Akstyr or Books, and a wistful tone crept into her voice. “I did so wish to meet him.”

Akstyr fisted his hands and jammed them into his pockets. He could understand Maldynado capturing some girl’s fancy, but it was disgusting to see women mooning over Sicarius. He didn’t even acknowledge them. If he knew how to smile at a girl—or anyone at all—Akstyr had never seen evidence of it.

“I can add you to the list in my journal if you want a private meeting with him,” Books muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, my lady,” Books said. “Akstyr, do you want to unload our cargo? Lady Buckingcrest, we’re on a tight schedule. Would you show us to the conveyance Maldynado... bargained for?”

“Bargained?” Buckingcrest chuckled. “Is that what he calls it?”

Akstyr leaned his bicycle against the fence and removed his rucksack and the box of blasting sticks, careful to keep the canvas cover tied tightly over the contents. Amaranthe had also given them a few smoke grenades. Akstyr couldn’t imagine needing them to blow up some rocks, but one never knew.

Lady Buckingcrest and Books headed through a short courtyard and walked into an alley between the fence and a massive building that dominated the large lot. Akstyr hurried to catch up. So nice of Books not to offer to help carry things.

As they walked alongside the building, Akstyr tried to get a view of the inside, but the windows they passed were too high to see through. Midway down, a door was propped open, and he glimpsed strange rotary devices and huge engines in various stages of construction. Buckingcrest continued to a vast open square on the back half of the lot.

Akstyr stopped to gape at the size of the craft waiting for them. A rectangular metal cabin with numerous windows—portholes?—hugged the bottom of a dozens-of-meters-long oblong balloon, filled and ready to float away. Only ropes anchoring the cabin to the ground seemed to keep the craft from pulling away.

“Oh, a dirigible,” Books said. “Excellent. Craft supported by lighter-than-air gases have been around for over a hundred years. When Maldynado spoke of a prototype, I was imagining some crazy ornithopter bouncing and bobbing through the air, ready to crash at a moment’s notice.”

Buckingcrest raised an eyebrow. “We do have other types of flying machines, but Maldynado stressed that the interior should be opulent and comfortable. A strange request for mercenaries, I thought.”

Akstyr snorted. Maldynado had a big mouth.

“Er, yes,” Books said. “Maldynado enjoys his comforts.”

“Yes, that is true.” Buckingcrest’s smile was a little too knowing.

Akstyr lifted a finger. “If these have been around for a hundred years, how come I’ve never seen one?”

“I suspect the military has laws against people flying over the imperial capital and the local army fort,” Books said.

“Yes, though that may change someday,” Buckingcrest said. “There are a number of wealthy civilians who have expressed interest in our work. Some buy private trains, but they must share the railways and work around station schedules. With a dirigible... there’s nothing to stop you from going anywhere you might please.”

Books stirred, and his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.

“I’m surprised the army doesn’t want some for themselves,” Akstyr said. “You could fly to Kendor or Nuria or anywhere and sneak your troops in at night.” If he had something like that, he could fly himself to the Kyatt Islands without worrying about stowing aboard trains or steamships. He would have to pay attention to how to fly it. Just in case.

“I imagine,” Books said, “the fact that dirigibles are filled with hydrogen, a flammable gas, limits their usefulness in wartime applications.”

“You mean they’re easy to crash?” Akstyr asked.

Buckingcrest’s smile thinned. “I assure you, my crafts are sturdy and quite safe.”

“Hm,” was all Books said.

“Come, you’re in a hurry,” Buckingcrest said. “Let me introduce you to your pilot.”

“We’re getting a pilot?” Akstyr asked. “Did Maldynado say something about that?”

Books didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look pleased either.

“Yes, I told Maldynado,” Buckingcrest said. “If he thought I’d let a pair of sword-swinging mercenaries handle one of my darlings, he was being more delusional than usual.”

As the woman turned her back to lead them to the craft, Books used Basilard’s hand code to sign, I’ll find the technical manual, and then we’ll stuff the pilot in a closet for the remainder of the trip.

Akstyr wasn’t sure the idea of having Books drive the thing was reassuring, but he smirked at the idea of their stuffy, proper professor manhandling someone into a closet.

Buckingcrest led them up a loading ramp and into the rearmost section of the craft, a cargo area. A tattooed man with a beard on a quest to swallow his face leaned against the wall, a cigar dangling from his lips.

“Is smoking wise when you’re standing beneath all that hydrogen?” Books pointed to the ceiling.

The man curled his lip at him. He had arms as thick as Akstyr’s legs. If he was the pilot, he wouldn’t be easy to stuff into a closet.

“The living quarters are in the middle here and include two private suites,” Buckingcrest called from a central corridor leading out of the storage area. “There’s even a conference room. Do you want to see the navigation area up front?”

“Yes, please,” Books said.

Akstyr started to follow, but he halted before he’d gone more than two steps into the corridor. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, and a familiar tingle ran through him. They were in the presence of something Made, an artifact or construct crafted with the mental sciences. He hadn’t had that feeling since the team invaded that underwater laboratory in the lake a couple of months earlier. That place had been a beehive of Made activity. What he felt now... It was just one item, he decided, but that it was there at all was strange. Or maybe not. He wasn’t sure how hydrogen worked exactly, but if all it did was poof up the balloon, then this vessel would need some source of energy for propulsion. He hadn’t noticed a smokestack outside for steam-engine exhaust.

Akstyr stepped into the corridor. The pink floral wallpaper and wooden doors engraved with roses gave him no hints as to where the Made item might be—though the decor did make him feel distinctly unmanly as he stood in the passage. He opened one of the doors, but only found a pale blue room with a bed drowning in pillows and furs. Faint reverberations emanated from the textured metal floor. An engine had to be around somewhere.

After a few more steps down the corridor, Akstyr spotted a trapdoor, its edges camouflaged by the bumpy texture. He knelt and patted about until he found a handle set flush into the floor. It, too, was well disguised.

Before he could pry the handle up, a shadow fell over his shoulder.

“Lost?” the tattooed man asked from behind him.

“Just exploring,” Akstyr said.

“Don’t.”

Akstyr thought about turning and tackling the man—emperor’s spit, he’d been trained by Sicarius after all—but when he peered over his shoulder, his eyes were precisely at the level of a pistol holstered at the man’s belt. A hand rested on the grip, fingers tapping a rhythm on the ivory. Maybe it wasn’t the best moment to start a fight.

“Problem?” Lady Buckingcrest asked from a cabin that opened up at the far end of the corridor. Books stood behind her, inspecting a control panel filled with levers and gauges.

Akstyr stood. “I was wondering about the engines. Are they down there? We’ll have to be familiarized with them, won’t we? The pilot will need to fly, right, so we’ll have to stoke the fires for the furnaces?”

Now Books leaned out, his eyebrows drawn together. “You’re volunteering to do work?”

Akstyr subtly twitched his fingers to sign, Magic here even as he said, “I was going to volunteer you to do it, actually.”

“I see,” Books said.

“There’s no need for that.” Buckingcrest patted the wall. “An internal combustion engine runs the propellers, not a brutish steam monstrosity, and she uses a fuel blend that we invented ourselves. It’s a company secret, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t give you more details, but Harkon will handle refueling, should it be needed.”

“Of course,” Books said, though he signed, If this is a trap, I’m going to kill Maldynado.

“What’re you doing?” the tattooed man asked from behind Akstyr. He must have seen Books’s flying fingers.

“I thought I saw a mosquito.” Books slapped at the wall. “Got it.”

Akstyr stifled a groan. Sicarius’s training might be useful in fights, but someone needed to teach this group how to lie better. “I’ll just go out and get our cargo,” Akstyr said.

Harkon watched him like a parched alcoholic watching someone sip brandy. Akstyr had a feeling this flying adventure wasn’t going to go smoothly at all.

Chapter 10

Akstyr leaned against the wall in the navigation room, watching with some amusement as Books tried to coax flying instructions out of Harkon. Their tattooed pilot was making Sicarius seem talkative. Books had a journal out and scribbled a note every time the man flipped a switch or pushed a lever. Akstyr wondered if Harkon knew they planned to oust him as soon as possible. The dirigible was heading east, over the foothills beneath the mountains that held the dead shaman’s mine, and it probably didn’t matter if the pilot knew of that destination, but they needed to figure out something to do with him before they headed to the Scarlet Pass.

Harkon yawned, and Akstyr thought it might be a good time to go exploring.

“Anyone want something to eat?” he asked.

Both men waved negatives. Akstyr stepped into the corridor, wishing the navigation cabin had a door he could shut. He hoped Harkon was too busy to look over his shoulder. Hands in his pockets, Akstyr strolled to the trapdoor. With a little fiddling, the handle ring popped up, and he pulled the square slab open. Lighter than he expected, it almost flew all the way open to clang against the floor, but he caught it first and eased it down. A narrow ladder led into a dark compartment. The hum of an engine had grown louder. Right spot, he thought.

Akstyr crept down the ladder and crouched in the darkness. The cabin held none of the heat he associated with furnaces and boilers. In the dimness, he could make out vertical pipes running up the walls. Soft clanks emanated from the rear of the compact compartment, and a dark waist-high shape—the engine?—squatted in the center of the floor.

Before risking a light, Akstyr closed his eyes and stretched outward with his senses, trying to detect traps or dangers about the engine. The presence he had felt earlier remained, but nothing about it changed as he probed with his mind. The engine, or whatever powered it, didn’t seem to have intelligence or awareness, not like a soul construct. Maybe it was no more than a simple artifact, crafted to power the dirigible.

“Let’s take a look, shall we?” Akstyr muttered and lifted a hand.

A flame flared to life above his fingers, and the shadows receded. The light illuminated the engine, a squat steel shape punctuated with brass rods and shafts. Pipes ran out the back and disappeared into the wall behind it.

Akstyr took a step toward the engine, but halted when something stirred in the darkness lingering behind it. His flame flickered, and four reflections winked back at him from the shadows. Eyes.

Street rot, he hadn’t thought to check for people.

A metallic clack sounded. A gun being loaded? Akstyr’s concentration broke, and his light disappeared. He spun and raced up the ladder rungs.

Something clicked off the wall beside him. A crossbow quarrel instead of a bullet. Not that big of an improvement.

At the top of the ladder, Akstyr yanked his legs up and rolled into the corridor. “Books!”

He slammed the trapdoor shut and groped about for a lock. There wasn’t one. Clangs rang out from below—someone climbing the ladder.

“Books,” Akstyr hollered again and pulled out his short sword. He wished he had a pistol. “Are you—”

Something shattered in the navigation cabin, and the vessel tilted, dumping Akstyr against a wall.

The trapdoor flew open. A man’s head popped out, a black bandana wrapping his hair. He lifted a crossbow. Akstyr kicked the weapon out of the man’s hands with enough force to hurl it to the ceiling. He aimed a second kick at his attacker’s head, but the stowaway saw it coming and had time to duck. By luck more than design, Akstyr managed to snatch the falling crossbow from the air after it bounced off the ceiling.

He aimed it at the opening and eased backward, finding the door to the cargo bay with his heel. He risked taking a hand off the crossbow to try the latch. If he could get inside, he could use the doorjamb and wall for cover. Someone had locked it.

“Cursed ancestors,” Akstyr growled.

A metallic canister spun through the trapdoor opening and clanked down at Akstyr’s feet. It was one of the smoke grenades he had brought on board. The conniving bandits were attacking them with their own weapons.

Green smoke hissed into the air. Akstyr held his breath and squinted his eyes against the haze, but he didn’t let go of the crossbow.

Something stirred the smoke near the trapdoor. Akstyr fired.

The quarrel clanged off metal instead of thudding into flesh, but someone cursed and ducked out of sight. A curse on his own lips, Akstyr plucked the grenade from the floor and darted toward the trapdoor. Acrid smoke stung his eyes and his nostrils puckered, but he held on long enough to drop the canister through the hole.

He leaped over the trapdoor and slammed it shut. For lack of a better way to secure the entrance, he stood on top it. The smoke would irritate the men below, but probably wouldn’t hurt them or make them pass out. Too bad. He wished Amaranthe had given him some of the knockout gas too.

Through bleary eyes, Akstyr checked the crossbow. It was a twin-loader with one quarrel remaining.

A thump sounded in the navigation cabin. From his position in the corridor, Akstyr didn’t have a good view, but he glimpsed Books’s face being smashed against a console.

“Not good,” he muttered, but if he went to help, the two thugs below would escape.

As if to validate his thought, the door rose an inch beneath Akstyr’s feet. He braced himself against the wall and bore down.

“Stay down there, you prick suckers!” he hollered.

“Mountain!” That was Harkon’s voice, not Books.

Furious poundings battered the trapdoor beneath Akstyr’s feet. A few more acrid green fumes escaped through the cracks.

After a moment of indecision, Akstyr decided he ought to be skilled enough by now to handle a couple of smoke-choked gutter rats.

He slid off the trapdoor. More thumps sounded before the men realized their doorstop had moved. The trapdoor flew open, clanging against the metal deck. A cloud of smoke wafted into the air. Akstyr shot at the first person to come into view. This time, the quarrel didn’t miss. It sank into the man’s throat, and he tumbled off the ladder.

The other stowaway hung a couple of rungs lower and was too busy gaping at his falling comrade to notice someone creeping up on him. Akstyr dropped the empty crossbow, reached in, and hauled the man out. That he could do so surprised him—he hadn’t realized how much strength he’d gained in the last nine months.

Akstyr shoved his foe against the wall and pressed his sword into the tender flesh at the base of the throat. Tears and snot streamed down the man’s face.

“Listen,” Akstyr said. “What’re you people—”

The dirigible lurched again, and Akstyr stumbled back a step.

The man used the distraction to jerk his arm downward, his hand darting toward a dagger. Akstyr tried to whip his sword back into place, but the tilting floor unbalanced his swing, and his blade bit into the man’s jugular.

“Donkey balls,” he muttered. How was he supposed to get answers from a dead man?

Remembering that Books might need help, Akstyr kicked the trapdoor shut again and ran past it. Sword at the ready, he sprinted into the navigation cabin.

Books knelt, a knee in Harkon’s back, while the tattooed man struggled, attempting to escape. The ivory-handled pistol lay on the floor a few feet away. Blood trickled from Books’s nose, but he wore an expression of smug triumph. Until the vessel tilted again.

The floor sloped downward, and Akstyr almost tumbled into the control panel. He gripped the doorjamb for support. Enough daylight remained that he had no trouble seeing the rocky hillside straight ahead of the dirigible. They were close enough that he could also see a goat lift its head to stare at them.

“Akstyr.” Books lifted his head to study the control panel. “I need to—”

“Yes, do it.” Akstyr scrambled across the tilted floor, grabbed the pistol, and pressed the muzzle into the back of the pilot’s neck.

Books leaped up and yanked a lever. The floor leveled, but the vessel was too low, and they were veering straight toward a mountainside.

“You did watch him for long enough to learn how to fly this thing, right?” Akstyr asked.

“I watched him, but it’s unlikely the intricacies of aviation can be mastered in such a short time.”

“That’s not your pompous way of saying we’re going to crash, is it?”

“Actually, we’ve reached our destination, so I was hoping to land.” Books’s eyes searched the control panel.

“I hope there’s a difference.”

The goat had faded from view when the ship leveled, but another one scampered into sight. Brilliant, their crash was going to be the evening entertainment for the mountain critters.

Books tapped an altitude gauge, mumbled something, and finally seemed to spot what he wanted. He spun a wheel. At first nothing happened, but then the goat slipped out of view to the side of the glass shield. The dirigible was slowing turning to fly alongside the mountain instead of toward it. Too slowly. A jolt ran through the craft, and a squeal of metal arose from outside.

“That didn’t sound good,” Akstyr said.

“We’re fine,” Books said. “We glanced off a boulder.”

A thump reverberated through the dirigible, and an ominous crack came from below.

“What was that?” Akstyr asked.

“It was a tree.”

An image flashed through Akstyr’s mind—a giant hole being torn in the bottom of the dirigible and the engine falling out. No, he told himself. The hull was metal. It was sturdier than that.

Another thump battered the ship, this one hard enough to send tremors through the hull. Harkon’s muscles bunched, as if he were preparing to try something. Akstyr pressed the pistol into his skin.

“I already killed the two stowaways down below,” he growled, doing his best to sound menacing. “I have no problem shooting you too.”

“Do it then,” Harkon snarled.

Akstyr thought about obeying the man. Sicarius would. Hostages were more likely to be trouble than not, but they might yet need help flying—or landing.

Books’s fingers gripped the wheel so hard the tendons on the backs of his hands were trying to leap out of his flesh. The craft shuddered again, and the quietness of the fancy engine meant Akstyr had no trouble hearing cracks and thunks from outside—rocks sheering away from the mountainside and bouncing into the depths below. Beads of sweat rolled down Books’s temples and dripped onto the control panel. Finally, the dirigible veered far enough from the rocky slope that the scrapes and squeals faded away.

Books wiped his brow. “Two stowaways?”

“They tried to shoot me when I went to look at the engine,” Akstyr said. “How’d we end up so close to the mountains anyway?”

“We heard you fighting, and the pilot decided it’d be a good time to attack me as well.”

“Oh.” So Akstyr’s investigation had started things. Oops. “Any idea who those blokes were?” Akstyr glanced at Harkon, but he didn’t look like the sort to be intimidated into sharing information.

Books hesitated. “No.”

Akstyr wondered if he had an idea, but wasn’t going to share in front of the pilot. Before he could ask further questions, Books pointed at something outside.

“What?” Akstyr didn’t want to step away from the prisoner to peer through the window.

“There’s a road below that leads into a large, fresh landslide. I do believe we’ve reached our first destination.”

“Good. Now what?”

“Now, we figure out how to land. Any chance you can convince the pilot to instruct me on a way to accomplish that maneuver?”

“Lick my right sack,” Harkon said.

“That’s a no,” Akstyr said.

“I’ll admit I’m not as versed in Stumps’ street vernacular as you are, but I did deduce his meaning.” With rocks and trees no longer assaulting the dirigible, Books relaxed enough to turn around and check on Akstyr and their prisoner. “What is that smell?”

“Am’ranthe’s smoke grenades work real good,” Akstyr said. “What’re we going to do with this thug?”

Books rubbed his lips. “Did you find any closets during your explorations?”

* * * * *

The first two days on the train passed without incident. Basilard and Maldynado played dice while Amaranthe nibbled her fingernails down to nubs and wondered if she was flexible enough to start in on her toenails. She hadn’t spoken to Sicarius. That first morning, he had slipped out to find his own berth and had not returned. In truth, she’d been relieved. When he’d killed the men on the farm, it had arguably been in self-defense, or at least in her defense. With these assassinations... he’d gone out and, in a premeditated manner, killed more than twenty men and women. Even if they’d all been Forge loyalists involved in plots against the city and the emperor, they still would have deserved a chance to face the magistrate and explain themselves. For Sicarius to execute them based only on the fact that their names appeared in Books’s journal...

Amaranthe could forgive Sicarius for his past crimes; when he’d worked for the throne, he’d been raised—indoctrinated—to obey Hollowcrest and Raumesys. But he’d chosen to assassinate the Forge people of his own volition. It was murder, through and through. Even if it’d been born of frustration and a need to protect his son, it upset her. That she could care for someone capable of cold-blooded murder made her question her own integrity.

They were in the middle of a mission, though, and there wasn’t much she could do about the choices Sicarius had made. She still needed his help. At sunset on that second day, she talked herself into seeking him out to make sure he intended to give it.

Amaranthe slid the freight door open and eased outside. As she climbed the ladder toward the top of the car, cold wind whipped at her clothing. They were passing through the same mountains where they had run their exercises the week before. Snow now blanketed the craggy hills. The train was approaching the Scarlet Pass, which meant they were five thousand feet above sea level, and up there it already felt like winter. When she reached the top of the rail car, a dusting of snow coated it as well. She glanced skyward, wondering if she might glimpse Books and Akstyr, but, if they had gone east to check on the shaman’s mine, they would be behind the train. Nothing more interesting than an eagle glided through the air.

Prepared to have to search each car to find Sicarius, Amaranthe was surprised to find him sitting cross-legged in the snow near the head of the train. His back was to her as he faced the mountains, a small black figure surrounded by a white world. Something about his posture made the word “forlorn” come to mind. She shook her head. Someone who had slashed two-dozen throats wasn’t somebody to pity.

And yet... he’d never had a choice about his career, about what he was. Hollowcrest and Raumesys had spent years—decades—molding Sicarius into a weapon, a blade as deadly as that black dagger he wore at his waist. Could one turn a man into a sword and then blame him if all he knew how to do was cut?

Wondering if the others were right and she was crazy, Amaranthe picked her way toward Sicarius. Every time she leaped from snow-slick roof to snow-slick roof she risked a fall. Sicarius had to hear her coming, but he didn’t look back. The train started up a slope and slowed down, so the wind wasn’t battering her so fiercely by the time she sat down beside him, though the cold snow chilled her backside.

“Fair evening,” she said, the first thing that entered her head. Maybe she should have rehearsed.

Sicarius acknowledged her with an impassive look, nothing more. He wasn’t wearing anything thicker than his usual trousers and long-sleeved shirt, and she recalled that he hadn’t been carrying any gear beyond his weapons when he leaped into the train. Killing up to the last minute, she supposed.

“Aren’t you cold?” Amaranthe asked.

“No.”

She touched the back of his bare hand, concerned he might be neglecting his health and risking frostbite, but his skin was warm beneath her own already-chilled fingers. “How is that possible?”

“In their natural habitat, mammals become cold-adapted in the winter, burning summer’s fat stores to efficiently heat the body. When humans clothe themselves in parkas and sleep in artificially warm environments, they fail to achieve this adaptation and do not thrive in the cold.”

“So... what you’re saying is that you have no physiological need to cuddle.”

That comment earned her another impassive look. Maybe someday she’d learn to stop joking with him. He didn’t seem to appreciate it, and trying to make him smile seemed destined to remain a fruitless endeavor anyway. Besides, his cool look reminded her that, murdered men not withstanding, he had a reason to be irked with her too.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Sespian’s... bump,” Amaranthe said. “I didn’t think your knowing could change anything, and I figured you’d worry for no reason.” Though he didn’t pin her with one of those soul-piercing stares, she felt compelled to add, “And I was worried you’d do something... rash if you found out. Which, as it turns out, you did.” She tried to keep her tone light, but a hint of censure crept into it anyway.

“Those who are dead will not trouble us further. Those who I could not reach will be afraid to leave the security of their homes. Men who live in fear rush when patience is called for, and they question their decisions at every turn. They falter and make mistakes.”

Nothing in his tone suggested he would apologize for his action or admit he might have made a mistake himself. Amaranthe wondered if they would ever see eye-to-eye on questions of humanity.

“Now that you’ve taken the action you meant to take, can I have Books’s journal back?” she asked. “He’s not happy that you... Well, he wasn’t done with his research, and I want to give it back to him.”

Though he continued to face forward, a hardness came to Sicarius’s eyes, and she half-expected him to refuse or say he wasn’t done with it, but he reached into a pocket and handed it to her.

“Thank you.”

Amaranthe flipped through the pages, and a chill that had nothing to do with the snow crept through her when she saw the neat, precise check marks penciled next to many of the names. Pencil. Something so sinister and cold ought to be drawn in blood.

She tucked the notebook into an inside pocket on her parka. “Do you still intend to join us in the train infiltration?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Business concluded, his silence seemed to say. Amaranthe ought to leave him be, but she found herself reluctant to do so. Even if he’d been forged into a blade from his earliest years, he’d been born a human being. Deep down, he must have the same emotions and needs that everyone else was born with. Knowing someone cared and wanted to offer him comfort would have to matter. Wouldn’t it?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to bring you a blanket? I’ve been sleeping in a pile with the boys to stay warm, so I don’t need mine.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry about the implant,” Amaranthe repeated. “Sespian must know about it and have some plan to deal with it. Maybe this request of his is part of that plan. I’ve only ever talked to him when he was under the influence of that drug, but he seemed bright even then.”

Silence.

“He’d have to be smart, right?” Amaranthe said, thinking he might feel the situation was less hopeless if she could remind him that Sespian had the wherewithal to help himself. “You’re no dull blade, and I never heard anything to suggest Princess Marathi was either.”

Sicarius continued to stare straight ahead.

“I’m sure we’ll get him, and it’ll all work out in the end.” When Amaranthe’s comments elicited nothing but silence, she admitted defeat and placed her hands in the snow, ready to push herself to her feet.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe froze. She’d only wanted to help, but his words sounded like an accusation.

“Oh?” she asked carefully.

“Yes.”

“And?”

He was still gazing straight ahead, and she almost missed his soft words: “I appreciate it.”

Amaranthe blinked. Three words shouldn’t mean so much, but a lump swelled in her throat nonetheless. Not trusting her voice, she gave him a hug made awkward by their seated positions and the moving train, then released him and returned to the others.

* * * * *

Akstyr ducked behind a stump and flattened his hands over his ears. Books knelt beside him, watching a flame dance up a long fuse attached to a cord of blasting sticks nestled at the base of the rockslide. At the last moment, he, too, ducked his head and covered his ears.

Even in the open, with nothing but a field of stumps to reflect echoes, the boom was deafening. Boulders bigger than Maldynado flew into the sky, and rock shards slammed down, battering the earth like a hailstorm. More than one chunk hammered Akstyr in the back, and he tried to tuck himself into a tiny ball.

A long moment passed, and something tapped him on the shoulders. Books.

Akstyr lifted his head. A dust cloud filled the air, and a moment passed before he could make out the results of the explosion. So many rocks littered the stump-filled hillside that it looked like a quarry had vomited. However, a dark tunnel opening waited in the hillside where only boulders had smothered the slope before. Though rubble half-buried the entrance, Akstyr and Books ought to be able to wriggle inside.

“Huh,” Akstyr said.

“You needn’t sound so surprised.” Books dusted off his clothing and headed for the mineshaft.

“I didn’t know professors knew how to do useful things. Like setting explosives.”

Books gave him a withering scowl. “You don’t believe some of my ecumenical knowledge might be useful in determining where to place blasting sticks to achieve the desired result?”

Akstyr climbed over one of the rocks in the entrance. “I guess.”

Before following him in, Books stopped to light a lantern.

“I can make light, you know,” Akstyr said.

“I should not wish to rely on you. If you were hit on the head by a falling rock, where would that leave me?”

“Carrying me out?” Akstyr grinned.

Books didn’t. His scowl hadn’t entirely disappeared either. There were too many stodgy oldsters in the group. Akstyr always felt like they were judging him.

Books looked back toward the stump field where they’d landed the dirigible. “I hope nobody was around to hear that explosion. I shouldn’t like to return to find our borrowed conveyance had been stolen.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t stand around all day and talk then, eh?” Akstyr had already crawled over several meters of rock, and he willed one of his globes of light into existence.

“A valid point.” Rubble shifted as Books clambered after him, the lantern banging and clanking as he went.

The dust continued to harass Akstyr’s nose, and he sneezed repeatedly. It disturbed his concentration and his light winked out several times. Some brilliant Science practitioner he was.

“I hope nothing’s left down here to hear our clamor,” Books said.

“I’m sure anything down here would have starved by now.”

“I wasn’t thinking of living beings.”

“Oh.” Akstyr remembered the battle he and the others had fought against all those mechanical constructs. Yes, there might be booby traps and Made creations yet about. “I’m not sure if any of those things we fought last spring had ears.”

“Comforting.”

The dust faded and the debris on the ground dwindled until they could walk on the wooden ties of the old mine cart tracks. An intersection waited up ahead, and Akstyr increased his pace. He hadn’t had a chance to see the shaman’s laboratory, and the idea of exploring it now filled him with anticipation. While Books was looking for those implants, maybe he could find some small artifacts to take with him and study. Or more books. He’d never had a chance to learn anything about Mangdorian magic.

“The cart’s been moved,” Books said, and Akstyr paused before reaching the intersection.

“What?”

“Remember that cart that rolled up to us as we were leaving? It was here.”

Yes, that cart carrying the message had been creepy. “Maybe the soldiers moved it.”

Books grunted dubiously. “Amaranthe said the workshop is to the left there.”

Akstyr walked into the intersection and into a puddle. With his mind, he nudged his light ball higher and farther out. The tunnel straight ahead sloped downward and disappeared into water.

“Nobody around to fix the pump,” Books said.

“It doesn’t look like the laboratory will be affected.” Akstyr headed left, swinging his glowing sphere back around the corner to light the way, and he almost stepped onto a skeleton. A human skeleton. Startled, he let his concentration slip and the light winked out again.

Books, holding his lantern aloft, joined him. Tiny teeth marks marred the bones, and only scraps of gray fabric remained. In the shadows ahead, Akstyr could make out the white skull of another skeleton.

“It seems the soldiers attempted to explore before blowing up the entrance,” Books said.

“Seems.” Senses stretched outward, Akstyr stepped over the skeletons and headed deeper into the dark passage.

Books knelt to take a closer look at the skeleton, maybe trying to figure out what had killed them. Or what had eaten them. Akstyr just wanted to get to the workshop, though he was careful to probe every inch of the way, searching for the residual tingle of an area touched by a Maker.

He reached an open wooden door, and stepped over two more skeletons to enter a long, rectangular chamber with a ceiling and walls chiseled from the rock. Workbench after workbench ran down the length of one long wall, while cabinets and machines occupied the opposite one. Disassembled equipment and tools scattered the surfaces, and more than a few metallic heads, hooks, and articulating arms appeared to be from the sorts of constructs that had attacked Akstyr and the others the spring before. The team had been eager to leave the mines after being mauled so thoroughly, so he had never seen the workshop before, and he couldn’t tell if anything had been touched. He wanted to explore everything, but the skeletons on the floor were disconcerting. But they’d been Science-ignorant soldiers. He ought to be able to detect traps before he triggered them.

It was hard to focus on the idea of hunting for traps. Residual energy plucked at his senses from all sides, begging him to investigate. He’d love to take back souvenirs to study. In particular, a half-orb set into the body of a knee-height brass spider drew his eye—it pulsed a soft purple, creating an interesting play of light and shadow on the walls and equipment in a far corner.

“Don’t play with anything,” Books stood in the doorway, the ex-pilot’s pistol loaded and in his hands.

Akstyr sniffed. “Practitioners do not play. They study, they ponder, they—oh! Is that a mind foci artifact?” He veered toward a fist-sized golden ball with a lustrous shell.

“Shiny,” Books said dryly. “Can you look for the implants, please? I’m assuming that whatever killed these soldiers could still be a threat.”

Akstyr pocketed the ball to study at a later date. “We’re not even sure those devices are here, are we?”

“If they’re not, this trip was a waste of—”

A clank sounded in the tunnel behind Books. He jumped inside, spinning in the air to land with his pistol up, poised to fire. The wooden door slammed shut in front of him, smacking the pistol and nearly tearing it from his hands. Gears ground behind one of the stone walls, followed by a soft click. An armoire near the door emitted an ominous hissing sound.

“—life,” Books finished bleakly.

“Uhm,” Akstyr said. It wasn’t his most brilliant utterance.

Books tried the door, but it seemed to have locked itself. It was the only exit from the workshop.

Books strode to the armoire and pointed to pink gas flowing out of a vent near the top. “Can you stop that? I’m guessing it doesn’t promote haleness and longevity.”

Akstyr joined him, crinkling his nose as a scent like mildew and fungus wafted toward him. Books had already pulled his shirt over his nose. Akstyr doubted that would be effective. Instead, he concentrated on the idea of a filter, something that formed over his nose and mouth, a tight mesh weave that allowed air through but blocked out larger particles. Though it never grew visible to the naked eye, he thought he was successful in creating it. He sniffed experimentally and no longer detected the mushroom odor.

Good for him, but that probably didn’t help Books. If he passed out, Akstyr would have to fly the dirigible himself. He paused, intrigued by the off-hand thought. If he could figure out how to fly it, maybe it’d be his chance to leave the empire forever.

Though the idea tickled his mind for a few seconds, he told himself that Books would die, not pass out, if the skeletons were any indication, and, anyway, leaving the team in a lurch would be pretty despicable. It was surprising to realize that mattered to him, because there had been a time when it wouldn’t have. None of the people he’d grown up with would have thought twice about ditching him for a chance to steal a dirigible.

“Well?” Books asked.

“I made a filter for myself, but let me see if I can make the gas stop,” Akstyr said.

Concentrating on two things at once was an intense challenge, one Akstyr hadn’t mastered yet, but by keeping the picture of the filter in his mind, and imagining his thoughts probing outward through it, he managed to sense of the armoire’s otherworldly properties. Or he would have if it had any. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel anything. What he did sense was a complex mechanical miasma behind the doors, a maze of levers, gears, and pipes that he couldn’t guess how to work.

“I think it’s just a machine,” Akstyr said.

“Meaning there aren’t any booby traps?” Books reached toward one of the cabinet knobs.

“Meaning the booby traps aren’t magical.”

Books’s hand froze. “Ah.”

“Maybe your great knowledge of science and history would be useful here.”

“Perhaps so. Why don’t you find those implants?”

Books started coughing, and Akstyr hustled away. He poked through boxes and cabinets, alarmed by how many were locked. It’d stink donkey butts if what the emperor needed to save his life was in the room, but they couldn’t get at it.

Akstyr pulled a small wooden box out from beneath a bench. Intricately carved with a pattern of vines and leaves, it looked like something that would hold jewelry or other tiny, precious items.

Books coughed again, phlegmy coughs this time, like those of someone suffering from consumption. He was standing in the corner by the door, head bent, hands in front of him. Akstyr couldn’t tell if he was doing something or not.

“You need some picklocks to open that door?” he asked.

“I don’t believe... that’ll be necessary... no.”

“You have another way out?” Akstyr opened the box and found himself staring at dozens of tiny brass and silver spheres, each one less than a centimeter in diameter. The different colored metals created a patchwork pattern on the surfaces that reminded him of tiger stripes.

“Yes. Did you find something?” Books had joined him. His shoulders drooped, his eyes were red and bleary, and he looked like he was about to drop to the floor.

“Maybe. What do you think about these?”

Books bent over the box. “They’re the right size,” he said between coughs. “I don’t suppose... there are... directions or a... schematic... so we can... ascertain their function.”

“Maybe you should use shorter sentences when you’re coughing like that.”

Books poked a finger into box, touching a couple of the balls. Several of the “tiger stripes” sprang away from the surfaces, unfurling tiny needle-sharp hooks. At the same time as Books yanked his finger back, Akstyr slammed the lid shut. A patter of thunks sounded beneath the wood.

“I’m thinking their function is something eerie scary,” Akstyr said.

Books gaped at his finger, though it didn’t appear to be bleeding.

Akstyr fastened the clasp on the lid and turned over the box to examine it more closely. Free of etchings or paint, the wooden bottom was unremarkable, except for...

He nudged it sideways. A panel slid open, revealing a shallow cubby holding a folded piece of paper. Not paper, parchment. Like people used in the old days. “This might be your schematic.” Akstyr unfolded it to find two hand-drawn depictions of the sphere, one showing the innards and one the outside. Foreign words scrawled all about the margins. “You’ll have to translate this for me.”

Books was leaning against the workbench, bracing himself with both hands. “We better get out of here,” he rasped, then scrutinized Akstyr. “Aren’t you... feeling the effects?”

“No, my filter is working.”

Books grumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath, then handed Akstyr the lantern. “You pick the locks, then.”

The lantern puzzled Akstyr for a moment, until he looked toward the door. Strings dangled from the metal hinges.

Books held up a blasting stick with the fuse missing and the end hollowed out. “I very carefully performed a surgery. Should be enough on there to blow the hinges without bringing the ceiling down upon us.”

Akstyr considered the carved rock over their heads.

“A little hustle, if you don’t mind,” Books said, his last word breaking off in a coughing spasm. He wiped his eyes with one hand and waved Akstyr toward the door with the other.

“Right.” Akstyr jogged to the exit with the lantern in hand. Tarry dabs glistened on the hinges. Before lighting the fuses, he tried the latch again. It’d be silly to blow the hinges off a door that wasn’t locked, but it didn’t budge. “Right,” he repeated and lit the two fuses.

Flames hissed and spat as they climbed the dangling strings toward the hinges. Akstyr sprinted for the far side of the room. He didn’t know how much explosive power the dabs had, but he doubted his “filter” would keep his head from being blown off.

Books was already hunkered down behind the row of workbenches, and Akstyr skidded in beside him, ducking low a split second before a pop sounded. A second followed, the noise substantial but not bone-shaking like that of the blasting sticks. Other than pillows of gray smoke joining the murky pink air around the armoire, nothing happened.

“It didn’t work,” Akstyr said.

The door fell inward, landing on the stone floor with a clunk.

“Never mind,” Akstyr said.

Books, a hand to his mouth, was already stumbling for the exit. Akstyr jogged after him with the box in hand. Books stopped at the intersection and bent over, hands on his knees, and retched. Figuring it was fresher out here, and safer, Akstyr let his filter fade away. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and was, as always, surprised by how much working his mind worked his body.

After a moment, Books stood straight again, his coughs having faded away. He took a step toward the exit, but paused and gazed back toward the workshop.

“What?” Akstyr asked.

“Nothing,” Books said. “I just wish we’d had more time to look around.”

“Why? I mean, I know why I’d want to look around, but I didn’t think you cared about the Science.”

“I don’t. I merely wondered if there might be some trace of Vonsha Spearcrest.”

“Who?” Akstyr scratched his head. He thought that was the woman who Books had nearly been blown up with in the real estate library the spring before, but he’d never met her and couldn’t remember for certain.

“I never found out what happened to her,” Books murmured. “Her house in the city has been empty since...”

“Is now a good time to chat about women?” Akstyr waved back toward the workshop where the pink gas was oozing into the tunnel.

A wistful smile crossed Books’s face, but he said, “Doubtlessly not,” and headed for the mine exit. “The others are waiting for us. I’ll translate that schematic for you, and you can spend our travel day figuring out how to get those out of people’s necks.”

“What will you be doing while I’m doing that?”

Books’s smile grew bleak. “In addition to pondering the ramifications of us having stowaways and a mutinous pilot on board, I’ll be determining how to take off and get that dirigible to the Scarlet Pass despite my utter lack of formal aviation training.”

“Should I be worried?”

“That depends. Can wizards fly away if a crash is imminent?”

“If they can,” Akstyr said, “I haven’t learned how to do it.”

“Then worry may be warranted, yes.”

“Oh.”

Chapter 11

The train arrived in Forkingrust after dark. None of the town’s buildings rose more than two stories, and the neighborhoods seemed quiet and rustic to Amaranthe’s city-bred eye. After Stumps’ one million people, Forkingrust and its ten thousand permanent residents seemed... quaint. Still, thanks to its location at the convergence of the Capital-Gulf and East-and-West railways, the town could support a few thousand travelers at a time, and the brisk autumn air couldn’t keep everyone inside. Numerous people walked the streets and gathered in eating houses, and the thumps of dancers’ drums flowed from more than one tavern.

Inside the team’s dark freight car, Amaranthe had the sliding door open a couple of inches, and observed through the gap, waiting for an opportune moment to jump out. The clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails had slowed, and they only had a mile or so before the train would reach the station, where there would be more eyes to view its arrival, eyes that might spot a pack of mercenaries hopping out of one of the cars.

When they drew even with a few dark warehouses, Amaranthe pushed the door open. “Time to go, gentlemen.”

She jumped from the moving train and landed in a crouch on the gravel. The speed and her heavy pack threatened her balance, but she caught herself before succumbing to an embarrassing nose-first topple to the earth. Maldynado, Basilard, and Sicarius flowed out of the train without trouble. The team waited for the rest of the cars to pass, then crossed the rails and jogged into a shadowy street between two warehouses. The windows were dark, and few people roamed that side of the tracks.

Amaranthe turned onto a wide street parallel to the tracks. The log and timber-frame buildings had cozy hand-carved architectural details that gave the area more personality than the modern warehouses in Stumps.

Maldynado shuffled his feet, stirring the piles of dried leaves on the side of the street. “No snow. Good.”

“We’re out of the mountains,” Amaranthe said. “Forkingrust is at a lower elevation than Stumps, and it’s further south as well. It shouldn’t get too cold tonight.”

“I can see my breath, boss,” Maldynado said.

“I didn’t say it was balmy. We won’t have to wait long anyway.”

“Can we wait in the train station instead of outside?”

“No,” Amaranthe and Sicarius said at the same time.

“So nice when you two are in agreement,” Maldynado muttered. “They have a big crackling hearth in there,” he told Basilard, who walked at his side. “And there’s a lady who sells steaming-hot mulled cider inside.”

They passed near a streetlamp, and Basilard signed, What’s it mulled with?

“Wholesome stuff,” Maldynado said. “Spices, cinnamon, orange zest.”

Alcohol?

“Oh, naturally. Every mug is about half brandy.”

“Not a beverage I’d recommend given the calisthenics tonight’s mission will require,” Amaranthe said.

“You’re not much fun, are you, boss?” Maldynado draped an arm over her shoulder.

“Not really, no.”

Sicarius glared at Maldynado, and he dropped his arm.

Unfazed, Maldynado went on, “Don’t you think we should have a beverage to offer the emperor when we get him? We don’t want him to think we’re savages.”

Maybe Amaranthe should have tucked alcohol in with the blasting sticks she gave Books and Akstyr. She glanced at Sicarius, thinking of at least one conversation that might go easier under the influence of a bottle.

“I do want to check inside in case Yara is there,” Amaranthe said.

Sicarius turned his glare onto her.

“No need to fret,” or glower, she thought, “I’ll go in alone.”

As she spoke, they reached the end of the block of warehouses, and the train station came into view. Amaranthe stumbled to a halt. No less than ten army vehicles were parked around it, including two steam trampers that towered over the brick building, their banks of cannons bristling like quills on a porcupine. Lanterns outside and chandeliers inside illuminated soldiers patrolling the premises, both the debarkation boardwalk next to the tracks and the big hall inside.

“What’s going on?” Amaranthe murmured. “Is all of this just because the emperor’s train is going through? He’s not even scheduled to get off here.”

“You told the enforcer woman there would be a kidnapping.” Sicarius’s tone was as cool and emotionless as ever, so it might have been her imagination that there was an accusing I-told-you-so in there... but she doubted it. “It’s likely she informed the authorities.”

“We don’t know that,” Amaranthe said, though a heavy feeling gathered in the pit of her stomach. Mistake, that conversation had been a mistake. One she might not have made if she hadn’t been thinking of ridiculously unimportant things like who was going to date whom.

“You did what?” Maldynado asked after a moment of stunned silence.

“I invited her to join us and help the emperor,” Amaranthe said. “I didn’t tell her to alert the army to anything.”

“What’d you invite her for?” Maldynado sounded like a petulant boy whose parents had told him a neighborhood girl was coming to play in his treehouse.

“I thought she might be useful.” Amaranthe chewed on a fingernail, wondering if they should avoid the train station all together now. They did have a backup plan—hopping onto the moving cars from Akron Bridge three miles northeast of Forkingrust. That had been the reason for their bridge-jumping practice the week before. “If we have to, we’ll switch to our back-up plan, but I’m going in there to get information first. For all we know, this is some splinter group supplied with modern weapons and assigned the task of taking over the emperor’s train.” She looked at Maldynado as she said the last sentence, thinking of his brother, and he scratched his jaw thoughtfully. Sicarius’s expression, too, grew a little less icy, as he seemed to consider the possibility.

Amaranthe shouldn’t hope for such a thing—she didn’t want to witness a bloodbath as soldiers battled soldiers, with Sespian in the middle—but she did hope that these people weren’t here because of her own foolishness.

“You three, why don’t you scout the water tower and coal-filling station?” Amaranthe suggested. “I’ll meet you back there when I’m—”

Sicarius gripped her arm. “You’re not going in there alone.”

Amaranthe wasn’t sure if he was concerned for her safety or simply thought he needed to save her from another stupid decision. She didn’t like having him countermanding her wishes in front of the men, but she didn’t want to squabble in front of them either. Maldynado and Basilard were already pretending to study the nearest lamppost.

“Excellent,” Amaranthe said. “I was hoping someone would volunteer to accompany me. I fear it shouldn’t be you, however, as those blond locks are quite distinctive. Maldynado, would you like to dress up in a costume and go inside with me? Perhaps you can get a jug of that brandy cider to take with us.”

“Excellent idea, boss,” Maldynado said.

Though she had been speaking to Maldynado, Amaranthe hadn’t looked away from Sicarius, and she raised her eyebrows, silently asking him if her compromise would do.

He didn’t look pleased, but he released her arm and stepped back. “Basilard and I will be nearby if you need assistance.”

Basilard nodded at this.

“Thank you,” Amaranthe said, hoping he knew that she meant her thanks to include the fact that he was still going to support her, even though her loose lips might be the reason they had an extra obstacle to deal with.

What costumes will you use? Basilard pointed at Maldynado. His hair is too long for a soldier.

“I don’t want to beat anyone up for a uniform,” Amaranthe said, “though I have observed that warrior-caste men tend to ignore such things as army regulations.”

“We ignore anything that gets in the way of good fashion sense.” Maldynado stroked the dyed raccoon tail dangling from his fur cap.

Amaranthe refrained from comment. Barely.

* * * * *

“I can feel Sicarius glowering all the way over here,” Amaranthe muttered.

She and Maldynado had, courtesy of an unlocked bedroom window, acquired costumes and were getting ready to casually stroll into the train station as a couple of weary travelers. Amaranthe wore a businesswoman’s skirt, blouse, and fitted jacket, while a wig gave her a head of curly reddish brown hair. Maldynado wore workman’s togs and was still grousing that they hadn’t been able to find something suitable to his tastes—as if anything on an average person’s laundry line would do for him. She meant to pass him off as her servant, should anyone ask, though with his bumptious posture that might be difficult.

“He can hurl that glare around like a cannonball.” Maldynado adjusted an unimaginative wool cap that had replaced his raccoon-fur masterpiece. “You don’t usually get it though.”

“You’re just not around for it. Ready?” Amaranthe waved toward the front door, trying not to focus on the fact that they had to walk between two army lorries to reach it.

“You voluntarily spend time with him, so you can’t blame anyone except yourself,” Maldynado said as they started walking. “You could always spend more time with me.” He wriggled his eyebrows. “I’m fun.”

“Yes, I’ll keep that in mind.”

When they walked past two soldiers posted at the front door, Amaranthe tilted her face downward, ostensibly watching the steps. Maldynado didn’t seem to have it in him to avoid looking anyone in the eye. Though the bounty on his wanted poster had never been raised above a meager two-hundred-and-fifty ranmyas, Amaranthe wouldn’t be surprised if numerous soldiers recognized him at this point. She hoped his drab clothing would keep them from looking too closely.

As they entered the brick building, though, the soldiers weren’t paying much attention to visitors. Some patrolled along the boardwalk outside, but more simply seemed to be waiting. Quite a few had rucksacks with them and were sitting on them. She had the sense of men preparing for a trip to the borders to stave off an enemy encroachment rather than soldiers ready for an immediate brawl.

While pretending to study the blackboard listing arrivals and departures, Amaranthe eased toward a group of chatty privates. With her back to them, she listened to the conversations.

“...was going fast and hard when the call came. Can you believe it? Finest girl in town.”

“Should have seen what I was doing with that buxom woman from the eating house up the street.”

“Oh, yeah? I was with her sister. And she was way more...”

Maldynado snorted as the bragging-disguised-as-complaints continued. “Bet none of them were entertaining more than their hands.”

Amaranthe was about to give up on getting information from the group—maybe there were some officers around with more to talk about—when a familiar voice addressed her from behind.

“You’re audacious to show up here.”

Careful to keep her back to the soldiers, Amaranthe turned to face Sergeant Yara, someone else who could hurl a glare like a cannonball. Yara wasn’t wearing her enforcer uniform, but she managed to appear stern and authoritarian even in an unadorned gray wool sweater. In fact, she looked extra stern. Irked and irritated might be better words.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Maldynado drawled, giving Yara a lazy smirk. “You’re looking well.”

Amaranthe winced. She doubted Yara was in the mood for Maldynado’s charms.

“You’re looking like a buffoon,” Yara told him. “Hasn’t anyone shot you to collect on your bounty yet?”

“Any number of degenerate hoodlums have tried, but they lacked the fighting prowess to threaten me.”

Amaranthe decided not to encourage the conversation by pointing out how many of those degenerate hoodlums had been children armed with slingshots. They had more pressing matters to discuss.

“Sergeant Yara,” Amaranthe said, “I thank you for coming. Ah, you didn’t have anything to do with all of this, did you?” She waved at the soldier-filled lobby.

“No.” Yara’s hard gaze grew harder. “Reinforcements are being sent to the capital because of this.” She removed a knapsack—it clinked, probably from weapons stuffed inside—and withdrew a pair of wrinkled newspapers. She thrust them at Amaranthe.

The headline on the first one was familiar, the story of the assassinations she’d read about before they got on the train. Amaranthe flipped to the second, a Forkingrust newspaper from that morning. It updated the death tally, adding another six men and women, and posited theories as to the culprits. Sicarius’s name was mentioned more than once. A paragraph at the end implored citizens not to worry because troops from nearby garrisons were being called in to aid in finding the murderer and to protect innocent citizens.

Amaranthe slumped. All of these soldiers were on the alert because of Sicarius’s actions? That meant their presence had nothing to do with her choice to talk to Yara, but she couldn’t find it within herself to gloat. This would only make things more difficult for her team. It was odd, though, that soldiers would be called in; enforcers handled crimes in the city. A discordant twang sounded in the back of her mind. Was it possible someone was using the murders as an excuse to bring more troops to the city? Troops possibly loyal to the commanders ordering that advanced weaponry?

Yara rattled the papers, recapturing Amaranthe’s attention. “Did your man do this?”

At least she didn’t accuse the entire team. “Why don’t we go outside to discuss this?” Amaranthe asked.

“Oh, certainly. We wouldn’t want these soldiers to figure out who you are and put an end to any felonies you’re in the process of committing.” Yara’s voice wasn’t quiet.

Amaranthe kept herself from glancing about nervously—and conspicuously. At least Yara wasn’t jumping up and down, yelling and pointing at Amaranthe and Maldynado. Maybe there was hope to placate her.

Amaranthe nodded toward the front door and headed that way, hoping Yara would follow.

A few blocks away, a clock tower tolled eight times. While the schedule for Sespian’s train hadn’t been announced anywhere, Books had done some fancy math based on known schedules for other trains sharing the railway to determine that the emperor would likely arrive between nine and ten. That didn’t leave Amaranthe a lot of time to win over Yara. At least the sergeant was following them out of the train station without alerting anyone on the way.

“Why did you want me here?” Yara asked as soon as she joined them. “It’s obvious that you don’t have any interest in working within the boundaries of the law, or even the dictates of humanity.”

Amaranthe and Maldynado stood in the shadows of a mercantile store that had closed for the day. A kerosene streetlamp burned at an intersection, its illumination dim compared to the gas lamps that lined the streets in Stumps.

“This—” Amaranthe lifted the papers, “—wasn’t done with my knowledge or approval. As for why I wanted you here, the emperor needs help, and I thought you cared enough to want to see to his welfare.”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Yara said.

“And here I thought she’d come to trade terms of endearment with me.” The dim lighting was enough to show off Maldynado’s white teeth when he flashed a smile.

“I wasted a week’s leave to come,” Yara said without acknowledging him. “The soldiers are on high alert, and nobody will risk kidnapping the emperor now. Not here.”

“Actually, someone will. I promise you.” Amaranthe withdrew a carefully folded note from her pocket and handed it to Yara. “One of my men won an event in the Games this summer, and Sespian gave that to him at the dinner afterward.”

Yara walked to the streetlamp to read the note. Amaranthe forced herself to stay put, but it made her nervous to let any distance form between her and that note. Though it wasn’t signed, it was the closest thing to evidence she had in case she ended up having to justify her actions to someone after the mission.

“Amaranthe Lokdon,” Yara read, “I wish to hire your outfit to kidnap me. I can offer 100,000 ranmyas.” She lowered the note. “You expect me to believe the emperor gave this to you?”

“No, he gave it to one of my men.” Amaranthe smiled, hoping a smidgeon of humor would lesson Yara’s scowl.

It didn’t. If anything, the woman’s lips turned further downward.

Amaranthe coughed and slid the note from Yara’s fingers. She slipped it back into her pocket.

“This means... you’re the one planning to kidnap him tonight?” Yara asked.

Amaranthe nodded.

Yara lifted her eyes toward the sky. “This is worse than sedition, more than a crime. It’s... It’s...”

“Likely to be a good time?” Maldynado asked. “You don’t have to do anything, you know. You can just come along to watch. It ought to be entertaining, if you can avoid being shot.”

Amaranthe lifted a finger to her lips, hoping to hush him up. But Yara snorted. Or was that a short laugh? Maybe Maldynado had said the right thing after all.

“You are invited,” Amaranthe said. “It might put Sespian at ease to have a friendly face. Someone he’s fairly certain is loyal to him. Of course, we’re loyal to him, too, but I don’t think he knows that yet. I must convince him of that.”

Yara stared at her and shook her head.

“If you come along,” Amaranthe said, “you can rescue him if you two decide we’re not to be trusted.”

“Are you insane?” Yara asked. It wasn’t clear whether the comment applied to Amaranthe’s last suggestion or to the scheme as a whole.

“We debate that frequently,” Maldynado said, “but the boss hasn’t gotten us killed yet, so we haven’t made a ruling.”

“If you rescue him, or simply make sure he doesn’t come to harm while he’s with us, I’m sure he’ll be grateful,” Amaranthe said. “Maybe you’ll get another promotion out of it, eh?” She said the last as a joke, but it didn’t elicit a smile. She needed to stop trying humor on people scowling so fiercely they were in danger of pulling muscles in their necks.

“I’ll be lucky to keep my current rank after all this trouble. I’ll admit I got myself into it by pestering my higher ups about those weapons, but having you and your cursed assassin show up on my family’s stoop, and with my enforcer brother there to witness it...” Yara groaned.

Amaranthe wondered if the week of leave Yara had mentioned might have been someone else’s idea. A superior suggesting she take the time off to figure out if she was truly committed to being an enforcer?

“We’re on his side, Yara. I swear it.”

“I don’t believe your intent is to harm the emperor, but what of the men guarding him?”

For some silly reason, it pleased Amaranthe to hear that Yara believed they weren’t a threat to Sespian himself. “The plan is not to harm them either.”

“Is everyone on your team aware of that plan?” Yara eyed the darkness around them, probably wondering if Sicarius was lurking nearby. “It doesn’t sound like you have a lot of control over certain members.” She stabbed a finger at the newspapers.

“Yes, we’re agreed on how to handle this.”

“What are you going to do with the emperor after you get him?” Yara asked.

“Whatever he wishes us to do.” A cold breeze drifted down the street, slipping beneath the skirt of Amaranthe’s purloined dress and reminding her that she needed to change back into her work clothes and return the disguise before the emperor’s train came in. “We must leave shortly, so I need your answer. Are you in?”

“I’d be addled to join you when you lured me down here under false pretenses. I’d be even more addled if I believed half of what you’re telling me.”

Maldynado leaned close to Amaranthe and whispered, “That’s a yes, right?”

Yara’s eyes narrowed. “If I do join you, do you mind if I attempt to collect on this shrub’s bounty when everything else is finished?” She pointed at Maldynado.

“Not at all,” Amaranthe said.

“How can you say that, boss?” Maldynado pressed his hand to his chest. “Your lack of support wounds me.”

“You need practice staying on your toes.” Amaranthe waved toward the street. “Let’s get to work.” Though she strode off with a confident air, she was more relieved than she would admit when Yara walked after her and Maldynado.

Amaranthe crossed the tracks again and used the cover of the warehouses to skirt the train station. Instead of approaching from the rear, as they had before, she came in from the front. She paused at the last loading dock to consider the blocky form of a brick water tower with an articulating arm that could be lowered to fill the holding tanks of an engine idling beneath it. In front of the tower, a two-story coal shed abutted the railway with a chute angled over the tracks. Lamps illuminated the entire area, and Amaranthe’s stomach sank when she realized the well-lit door at the base of the water tower faced the station. Anyone on the boardwalk outside could see it if they looked in that direction. She might need to rethink that part of her plan. When she’d concocted it, she hadn’t imagined soldiers swarming about the station like ants on an abandoned pastry from Curi’s Bakery.

A hand caught Amaranthe’s arm, surprising her from her thoughts. Before the others noticed, Sicarius drew her into the shadows of an alley between the last two warehouses before the water tower. Basilard joined Maldynado and Yara.

“Basilard and I will take the water tower,” Sicarius told Amaranthe, not acknowledging the fact that Yara had joined them. “Your team can do the coal.”

Sometime in the last hour, he and Basilard had acquired army uniforms. They both had distinctive faces, and, thanks to all the wanted posters around the empire, Sicarius’s was particularly well known, so neither would pass for army men up close, but they might be able to slip into the water tower without anyone thinking anything of it.

“Agreed.” Amaranthe pointed deeper into the alley. “A word?”

The others had noticed Sicarius, so she lifted a hand to keep them from following, and joined him a dozen paces away.

“The soldiers are waiting for a train that will take them to the capital,” Amaranthe said. “It seems someone murdered a bunch of prominent citizens, and reinforcements are being called in to protect Stumps and aid with the hunt of the killer.”

A moment passed before Sicarius said, “Understood.”

The single word gave away nothing of his thoughts, so Amaranthe tried to read the pause. Maybe it meant he regretted his actions, or at least realized he’d acted rashly and that there might be inconvenient consequences. Somehow she doubted she’d get him to admit it, even if that were the case.

“Do you think it’s odd,” Amaranthe asked, “that soldiers would be called in to deal with an assassin? I know they’ve hunted you before, but those were special missions, out in the wilds, weren’t they? Crimes in cities are almost always relegated to enforcers.”

“Yes,” Sicarius said.

“You’re answering both questions there, right?”

“Yes.”

“Have I mentioned how much I appreciate your garrulousness?” Amaranthe asked.

“No.”

“Good.” She touched his arm to make sure he knew she was joking, though something in the back of her mind—her father’s spirit perhaps—told her she shouldn’t be joking, touching, or even talking to someone capable of tearing through the city, killing dozens of people in a twenty-four-hour span. “I had an instructor in school, Ms. Worgavic, who had this saying, ‘In every crisis lies opportunity.’”

“You believe Forge is using my attack to bring the soldiers to the city for a scheme of its own?”

“The idea entered my mind, yes.”

He glanced toward the alley entrance. None of the others were in sight. “My only concern is getting Sespian to safety.”

Amaranthe tried not to feel irritation at the statement. It wasn’t news. Sicarius had never claimed to have an interest in helping humanity or saving the empire or anything of that ilk. In fact, he’d told her quite frankly that he didn’t. That he’d been letting her use him this last year only because they shared the goal of keeping Sespian safe. That Amaranthe had other goals too... She supposed that didn’t matter much to him. Though she knew it shouldn’t, the reminder stung.

“I understand that’s your main concern, but—” Amaranthe lowered her voice, “—I thought you hoped to become the type of person the emperor might wish to get to know.”

“That... cannot be the priority.”

“Oh, Sicarius.” She knew he was the last person in the world who would want sympathy—and maybe she was crazy to feel such emotions for him, knowing what he’d done in his life and of the questionable choices he continued to make—but it made her heart heavy to think of him never having a relationship with his son. “We’ll see what we can do about you getting a chance to deal with both concerns. But, in the meantime, I don’t want any more glares from you in regard to who I chose to add to my list of allies. It’d be premature for smugness on my part, but I don’t believe any of our complications thus far—” she waved toward the soldier-filled boardwalk, “—are a result of anything I’ve done.”

“Really,” Sicarius said dryly.

“Really.” Amaranthe smiled. “I know, I can hardly believe it either.”

Footfalls sounded at the head of the alley. Yara was striding toward them with Basilard and Maldynado hustling after her. Maldynado gripped her shoulder and said, “Wait until they’re done.”

Yara jerked away. “Unhand me, or I’ll collect on your bounty right now.”

Maldynado lifted both hands skyward.

“It’s all right,” Amaranthe said. “We’re done.”

Yara stalked up to Sicarius. “Who’d you kill for those uniforms?”

Sicarius regarded Yara with as much warmth as one might give a cockroach. A particularly invasive and pesky cockroach. “No one.” Sicarius jerked a thumb toward two inert forms farther back in the alley.

“We brought a number of gags, and I had a special wrist- and ankle-tying bands made,” Amaranthe said. The latter had come from Ms. Sarevic and were clever for their compactness and efficiency. “I told you the truth. We’re hoping not to injure anyone tonight.”

“We’ll see about that,” Yara muttered.

Amaranthe checked her pocket watch. “We better get started in a moment, but first, Yara, join me over here for a moment, please.”

Amaranthe knelt at the end of a loading dock and rummaged in her rucksack. She pulled out a mask and a canister of the knockout concoction Sarevic had made. When Yara joined her, Amaranthe held out the items.

“You should take these. You can use the canister to make those around you sleepy, maybe even pass out.” Amaranthe wished she’d tested them, but they were among the most expensive items Sarevic had made, and she couldn’t waste them. Besides, she couldn’t imagine a stupider way to die than by testing these on her men, causing everyone to lose consciousness, and then having a soldier stumble across their hideout and kill them all. That wasn’t the way she wanted to make the front page of a newspaper. “The mask will protect you from its effects.”

At first, Yara didn’t make a move to touch the items. Amaranthe could understand her reluctance. If she was captured and had the tools of guerilla kidnappers on her, there’d be no way for her to claim innocence. Honestly, that was part of the reason Amaranthe wanted Yara to take the items. It’d force her to commit. She also didn’t want Yara getting killed or dropping unconscious in the middle of the emperor’s car. That’d leave Amaranthe and the others with two bodies to tote outside.

“You’ve tested the mask?” Yara finally asked.

“Ah, sort of. We tested its ability to block out noxious fumes.”

A few feet away, Maldynado snickered.

“Let me guess who supplied them,” Yara grumbled.

“It was... a group effort. After a meal that involved a couple of cans of beans. Uhm, but anyway, that’s not important.” Amaranthe didn’t want to scare away their new teammate with further details. “I believe the mask works, and it would behoove you to keep it with you.”

Yara took the items. Amaranthe wanted to give her a few minutes to familiarize herself with them, but Sicarius said, “We should go now.”

Amaranthe almost said that five more minutes wouldn’t make a difference, but he was right. Books’s estimate was exactly that. An estimate.

“All right,” Amaranthe said. “You and Basilard know what to do. Maldynado, we have a coal shed to subjugate.”

“I love it when you say things that make us sound fearsome and formidable,” Maldynado said.

Amaranthe let Sicarius and Basilard go first. Before he crossed the railway, Sicarius stopped to rest a hand on the train tracks, and Amaranthe decided to wait for him. He glanced back at her and lifted a hand, fingers outstretched. Five minutes. Nerves tangled in her gut. The train was that close?

Sicarius and Basilard disappeared into the shadows between the lampposts, only reappearing when they had to stop before the well-lit door. Sicarius tried the knob. The door was locked.

Still hunkered by the corner of the warehouse, Amaranthe nibbled on a pinkie nail. Sicarius slipped a lock-picking kit out of a pocket.

Maldynado tapped her shoulder. Yes, they had to get on with their own part of the mission. She would trust that Sicarius could slip in before trouble noticed him.

“Stay close,” Amaranthe told Maldynado and Yara, then led the way toward the coal shed, trying to use its bulk to hide their approach from anyone at the train station.

Avoiding lampposts and their damning light, Amaranthe walked into the square fronting the refueling area. Here and there, her boots slipped on oil-slick bricks and grime. Incipient frost and damp leaves further complicated the footing. She’d hate to fall on her backside in front of Yara. That’d make it even harder to live up to Maldynado’s suggestion that they were fearsome and formidable.

She reached the coal shed without any embarrassing falls. She already had her lock-picking kit in hand, but the door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even closed all the way.

“Someone inside already,” Amaranthe whispered. She didn’t bother using Basilard’s hand signs since it was dark and Yara wouldn’t be able to understand them anyway.

Maldynado puffed out his chest and indicated that he would go first. Though Amaranthe doubted they would run into more than one or two workers tasked to load coal on the arriving train, she didn’t see a point to arguing with him. She pushed the door open and listened. She thought she heard something—a soft scrape perhaps—but the noise did not repeat.

A new noise from outside reached her ears—the distant chuffing of an approaching train.

Maldynado stepped past Amaranthe. She followed right behind and paused to listen again while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The earthy scent of coal hung thickly in the air, and dust lingered, tickling her nostrils and coating her tongue. Someone must have been shoveling fuel into the dispensary bin upstairs in preparation for the train’s arrival. But where was that person now? And why wasn’t there any light if someone was in there working?

A set of stairs rose along the wall next to the door, and Amaranthe pointed for Maldynado to check upstairs while she investigated below. He padded up without a word. Amaranthe waved for Yara to stay by the door and eased into the dark room.

The only windows in sight were shuttered, so little light crept inside. Searching by feel, Amaranthe passed double doors and piles of coal, some in bins and some free on the floor. A mountain of the stuff buried the entire back half of the first floor.

She’d completed a circuit around the room and was heading to the stairs when her boot caught against something on the floor. It didn’t feel like coal.

With one hand on the hilt of her sword, Amaranthe squatted down, her other hand outstretched. She encountered clothing, damp clothing, and caught the familiar scent of blood. The overpowering odor of the coal had masked it.

“Body over here,” she whispered to Yara.

“Do you want me to come in?”

“No, someone better guard the door.”

Amaranthe drew a kerchief and wiped her hand before backing away. Deciding to risk a light, she shrugged off her rucksack.

Floorboards creaked above her head. Maldynado walking around, doing his own search. She thought about calling a warning up to him, but she had a feeling they weren’t alone, and she couldn’t risk a loud voice that someone outside might hear.

The ground trembled faintly, a sign of the train drawing close. Amaranthe reminded herself that it wouldn’t go anywhere until it had refueled its coal car and water tanks. But, then, if workers didn’t show up to do so promptly, someone would come to investigate.

Awareness of the need to be swift nagged at her, and Amaranthe almost dropped her lantern when she pulled it out. She did drop the matches she’d been fishing for. She patted the ground, looking for one, and encountered a warm puddle. When she’d chosen this line of work, she’d known she couldn’t be squeamish over such things, but touching bodies and blood never seemed to get easy.

“The blood’s still warm,” Amaranthe whispered. Books could have told her the minutes the owner might have been dead based on the temperature, but she didn’t need a lot of precision to know it hadn’t been long.

A steam whistle squealed. Not much time.

Amaranthe found a match and lit her lantern. Yellow light bathed a supine man in dust-coated overalls with a slit throat. A shovel lay next to him, fallen where he’d dropped it. He’d died with his eyes open, surprise on his face.

The creaks upstairs had ceased. Had Maldynado stopped to study something? Or...

A nervous flutter tormented Amaranthe’s gut. He wouldn’t fall to some assassin. Surely, he had too much fighting experience to be caught unaware like the worker.

The train ground to a stop outside of the refueling station, and Amaranthe had no hope of hearing what, if anything, was going on upstairs. She handed the lantern to Yara and gestured for her to stay by the door.

Amaranthe eased her sword out and climbed the steps. They were narrow with a brick wall on one side and the other side open to the floor. The pesky fingernail-nibbling side of her brain noted that fights on stairs rarely went well for the person in the lower position.

Ears straining, she forced herself to tread slowly—silently—instead of racing into danger. Concern for Maldynado lent urgency to her steps, though, and she wasn’t as cautious as she should have been.

A cry of surprise and pain came from the darkness above. Maldynado.

Amaranthe rushed up the last few steps. Lighting the lantern had affected her night vision, and she almost didn’t see the dark shape sprinting toward her.

She leaped to the side. Instincts screamed in her ears, and she lifted her blade. She couldn’t see much, but she judged the figure’s height and path and angled her weapon so it had a good chance of deflecting a dagger or sword, should there be an attack.

Even so prepared, the clash of steel surprised her.

Amaranthe reacted instantly, with reflexes honed from hours of training with Sicarius. Before the blades had parted, she grabbed the person’s forearm with her left hand and yanked. Her opponent was lighter than she expected, and Amaranthe pulled the figure off balance. She twisted the person’s wrist while ramming her knee upward, angling for the groin.

But her foe was too quick. Finding the gap between Amaranthe’s thumb and fingers, the person tore the captured arm free even as a thigh came up to block the groin attack.

Amaranthe shifted, trying to get around to her opponent’s back, to wrap her arm around the vulnerable throat. She was only partially successful and caught her assailant by the shoulder instead of the neck. She latched on, gripping with the ferocity of a pit bull, and pulled her short sword back to jab at the kidneys.

The blade met only air. Amaranthe still gripped the shoulder, meaning her opponent had remarkable flexibility. She whipped her short sword toward the person’s side, but it collided with metal in a screech. Her foe twisted to face her, wrenching Amaranthe’s fingers. She was forced to release the shoulder grip and did it with a shove, thinking to put space between her and her attacker, so she could restart the encounter from a neutral position. Surely, Maldynado and Yara had to be running up to help.

Luck favored her, though, or perhaps she could claim greater awareness of the terrain. A startled grunt rose over the noise of the train’s engine, and the figure’s arms flailed. The stairs. The person’s heel must have gone over the edge.

Knowing the agile fighter would recover quickly, Amaranthe pounced. She drove her short sword into flesh. The blade scraped past ribs, angling into the tender flesh of the abdomen.

A cry came, and the person fell away. The woman, Amaranthe corrected, her mind catching up to the fact that the voice had been feminine.

She managed to keep her sword, though it was almost pulled out of her hand when the woman tumbled down the stairs. The falling figure almost crashed into Sergeant Yara who was on her way up, the lantern in one hand, an enforcer-issue short sword in the other.

Despite the gut wound, the injured woman found her feet. She jumped off the stairs, one hand clutched to her abdomen, and tried to bypass Yara and sprint for the door.

Yara raised her sword, but the other woman lifted a bloody hand, and steel glinted. A throwing knife.

“Look out!” Amaranthe barked.

Yara dropped to her belly, flatting herself to the stairs, evading the knife by inches. The blade clattered off the brick wall. Yara’s lantern escaped her grip and landed on the flagstone floor. The flame winked out, and darkness engulfed the shed again.

The fleeing fighter yanked the door open.

Grimly determined, Amaranthe judged the distance and hurled her short sword. They couldn’t let anyone escape and draw attention to the refueling station.

In the darkness, she couldn’t see her sword spinning through the air, but she could tell from the dark figure’s reaction that it struck. The woman collapsed in the doorway.

Amaranthe ran down the stairs, jumping to the floor to bypass Yara, and dragged the woman inside, away from the threshold. She checked the square outside, afraid someone might have heard the fight and would be running to investigate, but nothing stirred nearby. Everyone at the station was probably focused on the train.

The train! Reminded of the need to hurry, Amaranthe shut the door, groped about to find the lantern, and ran for the stairs.

At the last second, she remembered Yara and kept from crashing into her. “Are you injured?”

“I’m fine,” Yara said. “Your warning saved me.”

“Welcome. Hurry, upstairs. We have to get—”

A light flared to life at the top of the stairs. Maldynado stood, wearing a dazed expression as he held his lantern up and squinted down at them. Blood smeared the side of his face.

“Where’s the cursed coal?” a voice called from outside.

There was no time to discuss anything. Amaranthe charged up the remaining steps and grabbed Maldynado’s arm.

“Answer,” she said, figuring a male worker would be more likely than a woman.

“Coming,” Maldynado called, a hint of a slur to the word.

“Bastard’s drunk,” the speaker from the train growled. “Inept civilians.”

“Stand there,” Amaranthe whispered to Maldynado, pushing him toward open double doors on the wall closest to the train. “Give them a wave. Here, let me have your lantern so they can’t see you well.”

“No, no,” Maldynado said, wobbling a little. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” He braced himself against the doorjamb.

“You can complain later,” Amaranthe said. “Just don’t let them get concerned enough to check in here.”

She hunted about for levers to extend the chute and drop coal into the waiting car below. Bins lined the walls, leaving little room for moving about. Amaranthe weaved past cables attached to a lift system for raising coal to the top level. She was lucky that she hadn’t moved far enough from the stairs to get tangled in the ropes during the fight.

The largest bin in the room connected to the chute. Amaranthe ducked behind it and found her levers. A brass plaque with pictures showed which ones to move to extend and retract the chute and to dump coal. No need for literacy for this job.

She pushed a lever, and gears on the wall rotated, their grinding audible over the idling train. The chute thunked into place. Amaranthe hesitated, not certain if she should push the pouring lever to maximum.

“Take your time, Crisplot,” the complainer from the train yelled. “It’s not like we’re on a schedule here.”

Amaranthe shoved the lever all the way forward. Maybe a landslide would flood out, burying the mouthy man. Nothing happened.

Grumbling, she poked around the front of the bin. Maybe there was some flap she had to lift to enable to flow.

“Am I going to have to come up there?” the complainer hollered. “I’ll see to it that your pay is docked if I do.”

“I’ll check on him,” came Sicarius’s voice from the water tower. He and Basilard must have already extended the hose to refuel the locomotive’s tanks. Good.

Amaranthe found a safety release up front and flipped it. A spring twanged, and a door at the top of the chute slid up. The bin contents stirred and clacked about inside, and coal poured into the train car outside. There. That ought to placate the engineer, or whoever was bellowing.

When Amaranthe came back around the bin, she found Sicarius waiting beside Maldynado.

“We had a slight delay, but we’re fine,” she told him.

“Fine?” Maldynado touched his temple. “I don’t think it’s right of you to make general statements like that before a thorough medical examination has been performed on all members of the group.”

“There are two soldiers riding on the locomotive with the engineer and fireman,” Sicarius said. “A corporal is directing coal and water loading.”

“Just one man?” Amaranthe asked.

“Yes.”

“The one yelling?”

“Yes.”

“Trouble maker.”

Sicarius did not deign to respond.

Yara climbed into view, holding a lantern. She stared at Amaranthe.

“Something wrong?” Amaranthe asked.

“That was an assassin,” Yara said.

“Yes, I gathered that from the dead man she left marinating in his own blood. Do you recognize her?”

“The Crimson Fox,” Yara said.

Amaranthe tried to place the name. “That’s someone with a bounty on her head, right?”

“Yes, she is—was—regarded as the best female assassin in the satrapy. Some say the empire.”

Amaranthe snorted. “Some say? Like who? Her?”

“It’s a twenty-five-thousand-ranmya bounty.” Yara was still staring at Amaranthe, her eyes wide with... awe?

Amaranthe decided not to mention how much luck had played into that squabble. A little awe from Yara might help her position. “We don’t have time to turn people in for bounties right now, so some soldier’s going to have a good time this weekend.”

“Wait.” Maldynado touched his wounded temple. “You’re saying the person who hit me was a woman?”

“You’re lucky she didn’t kill you.” Yara’s awe-struck expression disappeared when she faced Maldynado. “I’m not surprised to find that your employer does the real work in this outfit.”

“When you’re as pretty as I am, there’s no need to do real work.”

“You’re calling yourself pretty?” Yara asked. “You have a black eye, a split lip, and there’s blood smeared all over your face.”

“I’d still have an easier time getting a date than you. What’d you cut your hair with? Your service sword?”

Amaranthe lifted her hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s focus, please. We can squabble when the emperor is safe.”

While they glared at each other, Amaranthe peeked past Maldynado and into the bin. Coal continued to flow into the open car while the irritated corporal stomped back and forth with a rake. Busy pushing and scraping to distribute the load, he kept his head down. Amaranthe risked sticking hers out to better see up and down the train.

In front of the coal car, the hulking black engine idled, its long cylindrical shape stretching ahead like a hound’s nose. She couldn’t see into the cab where the engineer and fireman waited, which was good because they wouldn’t be able to see into the coal bed without leaning out of the side entrances, but someone watching from the train station would have a decent view. She checked the boardwalk and grimaced. Soldiers were filing into some of the passenger cars. Of course, if they were going to the capital, it made sense for them to get a ride.

“Reinforcements,” Amaranthe muttered. “Lovely.” She kept herself from sighing at Sicarius, irked anew by his string of assassinations. She had certainly messed up often, and he hadn’t held it against her.

Some of the soldiers on the boardwalk were stationed at the doors, and they were checking identifications, orders, and faces carefully before letting people on. No civilians boarded. As Amaranthe had suspected, this was a private train, and it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for her team to walk through a door, even if they’d had sophisticated disguises.

“When do we get on?” Yara asked.

“Soon,” Amaranthe said. “After that corporal says he has all the fuel he needs and tells the engineer to get moving.”

“Won’t the people on the boardwalk see us jump into the coal car?”

“It’s dark,” Amaranthe said. “We’re hoping not.”

“Hoping?”

“Are you doubting the woman who slew the Crimson Fox?”

Amaranthe was joking, or at least hoping to distract Yara from her concerns, but the sergeant considered the body again and said, “I guess not.”

Huh, something to be said for establishing a sense of awe in one’s colleagues.

“The Crimson Fox?” Sicarius asked.

“Apparently.” Amaranthe pointed at the body.

“She’s from the capital. It’s unlikely her presence here was a coincidence.”

“Well, I didn’t invite her.” Amaranthe eyed Yara, but she couldn’t imagine the enforcer sergeant having anything to do with an assassin showing up. If Yara had meant to tattle on Amaranthe and the team, it would have been to her superiors, not a criminal. Nor was it likely Sicarius’s night of slaying had anything to do with it. Amaranthe feared they might have Akstyr to thank for the assassin’s appearance. Had she come to kill Sicarius? Or maybe she’d meant to collect on Amaranthe’s bounty. She was going to have a chat with the lad later. Maybe Books was right, and it was simply time to let him go. “We’ll worry about it later,” she told Sicarius.

Lines creased Yara’s brow as she eyed the stairs.

“Problem?” Amaranthe asked.

“I was entertaining the idea of staying here, turning that body in for the bounty, and going back home a hero for having helped slay such a notorious assassin. I suppose it’d be ignoble of me to take credit for any of that though. I doubt ducking when she threw a knife was crucial in her defeat.”

Amusement tugged at Amaranthe’s lips. It sounded like the sort of scheme she’d think up. Maybe there was hope to bring Yara fully over to her side yet. “You don’t want to leave when the emperor needs you.”

“No,” Yara agreed, lifting her chin, “there’d be no honor in that act.”

Sicarius had moved to the shadows near the chute, where he could look outside without being seen.

“We about ready?” Amaranthe asked.

“Yes.”

Below them, the corporal leaned the rake against a pile of coal and hopped onto the roof of the cab. From there, he jumped down onto the locomotive “nose” to one of the water tanks. So much heat rose from the metal encasing the engine that the air shimmered around the corporal. He checked a gauge, then waved to the water tower.

“That’s enough. Cut it off.”

A moment later, he pulled the thick hose out and screwed a brass cap into place. Amaranthe couldn’t see Basilard from her position, but the hose retracted, spinning onto a giant reel. The corporal skittered back to the coal car where a hill of the black rocks had formed in his absence.

He grabbed his rake. “That’s enough!”

Amaranthe and Sicarius closed down the chute.

“You should at least leave a business card,” Yara whispered from behind them.

“What?” Amaranthe asked.

“Your card. You could leave it on the body of the assassin, so someone would know you were responsible for bringing down a criminal.”

“If I left a card, the soldiers that found the body might blame that worker’s death on us.”

“But doesn’t it grate on you not to get credit?”

Daily, Amaranthe thought. “We’re used to it.”

Yara stared at her.

“If we can get the emperor to know we’re not villains,” Amaranthe said, “that’ll be enough. He can clear our names with a scribble of a pen.”

“And have statues commissioned in honor of our greatness,” Maldynado said.

“Nobody’s going to believe you’re great if they see a statue of you in that hat,” Yara said.

“Oh, nobody wears fur when modeling for a sculpture,” Maldynado said, “It’s too hard for the artist to get all the fuzzy strands to look good. I already have a statue hat picked out.”

“Dear ancestors,” Yara murmured.

Amaranthe patted Maldynado on the shoulder. His silence had been making her wonder if he was more injured than she thought. Maybe he only needed bolstering after being beaten up by one woman and criticized by another.

“Ready to go, sir!” the corporal called to the locomotive cab.

Everyone who had orders to board must have done so, for the boardwalk had cleared. Good. Nobody inside the train would have a good view of the coal shed or water tower—or the people leaping from them.

Two men in black uniforms wearing cutlasses and rifles trotted up to the locomotive and climbed into the cab. Both of them had to duck and turn their substantial shoulders sideways to fit through the doors.

“When you said soldiers,” Amaranthe told Sicarius, “I didn’t know you meant the emperor’s elite bodyguards. Men hand-picked to serve in the Imperial Barracks because of their martial prowess.”

“They are only men, as mortal as the next,” Sicarius said.

“They’re huge.”

“Huge men rarely move swiftly or with great agility. You know this.”

“Yes, but is that knowledge enough to keep me from tinkling down my leg when one of those towering behemoths swings a blade at me?”

Sicarius gave her one of his flat looks, reminding her that a tendency toward whining wasn’t an admirable trait in a leader.

“You’re right, it is enough,” Amaranthe said, “I was just making sure.” She’d hate it if she ever caught disappointment in one of his gazes.

Inwardly, she hoped the team would be able to stay hidden in the coal car until the train reached the pass and was forced to stop because of a certain landslide blocking the tracks. Then there’d be a nice distraction to keep some of those hulking soldiers and bodyguards busy, and she might not have to face any one-on-one.

A steam whistle blew again, and the train inched forward. Amaranthe drummed her fingers on her thigh. They needed to jump soon, but the corporal was still in the coal car, raking his piles into place. Normally, Amaranthe would appreciate someone with a fastidious nature, but right now she wanted the man to toss the rake in a corner and leave. Surely, he had a warm berth waiting for him in one of the passenger cars.

“We must go,” Sicarius said.

“I know.” The rail car was inching past them with the train picking up speed. A few more seconds, and they’d have to jump onto one of the passenger cars, and the soldiers inside were bound to hear kidnappers gamboling about on their roof. “Let’s do it.”

Sicarius went first. He didn’t drop straight down into the car, but leaped fifteen feet and landed on top of the corporal, a hand smothering the soldier’s mouth.

“Go, go,” Amaranthe urged the rest of her team.

She jumped and landed lightly in the coal, a foot from the back lip of the car. Maldynado and Yara dropped down beside her. They flattened themselves to their bellies. The passenger car behind the coal car didn’t have windows in the front, but it did have a door with a balcony. Anyone tall who stepped out to smoke or admire the night sky would be able to see straight through to the back of the locomotive. The coal level was only a foot below the lip of the car, so that didn’t leave them a lot of room for hiding. They’d have to undo the corporal’s raking and see if they could dig a hollow or two.

On her elbows, Amaranthe crawled toward Sicarius. As the coal car passed the water tank, Basilard dropped, landing beside her. He also flattened himself to his belly. The darkness precluded hand signs, but she squeezed him on the shoulder to thank him for his reliable efficiency.

“Overboard?” Sicarius whispered when Amaranthe joined him. He had the corporal subdued, face pressed into the coal.

“Yes,” she said.

The train was just starting to pick up speed, so tossing the man over the side shouldn’t hurt him much. Because the corporal had been irritating, a mischievous part of Amaranthe wanted to take off his pants and force him to run back to the station half-naked. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—Sicarius dumped him over the side before she could voice the suggestion.

She listened for voices or any sign that the men in the cab had noticed, but all she heard was the chugging of the train as it picked up speed. Smoke blew back from the stack, clouding the air above the coal car. She could think of better things to smell, but at least it would help to camouflage her team.

“Let’s dig out places to hide,” Amaranthe said, careful to keep her voice low so the men in the locomotive wouldn’t hear, “so we’re not visible at a glance. Sicarius, do you want to scout via the top of the train? See if you can locate the emperor’s car?” She knew he could glide across the roofs without making a sound.

“Yes.”

Sicarius disappeared so quickly, she guessed he’d been planning to do it whether she asked or not.

Amaranthe and the others set to scraping coal aside to create depressions. Maldynado knelt beside her and helped while Basilard and Yara dug on the other side of the car.

“What happens when someone misses that corporal?” Maldynado asked.

“I’m hoping he annoys his superiors as much as he did me and that people will be so relieved he’s not around that they won’t come looking for him.”

“The army doesn’t work that way. Everybody’s always reporting in to someone else.”

“I know,” Amaranthe said. “I don’t expect to make it all the way to the Scarlet Pass without something happening, but maybe we’ll get lucky. It’s only four hours away.”

“Uh huh, and what happens if we don’t get lucky?”

“We’ll launch our current plan early. Most likely with more bullets flying in our direction, because we won’t have our distraction.”

Maldynado touched his injured temple. “As the night goes on, I’m wishing more and more that I’d purchased some of that cider.”

Chapter 12

Akstyr joined Books in the dirigible’s navigation cabin. Maps were tented over levers, and open manuals sprawled across gauges, leaving little of the control panel visible. Books was hunched over it, scrutinizing the papers so hard that he didn’t notice someone had come in. Akstyr hoped there wasn’t a problem with the dirigible. The pilot had escaped while they’d been rummaging around in the mines, so there was nobody to turn to for help.

“I’ve been studying the implants,” Akstyr said. “It’s hard because they try to leap into your skin when you touch them. It’s real dangerous of me even to look at them, but I’ve got some ideas.”

He waited for a response—he wouldn’t have minded a little praise or encouragement for taking on the difficult task—Books didn’t acknowledge him.

Whatever. Akstyr sat down in the co-pilot’s chair. Darkness had come hours earlier, and he couldn’t see much outside the forward window. After a few minutes, Books stood tall, his head nearly brushing the ceiling, and rubbed the back of his neck. He yawned, spotted Akstyr, and jumped in surprise, cracking his head on the low ceiling.

“You didn’t notice me come in?” Akstyr asked. “Truly? Sicarius would have yelled at you. Well, not yelled but glared in that icy ball-withering way of his.”

“Probably true.”

“You figure out why those stowaways were lurking in our engine room?”

“I have several hypotheses, and none of them would be good for the team. There’s little we can do about it now.” Books rubbed his lips and frowned at the papers as if they were wayward students, running around one of his classrooms and ignoring his teachings. “I believe we’ve arrived at our destination in the Scarlet Pass.”

“Then why do you look so worried?”

Books leaned forward and peered into the darkness below. “Landing on a mountain ledge in the dark presents a challenge.”

“You landed us by the mine.”

“In a flat, stump-filled field with good visibility, yes,” Books said.

“If you crash, the blasting sticks will probably blow us up.”

“If I crash... it probably won’t matter.”

Akstyr leaned forward to peer out the window. Night had fallen, and snow drifted from the dark sky. He could make out the white tips of mountains in the background and a cliff nearby—a big cliff. What might have been railway tracks ran along a ledge on the cliff. To the side, the ground dropped away into a canyon. Nothing looked like a promising landing spot for a dirigible.

“Wait, why do we have to land?” Akstyr asked.

Books was muttering something about a lack of running lights, and he started to glare at Akstyr—he probably had a lecture on his lips—but he paused thoughtfully. “That’s... actually a good point.”

“You needn’t sound shocked.”

“Go see if there’s some rope on board. I think I can hover in place while you climb down to the ground and set the explosives.”

“Nice of you to volunteer me for that.” Akstyr had been thinking along those lines anyway, but didn’t like someone assuming he wanted to risk himself.

“I have the most experience piloting the ship, so it’s logical for me to stay here.”

“A day at the controls doesn’t make you an expert.” Akstyr said, though he pushed himself to his feet. A few minutes later, he returned with a coil of rope and two bundles of explosives. “I’m leaving half of the blasting sticks here. I don’t think I can slide down a rope with the whole box. Besides, if I get myself killed, you may need the rest to try again.”

“A surprisingly noble sentiment.”

“Don’t get used to it. I’m feeling sentimental because I’m about to put on a rucksack full of volatile explosives, and I know I’ll be dead if I fall or trip down there.” Akstyr meant to sound nonchalantly unconcerned, but it didn’t quite work.

“We’re hovering in place now.” For the first time, Books looked away from the viewing window and the controls to regard Akstyr. “Be careful down there.”

“Obviously,” Akstyr said. “But, look, if anything... happens, could you let my mother know I died heroically or something?”

“Your mother? I didn’t know you had one.”

“I didn’t know I had one any more either, but she found me a couple of days ago. I guess ’cause we’ve been mentioned some in the papers.” Akstyr shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. She wasn’t around for most of my life, so I don’t care what she thinks. Forget it. Don’t worry about telling her anything.”

“I will locate her and let her know you died well, should it come to that.”

“Whatever.” Akstyr headed for the door, but paused with his hand on the jamb. “Books, do you think... Do people ever really change? Or if someone says they’ve changed, do you think it’s more likely that they’re angling for something? Trying to use you somehow.”

Books considered him for a long moment, and Akstyr had the feeling he was being judged. He was about to growl a, “Never mind,” and leave when Books spoke.

“I suppose my answer depends on what sort of change you have in mind, but if people are properly motivated, or deeply affected by something they experience, they can change. That doesn’t mean they’re not still angling for something. The most charitable people in the world are choosing altruism, not because it’s a noble endeavor, but because being noble fulfills a need within them.”

Akstyr struggled to find his answer in Books’s speech. He should have been more specific. “So if a mother who abandoned her child ten years ago suddenly wants to reconnect, it might be because it’d... fulfill some need within her?” He struggled not to roll his eyes at the mawkish language. “Not because she wanted something specifically from him?”

“It’s possible. Maybe she’s always had regrets about leaving you. Maybe she’s realizing that, having given up on her child, she’ll have no one to care for her as she grows older. Maybe she wants to make amends for past grievances before it’s too late.”

Akstyr scratched at the doorjamb. Yes, some of that made sense, he thought.

“You might as well talk to her and give her a chance. You might regret not doing so later. When she’s gone...” Books’s focus turned inward, and he no longer seemed to be seeing Akstyr. “Trust me, it’s better to find peace with family while they’re still alive. You never know when the world will take someone from you.”

“Or when you’ll blow yourself up,” Akstyr murmured and walked out.

When he’d gathered his supplies and checked five times to make sure the blasting sticks were secured in his rucksack, he headed for a hatch in the floor of the engine room. Snowflakes blew past the opening. Their intensity had increased in the last few minutes, and Akstyr could barely see the massive cliff wall a few meters away from the dirigible. Its jagged contours, carved from the mountain with pickaxes and blasting sticks, had a dark, ominous quality to them. Night and the blowing snow made the ground and the tracks hard to see as well. Books better keep the dirigible in place; Akstyr wanted to land on the ledge, not in the ravine next to it.

A gust of wind came up from below, hurling snow into the engine room.

“Great time for rappelling,” Akstyr muttered, hooking a lantern over his arm.

He stuffed the ex-pilot’s pistol into his belt. He doubted he’d need it, but if he got lost, he might need to shoot it off so Books could find him.

After checking the knot securing his rope, Akstyr dropped the coil into the darkness. It bounced and wobbled in the wind. He tugged gloves on and slipped through the hatchway, taking the rope in both hands. Wind battered him, rocking him and spinning him in the air. He inched his way down, squinting against the sideways snow dashing at his eyes. Though glass protected the interior of his lantern, the whipping wind found cracks between the panes, and the tiny flame bobbed and flickered. With his hands occupied on the rope, Akstyr couldn’t do anything about it.

Relief flowed into him when the ground came into view. The feeling doubled in intensity when his boots rested upon it. A scattering of snow brightened the dark rocks, and flakes were starting to stick to the metal tracks. All that mattered to Akstyr was that he was in the right place. The ledge supporting him was only ten feet wide, so it wouldn’t take much to block the railway.

Coldness numbed his fingers, and shivers coursed through him, so he hurried to unpack the bundles of blasting sticks. He lifted the lantern and walked along the cliff, hunting for a crevice in which he could thrust the explosives.

A light winked at the edge of his vision.

“What the—” Akstyr lowered his lantern and scanned the darkness farther down the railway. He saw nothing but white snow swirling against a black backdrop. Maybe he’d been imagining things. Who could possibly be out there in the middle of the night?

No one, he thought, but he shuttered his lantern anyway and resumed his search by hand. Trying to hide was probably pointless—lights burned behind the portholes in the dirigible above him—but Akstyr felt safer without the lantern dangling from his arm like a beacon. Or a target.

He found a likely crevice and eased the first bundle of blasting sticks inside of it. A gun fired, and he almost dropped the second bundle.

Akstyr pressed his back against the cliff, sucking in his belly. He hadn’t heard the bullet slam into anything nearby, but that didn’t mean people weren’t shooting at him.

A dog bayed, its deep voice echoing from the cliffs.

“Hunters?” Akstyr wondered.

It seemed like a bizarre thing to do at night, especially in a snowstorm, but he’d heard that was when rural bumpkins went out to get raccoons. Maybe the dog’s owner didn’t care about Akstyr or the dirigible. Maybe the person hadn’t even seen him. Either way, hurrying seemed like a good idea.

When no second shot came, Akstyr knelt again, slipping the second bundle of blasting sticks into the crevice. He removed his gloves, double-checked the placement, then started unwinding the fuse.

The dog let out another undulating bay. Akstyr paused. Was it closer this time? The bays echoed from the cliff and mountain walls across the ravine, making it difficult to discern the source, but he had a feeling the hound and its master were on the trail up to the pass.

When the dog stopped to catch its breath or scratch a flea or whatever dogs did, a man’s voice sounded in the silence. Someone talking. Distance jumbled the words, and Akstyr couldn’t understand them, but another man responded.

Backpedaling, Akstyr strung out the fuse as quickly as he could. Another shot fired. This time it clanged off the rock face above his head. He dropped to his belly and tossed his raccoon-hunting theory into the ravine. These people were after him.

Another rifle cracked, though Akstyr didn’t hear the bullet hit anything. The men had to be guessing at his location and hoping to get lucky. Or maybe they were drunk.

The dog bayed again, closer this time. Its deep booming voice made it sound big. Very big.

Assuming the men had to reload, Akstyr scrambled to his feet again. He thought about using his own pistol, but he only had the one shot, and he couldn’t see the men in the darkness. He returned to reeling out the fuse.

Books had measured out over fifty feet of it when setting things up for Akstyr. With guns firing in his direction, it seemed more like five hundred feet. He dared not cut it short though, not when he had to climb to safety before the explosives went off.

Finally, he reached the end. He hated to expose himself by opening the shutter of the lantern, but he had no choice. He unfastened the clasp and thrust the end of the fuse into the flame.

A gun fired, and the lantern was ripped from his hands.

Akstyr stumbled backward onto his butt. He snarled, prepared to spew out every curse he knew, but the flame had caught. Orange sparks danced at the end of the fuse.

Akstyr leaped to his feet and sprinted toward the spot where he’d left the rope. The snow had picked up, and he couldn’t see it. He tripped over a rock. Cursed ancestors, he could barely see where he was going.

Another shot fired, the bullet whizzing past his ear.

“Quit shooting at me, you ball-licking street-kissers!” As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt stupid. He felt even stupider when laughter floated up the trail. And that cussed dog was getting closer too.

Hands outstretched, Akstyr forced himself to ease along at a less reckless pace. He swatted only air though. Where was that ancestors-blighted rope?

The dirigible, you idiot, he told himself, and looked up. There. A square of light stood out against the dark hull. The rope dangled down from the hatch, swaying with the wind and disappearing into the darkness, but he could guess its final position now.

Akstyr jogged toward it. Something clacked behind him—dog claws on granite. Snarls and snapping teeth sounded, mere feet away.

A huge, dark shape barreled out of the darkness and leaped for Akstyr. There was no time to grab his pistol and shoot it. He jumped to the side and kicked out. The dog twisted in the air and would have caught him with those snapping teeth, but his boot connected. It was enough to unbalance the animal, but the dog was still snarling when it landed behind him.

Akstyr sprinted the last ten feet and found the rope. Ice and snow caked the cold twine, making the grip slippery and biting into his bare hands. He climbed with mulish determination and dared not look down to check on the dog.

“What’d he do?” a man shouted.

Fool that he was, Akstyr stopped. He’d only climbed a few feet and was far from safe, but if they put out the fuse, then all this would have been a waste of time.

The two rifle slingers had stopped on the ledge, and one crouched, staring at the flame zipping along the fuse. Both men carried lanterns, so Akstyr could make out faces and clothing; but he didn’t recognize either person, and neither wore the uniform of a soldier beneath his parka. There was no time to stop and ask who they were. He tightened his grip on the ice-slick rope with his left hand and pulled out his pistol with his right.

A shape blurred out of the darkness toward him. The dog.

His first instinct was to shoot it, but he hesitated, thinking he needed to save the bullet for the man standing over his fuse. His hesitation cost him, and the dog reached him, jaws snapping. Akstyr tried to dodge aside, but he couldn’t maneuver while hanging from the rope. Sharp fangs pierced his calf, slicing through clothing to gouge into flesh and muscle. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but the weight of the dog, hanging from his leg, almost tore him from the rope. New pain erupted in his shoulder as opposing forces pulled at him. Determination to hang on surged through him, but, even so, his grip slipped, and he inched down the rope.

With his free hand, Akstyr slammed the butt of the pistol into the dog’s head. He tucked his free leg up and kicked at the beast’s belly. The combined effort finally convinced it to let go. A fresh wave of agony washed over Akstyr, as more of his flesh was torn away when the dog fell. He forced himself to focus on the men again.

One was kicking at the fuse, trying to stomp out the flame before it reached the crevice. Akstyr lifted his pistol, struggling to aim while the twisting, swinging rope fought against him. No time for lining up a shot. He fired, and hoped.

The man stumbled backward, clutching his shoulder. His lantern dropped to the ground and went out. His comrade reached for him, arms outstretched, and Akstyr caught a glimpse of the back of the man’s hand. There, highlighted by the lantern light, was a brand. Akstyr couldn’t make out the details, but only gang members from Stumps had such marks emblazoned on their hands.

“Akstyr,” came Books’s voice from above. “Get out of there!”

Yes, right. Explosives. Akstyr tried to holster his pistol, fumbled it, and simply dropped it. He climbed as fast as he could, trying to ignore the injured leg.

A gun fired, and new pain ripped through him, searing his shoulder. Then a boom echoed through the mountains, and an ominous rumble welled up from below. A wave of force struck Akstyr like a battering ram.

All he could think of was to hang onto the rope with all of his strength as he flew through the air. Snow streaked sideways through his vision, and he lost track of whether he was facing up, down, or somewhere in between. The rope ran out of room to swing and snapped to a halt with a jerk that nearly tore his shoulders from their sockets.

One hand slipped from the rope, and he dangled helplessly by the other. He glimpsed tons and tons of rock sloughing into the ravine beneath him. Lest he join it, he flailed to recapture the rope with fingers gone numb from the cold. He finally got both hands back on it, but it was swinging back the other way. Akstyr cringed, anticipating another jerky stop, but the rope started rising. That motion quelled the fierce swaying. Up above, Books straddled the hatchway as he pulled the rope up. Weary and hurt, Akstyr simply hung on. The rocks were still shifting and falling below, throwing a cloud of dust into the air. The men were gone. If the railway tracks were still there, they were buried beneath rubble.

Even with Books’s help, Akstyr struggled to claw his way back into the engine room. As soon as he had the floor beneath him, he collapsed.

Books reached out a hand. “All you all right?”

“I got shot and bit,” Akstyr snarled, rejecting the help. “What do you think?”

Books pulled up the remaining rope, coiled it, and shut the hatch. “That if you can complain about it in complete, albeit grammatically questionable, sentences, you’ll be fine.”

Akstyr scarcely heard him. His mind was whirring at the revelation that those had been gang members. They hadn’t cared about the dirigible or the plan to close the pass; they’d just wanted him. They must have been trying to collect on his new bounty, but how could they have known he’d be up there?

It took a moment, and then realization came like a shot to the head. His mother. He’d mentioned to her where he’d be going. “Idiot,” he whispered to himself.

“What?” Books asked.

Akstyr growled and sat up to investigate his wounds. The shoulder stung, but the bullet had only grazed him. On the other hand, the dog bite was ragged and deep. He hoped it wouldn’t get infected. He didn’t have a good history of healing infections. He wasn’t even sure if he could concentrate well enough to heal normal cuts with pain distracting him. Another disgusted growl rumbled in his throat, and he flopped back onto the floor. “They were waiting for me, Books.”

“Yes, I apologize for not coming to your aid. I was in the navigation cabin, focusing on not bumping into that cliff, and I didn’t hear the gunshots at first. Who were they? Soldiers?”

“Not soldiers,” Akstyr said and debated whether to share more. Maybe he should pretend he had no idea who they were and what they’d been doing up there. Otherwise, he’d have to admit there was a bounty on his head and that he’d foolishly told his mother about some of the team’s plans. It’d be best to feign ignorance. Except he might need the group’s help to take care of the Madcats, especially now that it didn’t look like he’d be getting out of the city any time soon. “They were from the gangs, from the city. They were after me specifically.”

Books frowned. “Why?”

“The Madcats have a bounty on my head.”

“How would they know you were here? You didn’t tell anyone about our mission, did you?”

Akstyr’s lips twisted. “Just my mother.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. All she wanted from the beginning was to get a piece of the money on my head. I’m a slagging fool for thinking...” Akstyr snorted, wishing he hadn’t asked those dumb questions about people changing. He’d let Books witness his naiveté. “It doesn’t matter now. Pieces of that pass blew so high that they’ll be splashing down in the Gulf. Those boys won’t be trouble again.” Unfortunately, there were a lot of other people in that gang.

“Did you tell your mother any other details of our mission?” Books asked.

“No, I didn’t tell her details at all. I just said I’d either be at the pass or Forkingrust.”

Books frowned. “So, it’s possible she sent people here and to Forkingrust where the rest of the team is.”

“I didn’t say anything about Sicarius or the others.”

“I see. You’d only betray them to bounty hunters, not your mother.”

Akstyr’s leg was throbbing, and he was busy worrying about the Madcats, so it took him a moment to grasp what Books was talking about. A chill stampeded down his spine. Books knew what he’d done. Did the whole team know? “I...”

Books’s lips were pursed in disapproval. “Your bounty hunter buddy decided he’d rather have Sicarius on his good side than be on yours. He shared the tale of how you approached him.”

“I didn’t mean for it to make trouble,” Akstyr said. “I was just trying to get some money. I wasn’t even going to tell him where Sicarius really was.”

“Oh, how noble. You weren’t going to put us all at risk, but you were going to steal from someone else.”

“It wouldn’t be stealing if he was greedy enough to fall for it!”

Books stood up, disgust curling his lips. “Disregard what I said before. Most people never change.”

He climbed the ladder, taking his lantern with him, and left Akstyr in the dark.

Chapter 13

Amaranthe and Maldynado sat in a hollow scraped out between two hillocks of coal. They had their knees pulled up to their chins and their backs to the biting wind as the train barreled toward the mountains at fifty miles per hour. A few feet away, on the opposite side of the car, Basilard and Yara hunkered in a similar position. The coal hills wouldn’t provide much cover in a firefight, but Amaranthe didn’t think anyone looking in from the ends could spot her team. Sicarius hadn’t returned from scouting.

Amaranthe opened her pocket watch and tried to read the face, but clouds obscured the moon, and little light brightened the train. The dark, towering evergreens speeding by on either side further blocked the sky.

“I reckon he’s been gone an hour,” Maldynado said.

“I didn’t know clock-free time-telling was one of your skills.” Amaranthe tucked the watch back into her pocket. However long Sicarius had been gone, it felt like too long. If he was limiting his scouting to the roofs of the cars, there wasn’t that much area for him to explore. If he’d gone inside... he shouldn’t have. There were far too many alert soldiers in there.

“I got good at it when I was working for Costace,” Maldynado said.

“That was the lady in charge of the male escorts place, right?”

“Yes. She used to send me off with old crones who regularly competed in the city’s Most Trite and Tedious Conversationalist Contest. Costace said it wasn’t seemly for me to check my watch every three minutes, so I perfected the art of telling time—and knowing when my hours were up—without a clock.”

“It’s amazing that you’re such a noble and compassionate man, considering all the terrible life experiences you’ve endured.” Amaranthe peeked over the coal mound, checking for Sicarius.

“I know,” Maldynado said.

With him, Amaranthe was never certain if he was truly oblivious to sarcasm or if he simply chose to ignore it. She shifted her weight, trying to lessen the discomfort of sitting on lumpy coal for prolonged periods. “As long as we’re here chatting, why don’t you tell me about your brother? Is he—”

“An arrogant, condescending know-it-all who couldn’t be bothered to spit on you to cool you off if you were staked out naked in a scorching hot desert? Yes. Yes, he is.”

“I was going to ask if he’s politically conservative or progressive,” Amaranthe said.

“He’s about as progressive as a rock.”

“How does he feel about Sespian?”

“I haven’t talked to Ravido for five years, and Raumesys was still alive then, so Sespian wasn’t much discussed, but my brother doesn’t approve of anyone with new ideas. He only likes spending time with devoted soldiers who, when they’re deep in their cups, talk about things like duty and honor and the good old days of the empire.”

“I can see why you two might not have gotten along well then,” Amaranthe said.

“I haven’t gotten along well with anyone in my family, not since... Never mind.”

Amaranthe was debating on prying further when a touch on her shoulder startled her. A dark shape slipped in beside her. Sicarius.

She tried to scoot over to give him room, but bumped into Maldynado. “Why don’t you go entertain Yara for a while?” she told him. “She can’t understand Basilard’s signs, so she’s probably missing your charms.” Actually, if Amaranthe read Yara correctly, the woman appreciated the silence and had been relieved when Maldynado and his charms had sat down on the far side of the car. But there wasn’t room for three, and Amaranthe wanted to digest Sicarius’s report without the others around.

“Of that I have no doubt.” Maldynado slipped out of the hollow.

“Find anything?” Amaranthe patted the vacated spot, inviting Sicarius to sit.

“Sespian is in the fourth car back.”

Sicarius sat beside her, keeping a few inches of space between them. Amaranthe thought about scooting over to lean against him—after all, it wasn’t exactly warm in that coal bed with the autumn wind sweeping past—but Maldynado and the others were in sight. A mercenary leader probably shouldn’t be witnessed cuddling up with an employee.

“Is he surrounded by soldiers?” Amaranthe asked.

“Yes.”

“Full car?”

“Very.”

“See any other assassins lurking about?”

“No,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe wondered if Sicarius would be chattier than this when he came face to face with Sespian. How many years since they had spoken, she wondered. Or had they ever spoken? If Sespian had grown up being afraid of Sicarius, he must have gone out of his way to avoid the dark figure slipping in and out of his halls like an ancestor spirit. Ah, Sicarius, she thought, how much of the angst in your life might have been mitigated if you simply smiled at Sespian and gave him a lollypop when he was a kid?

“Is there anyone with him except for soldiers and bodyguards?” Amaranthe asked.

“A woman. Sixty, sixty-five. She was reading a book. Sespian kept his back to her.”

“Sounds like the woman Basilard described from the athletes’ dinner. She must be his Forge escort to ensure he doesn’t get out of line.”

“Not for long,” Sicarius said.

“Er, don’t you think you’ve killed enough of their people this week? If we turn them into martyrs—”

“She may be the one who put that implant in Sespian’s neck,” Sicarius said. “She may be the one who has the power to kill him if he goes astray.”

“She may simply be along for the ride.”

“I’m not risking that.” Nothing in Sicarius’s tone suggested she could persuade him otherwise.

Amaranthe sighed. “Be careful then. She may be a practitioner.”

With the darkness shrouding Sicarius’s face, she couldn’t see him giving her a you’re-stating-the-obvious look, but she could feel it.

“I know, you don’t need my advice on how to navigate battles, but women say things like ‘be careful,’ when we mean, ‘I care about you, and I don’t want you to get hurt.’ It’s our way of keeping feminine sentimentality to a minimum. I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Sicarius said nothing to that, though his gaze seemed to soften a tad.

The clouds had blown away, revealing a quarter moon. Amaranthe leaned back against the wall of the rail car and pulled her watch out again. Two and a half hours to the pass. “Maybe... once we have Sespian on our side... we can help him fix the empire and turn it into a place where you don’t feel compelled to kill people anymore.”

Sicarius sat back against the wall as well, this time letting his shoulder touch hers. “What would I do for a living?”

Amaranthe squinted at him, suspecting him of making one of his oh-so-rare jokes. With all of his skills, he could qualify for countless jobs. “I understand Maldynado is still acquainted with that lady who runs the male escort service. With your physique and agility, you ought to be able to entertain her clients effectively.”

“At what rate of payment?” he asked in his usual monotone.

The prompt and unexpected response made Amaranthe fumble her watch and drop it. Now, she knew he was joking. She thumped him on the arm and said, “Never you mind. If we fix the empire, you’re not entertaining anyone except me.”

Sicarius picked up the watch and pressed it into her hand. The warmth of his fingers brushing hers made her think of... Well, she wasn’t thinking of the mission.

Something clanked at the end of the coal car, and Amaranthe jerked away with a start. Had that been a door opening?

She sank deeper into their hollowed valley. Sicarius stayed low, but he shifted into a crouch.

“Corporal Kevelak?” someone called from the door to the first passenger car. “You up there?”

Across from them, Maldynado stirred as well. Amaranthe lifted a hand, hoping he saw it and wouldn’t take any action. She didn’t want anyone thinking it would be a good idea to impersonate the corporal. Nothing in the soldier’s voice sounded alarmed. For all he knew, his comrade had gone to water a bush and been left behind in Forkingrust. Amaranthe had a feeling the army would do a thorough search, but she hoped it would take time. It’d be far better for her plan if they could wait until the train reached the pass and the distraction of the blocked railway before her team had to make its move.

“You seen Corporal Kevelak, Sergeant?” the soldier called, louder this time. From the sound of his voice, he had poked his head over the lip of the coal car.

“What?” someone bellowed from the side door of the locomotive cab.

“Corporal Kevelak! Is he up there?”

“Not since we left Forkingrust,” came the return call.

“He was here, though, right? He handled the refueling?”

“Yes.”

After a moment, the door clanged shut again. The soldier had gone back inside, but whether to search for his colleague or alert a superior that something was going on, Amaranthe didn’t know.

She leaned close to Sicarius to ask him his opinion, but his hand covered her mouth as soon as she opened it. She squeezed his arm to let him know she understood the message. Be quiet.

Amaranthe tried to hear or sense whatever he’d heard or sensed. Wind blasted past the train, and the mounds of coal beneath her reverberated in synch with the wheels pumping below. She couldn’t detect anything out of place, but, from Sicarius’s vigilant posture, she assumed someone was coming from the other side.

She laid one finger on his wrist and turned her face toward him, so he’d know it was a question. He pressed two fingers against her wrist, then released her and disappeared over the side of the coal car.

Amaranthe figured he was going to skirt the outside, crawling along the moving train like a spider to come up behind the soldiers. She had better plan to handle the lead man.

Across from Amaranthe, Basilard and Maldynado had risen to crouches. Yara, back against the wall, looked like she meant to stay out of the way. Probably a good plan. Amaranthe waved to her men and pointed toward the locomotive, though she wasn’t sure they’d see the gesture in the poor light.

Coal crunched a few feet away, near the front of the car. A man came into view above Amaranthe’s hill of coal. Clad in the black uniform of the emperor’s personal guard, he loomed, a dark shape against the cloud-filled sky, his shoulders wider than a meter stick, his neck as thick as an oak tree. He had to be seven feet tall.

Crouched so low her butt skimmed the coal, Amaranthe hoped the shadows hid her. And she hoped she could surprise the guard. Because Maldynado and the others were farther back, she should move first. Out of habit, her hand drifted to her sword, but she caught herself. They were subduing people without injuring them here. That had to be the goal. That and not being crushed by the behemoth.

A second guard stepped into view. Correction, Amaranthe thought, two behemoths. They walked one after the other down the center of the coal car, unaffected by the wind or the train’s reverberations.

The first man drew even with Amaranthe’s hollow. They didn’t have lanterns, and they were moving slowly, their heads swiveling from side to side. Searching.

Amaranthe thought of the knockout gas. Would it work out here in the open air?

The first man stopped. The shadows hadn’t cloaked Amaranthe enough—he was looking straight at her. Too late to dig out the knockout gas.

The second man disappeared from view behind him. It happened so quickly, Amaranthe almost missed it. The head and shoulders were in sight, and then they simply weren’t.

The first man’s rifle shifted toward Amaranthe, but his comrade must have made a sound, for he glanced back. She didn’t hesitate. She might not get another opening.

Amaranthe skittered up the hill of coal in front of her, both to get closer to the guard and to escape the rifle’s sights. Before the man could spin to track her, she rammed a sidekick into the edge of the man’s knee. The blow might have sent a lighter opponent stumbling to the ground, but he merely growled and whipped his rifle toward her head.

Figuring he expected her to run or dodge to the side, Amaranthe ducked and lunged in closer instead. She turned sideways and rammed her elbow into his groin. He bent over with a grunt and dropped the rifle, but that didn’t keep him from reacting. His arms came down, attempting to grab her and crush her—or maybe hurl her from the car.

Amaranthe skittered between his legs and spun toward his back. He wasn’t as slow as she’d hoped, and he was already whirling about, his huge hand curled into a fist. She jumped and caught a handful of his uniform at the back of his shoulder, then scampered up his side like a mountain goat. Before he could recover and tear her off, she reached the top of the “mountain” and drove her elbow into the sensitive vertebrae at the back of his neck. Fear and nerves lent power to the strike, and he dropped like a sack of coal.

That was all she needed to do, for Basilard and Maldynado were there by then, swarming over the guard. While Maldynado forced the man into a neck lock, Amaranthe fished out a gag and bindings.

“What took you two so long?” she whispered.

“We stopped to watch,” Maldynado said, a grin in his voice. “You were all over him like a pack of cats on a saucer of cream. We didn’t want to make a mistake and hit you. Besides, you looked like you had him under control.”

“Of course, I did.” Amaranthe was glad the darkness hid the post-fight tremor in her hands. She wouldn’t want to face one of the emperor’s bodyguards on even terms. That one had probably been night blind, after being inside the cab with lanterns and a furnace, and had struggled to follow her movement. “Also, I think cats are a clowder, not a pack. Unless you’re thinking of large wild cats, in which case it’s a pride. I’m not sure if they’re cream zealots though.”

“Did you intend to sound like Books, there?” Maldynado asked. “Or was that an unfortunate mishap?”

“Er.” Yes, Amaranthe was fairly certain Books had been the one to share that tidbit of information with her. When nervous, she had a tendency to babble—or burble, as Sicarius said—but this wasn’t a good time for verbosity. “Never mind, let’s move on.”

A few feet away, the second bodyguard lay on his back, a gag stuffed into his mouth. Of course, nothing intimidated Sicarius.

But he’d disappeared. Into the locomotive?

He must have decided he couldn’t risk attacking the guards with the engineer at his back. But if he’d taken out the engineer, who was going to drive the train?

“Try to move them into one of the valleys we dug,” Amaranthe told Maldynado and Basilard, “so they’re not visible to soldiers peeking in from the other end. Someone will need to stay with them too. I’m sure they’d get out of those bindings without someone watching them.” She blew out a puff of air, feeling the weight of her decision not to harm anyone.

“Why don’t we just toss them over the side?” Maldynado suggested. “That’s what we did with those blokes traveling with the weapons.”

“You did what? I didn’t tell you to do that.”

“We didn’t have any choice. They were searching the train.”

“We’re going fifty miles an hour. I’d be shocked if throwing someone overboard wouldn’t break his neck.” Amaranthe closed her eyes, wondering if the men’s actions on the other train meant there were more deaths she was responsible for.

“Nah, look at how thick those necks are,” Maldynado said. “You’d be lucky to break them with a steam hammer.”

“Just... guard them, Maldynado. Basilard, come up front with me, please.”

Sergeant Yara was standing in the background, probably not certain what was expected of her. Amaranthe gave her a stay-there wave. She didn’t want Yara to feel she had to be a part of this. Once they got Sespian, that’s when she’d have a role.

Amaranthe and Basilard climbed over the front of the coal car and onto the back of the locomotive cabin. As they angled toward one of the side doors, wind scoured the train, railing against them. They had to claw their way from handhold to handhold, the cold iron icy beneath their fingers. Trees streaked by, their branches outstretched, scraping and batting at the side of the train. Movement at the corner of Amaranthe’s eye spurred instincts into action, and she ducked a branch before it swept into her head. She gulped. If a branch struck her while she hung on the side...

Basilard touched her shoulder, a questioning prod, and Amaranthe pushed on. She wasn’t about to let the men know she was nervous.

The bifold door was closed. Light glowed behind large windows on either side, windows that would allow the engineer a view of someone approaching the entrance. Amaranthe stopped before leaning out and reaching for the door latch. What if Sicarius hadn’t gone up there? She couldn’t imagine where else he would have gone, but she might stumble into an awkward fight if she simply pushed her way inside.

She poked one eye around the corner. She didn’t see anyone in the cab. No Sicarius, no engineer or fireman.

“What’s going on?” Amaranthe muttered.

She grabbed the latch. Not locked. Good. She pulled the door open and leaped onto the footboard before catapulting inside.

Amaranthe landed in a crouch, fists balled, ready for a skirmish. That was when she noticed two men in blue engineering overalls sprawled on the textured metal floor along with copious amounts of spilled coal. One man lay beside her, his face pressed to the back wall, his ankles tied and hands bound behind his back. On the other side of the cab, in front of the furnace, Sicarius knelt over the second man. He was tying that one as well, though he paused long enough to arch an eyebrow at Amaranthe’s overzealous entrance.

Basilard slipped in behind Amaranthe and also gave her a curious look. She noticed her hands were still balled into fists and raised one to cover a fake yawn, as if she hadn’t been concerned at any point in the mission thus far.

Sicarius manhandled the fireman into a position on the back wall next to the engineer. Both men were alive and glaring at him, though gags in their mouths kept them from voicing complaints.

“I hadn’t planned to take over the cab.” Amaranthe tucked stray strands of hair back into her bun. “Was it necessary to subdue them?”

“They would have grown suspicious when the guards left and did not return,” Sicarius said.

True, but inconvenient. Now someone would have to stay up there and drive the train. Maybe two people. She cursed under her breath. When they charged into the emperor’s car, she would need all of her men. That one fastidious corporal was spawning a lot of headaches.

Amaranthe eyed the front of the cab, wondering if there was a way to automate the train. The furnace was set into the left half with heavy cast iron doors that could swing open and closed again when someone stepped on a floor pedal. A shovel leaned to the side of it, beneath several wheels attached to pipes. Amaranthe had no idea what they controlled. All she knew was that shovel would need to be used again soon. A boiler capable of powering a locomotive would need heat applied constantly, lots of heat.

The engineer’s seat was on the right side of the cab, and all manner of gauges and levers adorned that station. The only thing Amaranthe could identify was the steam-whistle chain dangling from the ceiling. She leaned over the seat to peer out a vertical rectangle of a window. The long cylindrical engine took up most of the view, but she could see a little ways to the front of the right side of the train. She wasn’t sure what kind of lights were burning above the brush guard, but they didn’t illuminate as much of the rail as she would have thought. She hoped there’d be time to stop when they saw the landslide.

“We’ll be going slower when we start ascending into the mountains,” Sicarius said. “We can throw them and the other prisoners overboard without critically damaging them.”

“I’m glad you’re thinking of ways not to damage people, but what I’m really wondering is who’s going to drive this thing while we go after the emperor?”

Muffled words—curses most likely—came from the engineer. His shoulders flexed and strained as he tried to loosen his bonds. The fireman was glowering at her with eyes seething with hatred. She tried to offer them a disarming smile. They glared more fiercely. For all they knew, her team meant to assassinate Sespian and blow up the train, and she didn’t have time to explain otherwise, not that they would listen anyway.

“One of the men,” Sicarius said, ignoring the straining prisoners. His gaze shifted toward Basilard.

Basilard’s eyes widened. My people are simple nomads. I know how to hunt, fight, and put up a tent. He stared at the controls for a moment before adding, This looks a lot more complicated than a tent.

“Maldynado then,” Sicarius said.

“Dear ancestors, do you want us to crash?” Amaranthe asked. “Besides, we need everyone if we’re to have a chance against a car full of soldiers. How many people are in there with Sespian? Twenty?”

“Twenty-three soldiers and bodyguards. And the woman.”

Who might have skills as a practitioner. Lovely. And then there was the fact that there were more soldiers in the neighboring cars. If they didn’t figure out a way to retrieve Sespian quietly and quickly...

“We need everyone,” Amaranthe repeated.

“Talk the enforcer woman into doing it,” Sicarius said.

That... might work. As a rural enforcer, she’d know how to drive a lorry. How much different could it be? Amaranthe considered the furnace, the engineer’s station, and the prisoners. It was a lot to ask, especially when Yara hadn’t promised full support—or any kind of support—for the mission. Still, it would keep her out of the way of the fighting.

“Basilard, will you get her please?” Amaranthe unfastened one of the lanterns mounted on the wall and handed it to him. Maldynado would need to see Basilard’s hands to know what he was saying.

Basilard nodded and slipped back outside.

“You intend to defend this point until we reach the pass?” Sicarius asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe we’d be better off letting the furnace burn out while we’re getting Sespian. Then we can grab him, jump off when the train slows, and disappear into the woods. We can find a way to meet up with the others and...”

Sicarius was shaking his head. He pointed to a clock on the wall. “We’re two hours from the pass—nearly a hundred miles. It’d take us days on foot, and we’d have dozens of soldiers following us through the forest. Hundreds when word gets back to Forkingrust.”

Despite their predicament, Amaranthe managed a smile. “You say that like it’d be difficult for you. I thought evading soldiers was one of your favorite hobbies.”

“Not if I can’t harm them,” Sicarius said, gaze hard and unwavering.

Amaranthe dropped her smile. “Then we better plan to return here and maintain control at all costs.” She knocked on the back wall of the cab. “We’ll have a bargaining chip—the power to control the train—and, if need be, we can defend this position. It’ll be hard for them to get over the coal car and at us without exposing themselves.”

“If we aren’t going to shoot them, they won’t fear to expose themselves.”

Uh, yes, that was a good point. They needed a better plan.

Amaranthe grabbed the shovel next to the furnace. How were they going to defend a position when they couldn’t use their weapons? She stepped on the floor switch to open the furnace door. The fire had already burned low in the short time since Sicarius had taken down the fireman and engineer. She shoveled fresh coal into the furnace until the red embers along the bottom disappeared beneath leaping flames. Waves of heat flowed from within. Maybe they could do something with fire? No, she dismissed that idea as quickly as it came. She’d end up with the entire train on fire if they flung flames back toward the coal car. The mere thought made her glance about until she found a fire station: an axe, bucket of sand, and hose reel mounted on a narrow strip of wall behind the engineer’s chair.

Aware of Sicarius watching her, Amaranthe said, “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.” She used the shovel to sweep the coals spilled on the floor back into the pile beneath the chute.

“Before or after soldiers are streaming into the locomotive?” Sicarius asked.

“I’ll let that be a surprise.” Amaranthe winked. If only she felt half as confident as she pretended.

“Quit pushing,” came Yara’s voice from outside. “Don’t touch me at all. Ever.” She came into view on the other side of the window, inching her way toward the door.

Wind gusted against her, flinging her short hair to one side, but Amaranthe didn’t think it was the source of her irritation. Maldynado came into view, crawling along the outside of the train after her. Ah, yes.

Yara lunged around the corner and into the cabin, grabbing the back of the engineer’s seat for support. Maldynado hopped in behind her.

“You cannot be any fun in bed,” he told Yara.

“You’ll never find out,” she growled back.

Amaranthe was sweeping the last few coals into the pile beneath the chute. She was about to say something, but Maldynado spoke first.

“Boss, are you cleaning? In the middle of our train-infiltration mission?”

“No.” Amaranthe blushed and set the shovel aside. “I’m just tidying what may become a fighting area. I don’t want anyone slipping on loose coal.” Before he could make any silly comments, she added, “What are you doing up here, Maldynado? I told Basilard to get Yara, not you.”

“I figured that was an oversight on your part. You know you’ll need me up here.” Maldynado slid into the engineer’s seat and caressed a few gauges. “Nice, I’ve never driven a train.”

“And you’re not going to tonight either,” Amaranthe said.

“Thank the emperor’s ancestors,” Yara muttered.

“You’re driving,” Amaranthe told her.

“What?”

“Just for a few minutes while we retrieve the emperor. It’ll be easy.” Amaranthe pointed to the window in front of the engineer’s seat. “As you can see, being on a rail means there’s no steering required. You’ll just have to add more fuel when that gauge over there gets low, and, uh, that gauge looks important too. Watch that. That one too. It’ll be easy. You’ll figure it out.” Amaranthe had a notion that if she claimed the task would be easy numerous times and flew through her dubious instructions, they’d seem less daunting. “Oh, and you’ll need to keep an eye on those two men. Sicarius tied them up, so I’m sure they’ll find escape elusive, but you never know.”

Yara did not seem to be an easily flappable person, but something akin to terror was creeping into her eyes. So much for “less daunting.”

“I know it sounds like a lot, but the emperor didn’t promote you to sergeant for no reason,” Amaranthe said. “You can handle this.”

Maldynado slid out of the engineer’s chair, propped an elbow on Yara’s shoulder, and pointed to Amaranthe. “She’s like this all the time. She comes up with these ludicrous schemes and then expects other people to do crazy things they’ve never done before to make them happen. You’d think we’d all be dead by now, but oddly enough she’s usually right and people can handle the things she thinks they can. She’s sort of smart like that.”

That had to be one of the more convoluted defenses Amaranthe had ever received. If it truly could be called a defense. “Remind me not to ever have you speak on my behalf before the magistrate,” she told Maldynado.

“What?” Maldynado touched his chest. “I’m a fine speaker.”

Yara recovered from her stunned silence and glowered at Maldynado’s elbow. It was still on her shoulder. “Did we not just discuss touching?”

Maldynado lifted his hands skyward. “Apologies, my lady.”

Amaranthe removed a folded kerchief from her pocket and dusted off the engineer’s chair. “Ready?” She extended a hand, offering Yara the seat.

“No,” Yara grumbled. “But I’m probably less likely to get killed up here than if I assaulted the emperor’s rail car with you and your men.”

“Exactly.”

Amaranthe turned to tell Sicarius they were ready—he wouldn’t appreciate this silly chitchat—but he had disappeared. “Emperor’s warts,” she muttered and grabbed Maldynado’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Maldynado went first, easing outside and onto the side of the locomotive. Amaranthe started to follow, but paused in the doorway.

“By the way,” she told Yara, “you’ll need to figure out how to use the brake. We should be back long before you’ll need it, but it’s possible there’s a small landslide burying the tracks at the top of the Scarlet Pass.”

“Possible?” Yara twisted her head around to stare. “What’re you—”

“Can’t talk now. Need to run!” Amaranthe gave her a short wave and slipped out the door.

She picked her way back to the coal car, wondering if Yara would try to flatten her with a fist when she returned. She was relieved when she found Sicarius crouching beside Basilard. The two soldiers were still bound and gagged, their feet visible behind one of the mounds of coal.

Amaranthe and Maldynado knelt beside Sicarius and Basilard.

“Has that first soldier been back out?” Amaranthe asked. “The one looking for the corporal?”

Yes, Basilard signed. He was with a second soldier and they were saying they’d have to inform the lieutenant of the missing man.

“We haven’t much time then.” Amaranthe found her rucksack and pulled out the smoke grenades and canisters of knockout gas. She handed a can of each to everyone. “Sicarius and Basilard will go in on the far side of the fourth car. I trust I don’t have to remind anyone that we have to cross the roofs with the utmost care, because if anyone hears us and looks outside, our infiltration will be over before it starts.”

“Stealthy like a cat, we can do that,” Maldynado said.

Basilard quirked an eyebrow at him but simply nodded for Amaranthe’s sake.

Sicarius took the canisters without a word.

“Maldynado and I will enter through the front of the fourth car. We’ll all have to be careful to drop down onto the balconies when nobody in the adjacent car is looking out the door. Once on the balconies, we’ll go in promptly and throw the smoke grenades and unleash the knockout gas right away.” She demonstrated pulling the tab. “Use the canisters at your discretion, but try to conserve what we have in case we need more later.”

Amaranthe looked at Sicarius. Given how important this was to him, she half-expected him to take charge of the mission and start issuing orders.

“Understood,” was all he said. The others nodded as well.

The way they were all listening intently, trusting her to know what she was talking about, made her nervous. Too late to doubt yourself now, girl, she thought.

“Everyone, get your masks out. We’ll put them on here and get used to breathing through them. Be careful inside. If anyone punches you in the face or otherwise knocks your mask askew, you’ll be on the floor, snoring with the soldiers.”

Hands delved into rucksacks to withdraw the gear.

“We’ll take everyone down as quickly as possible,” Amaranthe went on, “but I’m sure the soldiers in the other cars will figure out something is going on as soon as the smoke fills the air in the emperor’s car. We’ll lock, and if possible jam, the doors as soon as we’re inside. That should delay reinforcements.”

Maldynado lifted a finger. “What if the doors are locked right now, and we can’t get in?”

Amaranthe dipped a finger into an ammo pouch on her utility belt and slid a small velvet bag out from amongst the crossbow quarrels. She upturned it, dumping two keys onto her palm, and handed one to Sicarius. “I had Books research the Navigator class train, including a visit to the smith who keyed the locks for this one.”

“See, that’s why we let you lead,” Maldynado said. “Women think of things like that. If it were up to us men to plan these missions, we’d end up having to hack our way in with axes.”

Amaranthe decided not to mention that Sicarius had first pointed out the locked-door possibility. She tugged her mask over her head and adjusted the straps. She slung her crossbow over her back, checked her short sword and knife, then untied the last item she would need from the outside of her rucksack, the kerosene-powered cutting torch. “Once everyone is tied or otherwise unable to give chase, and Sicarius has grabbed the emperor, find me. If there are soldiers trying to get in from both ends of the car, we may have to cut our way out through the roof.”

Sicarius eyed the tool for a moment, and Amaranthe thought he might object to something, but he nodded and said, “Ready.”

They piled the gear they weren’t taking into a corner where they could grab it on the way back to the locomotive, and it was time to go.

* * * * *

Akstyr had lain on his back in the dark for a long time. At some point, his wounds had stopped bleeding, though the leg and shoulder throbbed, competing with each other for attention. He’d tried to heal himself a few times, but he was struggling to concentrate through the pain. He thought about climbing out of the engine room and trying to find bandages, but it sounded like an excruciating trek. It was silly at his age—he was within spitting distance of eighteen, after all—but he wished he had someone there to take care of him. These were the times when he missed having a mother who cared.

Tears stung his eyes. He told himself it was from the pain, and not because he was feeling sorry for himself.

Besides, he would have someone to take care of him if he hadn’t messed everything up. Books would have helped him, but now that he knew about Akstyr’s stupid plan with the bounty hunter, Akstyr was lucky Books hadn’t pushed him back out the hatchway.

Akstyr couldn’t believe he had, even for a second, thought his mother might have changed. He wondered how much money she’d been offered to share the information on his whereabouts. What kind of person told bounty hunters where to find her own child?

“Maybe the same kind of person who would do it to comrades who’ve saved his life,” Akstyr muttered. He rubbed his face. In thinking of betraying Sicarius, he’d been no different than his mother. Did he really want to be someone who’d use people for protection and personal gain, then betray them? Maldynado and Basilard and the others were the closest thing to friends he’d ever had. His dead ancestors knew they were the first people he’d ever known who wouldn’t betray him for five ranmyas and a mug of cider. Even after learning about the deal Akstyr had tried to work with that bounty hunter, Books hadn’t kicked him off the dirigible.

Akstyr rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. Waves of pain radiated from his injured limbs, but he clawed his way up the ladder anyway. He found Books in the navigation cabin and plopped down in the co-pilot’s chair. He couldn’t tell if the ship had moved. The snow had stopped, but it was still dark outside with craggy snow-covered mountains looming all about.

“Does Am’ranthe know?” Akstyr asked.

Books gave him a scathing look.

“That’s a no?” Akstyr asked.

“Oh, she knows. We found out at the same time. She wanted to give you another chance. More than that, she wanted to find a way to raise the money to send you to school on the Kyatt Islands so you’d no longer feel compelled to betray us for funds.”

“She did?” Akstyr tried to swallow, but a full feeling in his throat made it hard. Tears pricked his eyes, and he wasn’t sure if they were from pain or frustration or distress. Why was Amaranthe trying to do stuff like that anyway? It didn’t make any sense.

“Yes. And, no, I can’t fathom why she cares. Maybe she’s decided to make you a special project. Women do that.” Books reached into a box on the floor, pulled out a jar of ointment and a bandage, and threw them at Akstyr. Yes, threw was the right word. Akstyr would have had another bruise if he hadn’t caught the jar. “Wash your wounds before you bandage them,” Books said.

It wasn’t exactly like having someone to take care of him, but Akstyr couldn’t bring himself to feel indignant just then. In a quiet voice, he asked, “Are you going to tell her?”

“About these gang thugs that are after you?” Books asked. “Yes, she’ll need to know. When people attack you in the middle of one of our missions, it affects the whole group.”

“I meant about my mother. It’s not like the meeting with Khaalid. I didn’t mean to tell her anything about the group. I was just...”

“Negligent?” Books suggested.

Again, Akstyr couldn’t bring himself to bristle with indignation.

“Possibly a forgivable sin,” Books said, “but if you have even the tiniest speck of wisdom floating around in that young head of yours, you’ll apologize to Amaranthe for mucking up her plans. And, if I were you, I’d make sure I didn’t get caught alone with Sicarius any time soon.”

Akstyr gulped. “Does he know too?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I haven’t told him you’re targeting him with your schemes, and I don’t think Amaranthe has either. I suppose we all believe that Sicarius can take care of himself.” Books returned his focus to the control panel and shifted a lever an inch. “That said, he’s not a dumb man, and you’re not a subtle man, so you’d best assume he knows more than you think he does.”

“You think he’d kill me over...?”

“I don’t think he believes in special projects.”

“But Am’ranthe... he kind of listens to her,” Akstyr said. “Right?”

“I don’t know what their agreement is, but he’s his own man, and he seems to pay attention to her only insofar as it furthers... I don’t know what his reason is for being here, but I’m positive he has one. Some agenda against Forge perhaps. He’s shown that he’s perfectly capable of doing something of which Amaranthe would wholeheartedly disapprove.” Books gave Akstyr another dark look. “She never would have agreed to the mass assassination of dozens of businessmen and women in the capital.”

“All right,” Akstyr said. “I’ll heed your warning.”

Books muttered something that sounded like, “Doubt it.” Before Akstyr could respond, he raised his voice and pointed out the window. “See that precipice?”

“Barely. It’s dark.”

“Yes, that happens at night. I need you to bandage yourself up, then go down there and stand on it. It overlooks the railway about a mile away from the now-blocked pass. I’m going to hover below you in this canyon, so the dirigible won’t be visible from the tracks. You watch for the train. When it comes and it looks like the team is ready for us, signal to me, so I can come out and pick them up.”

“That’s kind of an important job,” Akstyr said. “I’m surprised you trust me to do it after... everything.”

“We abandoned the tattooed pilot, so you’re the only candidate. Hurry up, now. They could be coming along any time.”

Without objection, Akstyr went off to wash his leg and wrap the dog bite. For reasons he didn’t quite grasp, Books was giving him a second chance. Maybe Amaranthe would too. Sicarius... He’d hope to avoid Sicarius for the near future.

Akstyr was barely able to hobble on the leg hurt, but he did it without collapsing. If all he had to do was sit on a ledge and watch a canyon, he could manage. He had a feeling he should be on good behavior for a while.

He limped to the hatchway of the navigation cabin. “I’m going.”

Books waved at him without looking back.

Akstyr hesitated. “Books?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to be like my mother.”

Akstyr left before Books could say anything pedantic or sappy. He wanted someone in the group to know. That was all.

Chapter 14

The roofs of the passenger cars extended over the balconies, meaning that less than three feet of open air lay between them, but making that long step when the train was rattling along at full speed wasn’t so easy. Especially when everyone was carrying weapons and had to be careful not to make any noise that might be heard inside. Amaranthe let the men go first and, when they crossed the gap from coal car to passenger car without incident, steeled herself and followed.

A side wind gusted as she stepped across, upsetting her balance. She managed to recover without flailing overly much, though she grimaced, expecting a wisecrack from Maldynado. Nobody spoke. They simply nodded their readiness.

Sicarius took the lead. He used a light, sweeping step so there would be no footfalls to hear below. Amaranthe and the others emulated him. Slowly and carefully, they eased from roof to roof.

Here and there, windows were open, and laughter spilled out. Occasionally the scent of some officer’s pipe smoke escaped as well. Good. That meant the soldiers were still relaxed. Just men passing the time on the tail end of a weeks-long journey. Maybe they’d be busy playing Tiles or nodding off to sleep, and no one would be paying attention to what was going on in the fourth car.

When the team reached that fourth car, Amaranthe’s heart rate jumped into double time. Maybe triple time.

Easy, she told herself. We’ve done dozens of crazy missions, some far more dangerous than this. In trying to convince herself, she thought of the makarovi they’d fought at that secret dam. That had been pure insanity. Here they’d only be dealing with human beings.

Somehow those thoughts failed to help. Maybe because the stakes were different. The potential for reward was higher—Sespian could remove their bounties and turn them into trusted allies of the empire with a wave of a pen—and the price of failure was greater too. Before they’d been risking their lives, but now they were risking the emperor’s as well. If everything fell apart, and bullets starting flying, what if Sespian were hit? Amaranthe couldn’t imagine how Sicarius would react if he survived and Sespian didn’t.

“Ready?” Maldynado asked.

Sicarius and Basilard had crossed the gap and reached the end of the emperor’s car. Basilard lifted a questioning hand, waiting. Amaranthe gave him a wave.

“Ready,” she said.

She knelt and poked her head over the lip of the roof. Unfortunately, the doors had windows in them, meaning anyone inside could glance out and see her and Maldynado dropping onto the balcony. Fortunately, the lanterns burning in the third car had been turned down for the night, and the soldiers she could see were in their seats, facing away from the back door. She and Maldynado ought to be able to swing down to the balcony without being spotted, at least from that direction.

Lights burned more brightly in the emperor’s car. Instead of rows of identical seats running from end to end, it had the feel of a clubhouse for the wealthy, with sofas, gaming tables, and even a kitchen area. She glimpsed the back of Sespian’s head. His short, light brown hair wasn’t distinctive, but he and the woman were the only people not in military uniforms.

One of the emperor’s hulking bodyguards strode toward the door’s barred window, his broad form blocking the view. Amaranthe yanked her head out of sight. Her mask caught on a rough corner, and she almost lost it.

“Problem?” Maldynado asked.

“Yes, but I’m hoping it’ll move in a moment.” Amaranthe looked toward the other end of the car. Sicarius and Basilard had already disappeared over the edge of the roof. “Or we could go in anyway,” she muttered.

No choice. Everyone had to go in together, whether a soldier was staring out the window or not.

Amaranthe took a deep breath to steady herself, then placed the door key between her teeth, turned sideways, and dropped between the roofs. She thrust her legs sideways and swung onto the balcony, landing in a crouch.

The bodyguard was still at the door.

Before Amaranthe could think of using the key, the door swung inward. The big guard filled the entry, and he was already whipping out a pistol.

Amaranthe grabbed her canisters of smoke and knockout gas, yanked the tabs, and threw the spewing devices between the guard’s legs. Before she’d finished, Maldynado swung down from the roof, both of his heels slamming into the guard’s chest. His momentum carried them both inside.

Amaranthe lunged through the door after them. She shut it behind her, sparing a glance for the other car. The soldiers over there weren’t charging toward her yet, but she knew they’d notice the trouble before long. Smoke already filled the air, and shouts echoed from the walls. Steel clanged against steel in the back—Sicarius and Basilard were in.

She found the lock on the latch and threw it, then looked around for something to further bar the door.

A piece of furniture flew out of the smoke toward her. Amaranthe dropped so low her butt bumped the floor. Wood slammed into the wall beside the door. It bounced off and landed in front of her. A chair. That would do. She snatched it and braced it under the knob.

When she turned, intending to help Maldynado, a man in black grabbed her by the throat. Before she had time to react, he jammed her against the wall, her legs dangling inches above the floor. His fingers tightened, bringing a burst of pain and cutting off her air. She grasped for his hands, trying to pry off a finger, so she could yank it backward and hurt him enough that he’d let go.

Those fingers were like wrought-iron bars. She couldn’t budge them. Hard unyielding eyes stared into her own, and the soldier’s grip only tightened.

Fear surged through Amaranthe’s limbs, and she had to force herself to think calmly, not to flail uselessly. She kicked out, trying to find his groin. The bottom of her mask and his thick arms blocked her view. She connected with flesh, but his grip didn’t lessen, and no pain bloomed across his face, so she must have hit his thigh.

The pressure on her neck tightened further, and heat rushed to her head. Her lungs urged her to find air, one way or another. Amaranthe tried another kick. It was less effective on the big man than the first. Black dots swam through her vision.

He drew back one of his arms to punch her or maybe to thrust a knife into her belly. She couldn’t dodge, not when he had her pinned by the neck, but she still had her arms free. She timed the blow and threw all the power she could into a block. The inside of her forearm struck his hand, deflecting the attack just enough. A knife sank into the door an inch from her ribcage.

The blade caught in the wall, and pulling it out distracted the soldier for a heartbeat. The grip on Amaranthe’s neck lessened a hair.

She used the door against her back to brace herself as she tucked her legs up to her chest, her knees bumping the undersides of his arms. She kicked out, this time with both legs, aiming higher than before. Her heels slammed into his solar plexus.

The blow would have felled a lesser man, but the big guard only grunted and stumbled back a half a step. It was enough. He lost his grip on Amaranthe’s neck.

Before he could recover, she grabbed one of his meaty hands in both of hers. She twisted it and pressed her thumbs into the backside, forcing it against the wrist joint. It worked for a second—he went down on one knee and his face contorted—but he yanked his arm back, pulling Amaranthe with it. She lost her grip and almost tumbled into him. She stopped by bracing herself against a table flipped onto its side. By now, the entire car was a jumble of overturned furniture.

Amaranthe skittered backward and yanked her crossbow off her back. The soldier’s glare seared her like flames, but he didn’t rise from his one-knee crouch. Surprised he didn’t lunge at her, she aimed the bow between his eyes.

“Stay,” she said.

Beyond the soldier, the shouts and clashes of steel had grown less frenzied. The knockout gas, Amaranthe realized. It was working. Good. All they had to do was—

Fierce bangs sounded behind her, and she jumped. On the other side of the door, armed soldiers crowded the balcony. More men waited on the balcony of the car behind them.

One soldier smashed the butt of his rifle against the door’s window. Amaranthe expected the glass to shatter into pieces, but the thick material held, at least under this first assault.

Amaranthe spun, thinking to find Maldynado and get his smoke grenade. The less those soldiers outside could see the better.

She almost tripped over her first attacker—he’d collapsed onto the carpet. A step past him, Maldynado knelt over a prone soldier, seemingly having the upper hand, but he was gripping a chair for support. His mask hung askew, leaving his nose exposed to the air.

Amaranthe adjusted it for him while keeping an eye on the action—even as she watched, a body flew through the air, landing hard against a bank of windows before sliding down onto a sofa. The smoke made it impossible to see who was where, but she was relieved that the numerous inert figures sprawled on the floor or draped over furniture were all wearing uniforms.

“No falling asleep,” Amaranthe told Maldynado, yelling to be heard over the shouts and bangs coming from without as well as lingering ones from within. She tightened the strap around his head and added, “You’re too heavy for anyone to carry out of here.”

Maldynado blinked at her with glassy eyes, but he managed to lever himself to his feet. “What, only the emperor gets a free ride?”

He pointed toward the left side of the car, and Amaranthe was tempted to head in that direction, but glass broke behind her. Someone was going to have to fight off the soldiers trying to get in on her end. She swapped the crossbow for the blowtorch and handed the tool to Maldynado, then took a smoke grenade clipped to his belt.

“Let’s trade,” she said. “Find the others, and as soon as they have Sespian, cut a hole in the ceiling so we can get out that way.” Amaranthe didn’t like the vision she had of leaping from rooftop to rooftop with soldiers shooting at them from each balcony, but now that they’d been forced to move before the landslide distraction, she didn’t see that they had another choice, not if they wanted to get back to the locomotive.

More glass cracked behind her. Amaranthe grabbed her crossbow and strode back to the door, only to find the glass hadn’t yet broken under the soldiers’ assault.

She spun around, looking for what had shattered.

A weapon fired, and a bullet whizzed past her ear, stealing a tuft of hair. She lunged behind an upturned table, her heart thundering in her chest, and tried to see where the shot had come from.

There. A soldier was hanging from the roof by one hand and knocking broken shards of glass away from one of the side windows, trying to make a hole large enough to crawl through. He’d discarded the one shot pistol, but the determined fury on his face said he’d have no trouble strangling Amaranthe with his bare hands once he got inside.

Amaranthe thumbed the tab open on the smoke grenade and set it where it’d cloud the air between her and the soldier and also between her and the door. Crossbow in hand, she jumped onto a chair near the intruder. He saw her coming, but he couldn’t stop her when he was dangling from one hand outside the train.

“Go back to the other car,” Amaranthe said, trying to look like a crazy woman who would love shooting him, as she aimed the crossbow at his face.

Thanks to the smoke wafting everywhere, her bloodshot eyes probably were crazy looking, but there was no fear on the soldier’s face. Lips curled into a ferocious snarl, he thrust his arm through the window, grabbing for the crossbow. The length of his reach surprised Amaranthe, but she pulled the weapon back, evading him. The soldier let go of the roof and gripped the glass-filled frame of the window with both hands. Blood streamed down the broken pane, but he didn’t seem to notice. He pulled himself forward, trying to thrust his broad shoulders through the window, even as his legs dangled outside, thumping where they bumped against the train wall.

Amaranthe’s finger tightened on the trigger. She couldn’t let him in, not when more would follow, but if she shot him, if they shot anyone...

Bashes continued at the door she’d come through, and the chair she’d used to add strength to the lock fell away. A crack sounded, the thick glass finally giving.

Amaranthe flipped the crossbow around, gripping it by the lathe. She swung the weapon at the soldier’s face like a club. He couldn’t dodge, not when he was wedged part way through the window, and it cracked against his skull. Reverberations coursed up Amaranthe’s arm. She gritted her teeth and swung again.

It wasn’t a good solution, but it was the best she could come up with. If he was forced to let go and fell, he might still live. If she had to shoot him...

The man roared in pain, but hung on with the tenacity of a tick. She refined her attack and aimed for his hands instead of his head. Despite battered, broken fingers, he refused to let go.

Footsteps beat against the roof. Amaranthe glanced over her shoulder, hoping Maldynado had burned an escape hatch and that was the sound of her men climbing out, but that wasn’t the case. Maldynado and Basilard were standing in the middle of the aisle, pointing upward and arguing. She didn’t see Sicarius, but smoke obscured the back half of the car. Either way, that wasn’t him up there. There was far more than one pair of feet making those thumps.

Another window broke on the other side of the train. In the seconds she’d been distracted, Amaranthe’s soldier had crawled farther inside. Her swings grew harder and more desperate. He knew she wasn’t trying to kill him, and he wasn’t going to give up.

Frustration burned Amaranthe’s eyes almost as must as the smoke. They weren’t going to be able to get out of this. If soldiers were on the roof and on either end of the car, where could her team go to escape?

“Let go, curse your ancestors,” Amaranthe growled at the soldier.

“Die, bitch,” he spat back.

Something in his tone made her pause. Defeat? The soldier had stopped pushing through, and he was glaring at her and breathing heavily, but his eyes had a glassy mien. Maybe he’d sucked in enough knockout gas to dull his senses. Or maybe he’d lost enough blood to do the same. He’d probably done more damage to himself crawling through the glass than he’d received from her beating.

Something brushed Amaranthe’s shoulder, and she spun, crossbow clenched in her hands.

Sicarius stood in the aisle with Sespian slung over his shoulder and a pistol in his hand. His eyes were grim above his mask, and blood spattered his hands and face. Sespian wasn’t moving.

“They’re on the roof,” Sicarius said, his voice distorted by the mask. “We’ll have to start shooting people if we hope to escape.”

“No,” Amaranthe said.

A slam sounded at the door, and more glass cracked. Smoke hid the window, but she knew it was weakening.

“Then we’ll be captured,” Sicarius said.

“No, give me another option.”

Maldynado and Basilard joined them. Maldynado waved the torch. “I stopped trying to cut through the roof when people started climbing around up there. There’s all sorts of wood in here. I could light the place on fire.”

“With us inside?” Amaranthe asked. “That’s not the option I had in mind.”

A window broke in the middle of the car, and shards of glass flew inward. Basilard ran to take care of the intruder.

“Everyone in here is down, but there’s a man in the corner that was trying to get up,” Maldynado said. “I think this stuff is already wearing off.”

Amaranthe stood, eyes searching the car, seeking inspiration. If they couldn’t go out the windows, through the doors, or through the roof, the only way open was...

She arched her eyebrows. Down. Was down a possibility?

“How much clearance is there beneath the cars?” Amaranthe tried to picture the area between the wheels in her mind.

“You’re not serious,” Maldynado said.

Amaranthe looked at Sicarius, figuring that with Books not around he’d be most likely to know the answer. He was staring at her, probably thinking exactly what Maldynado had said.

“Could we crawl underneath the cars and couplings to bypass the soldiers and get back to the engine?” Amaranthe asked, though she grimaced as her gaze fell on Sespian. With him unconscious, someone would have to carry him, and she couldn’t imagine there was enough clearance for that.

“Boss, you’re not serious,” Maldynado repeated. “Are you? That’d be hard enough if the train were standing still. Even if there’s enough room...” He shook his head. “Miss one handhold or let your foot slip free, and you’d fall and be mangled to death under the wheels.”

Amaranthe grabbed the cutting torch from him. “I’m going to take a look. Give me two minutes.” She waved to encompass the windows and doors, or, more specifically, the soldiers trying to batter them down.

She stepped over unconscious bodies to find a spot in the middle of the car, then yanked out a dagger to cut away a square of the carpet. She wasn’t ready to start a fire. Yet.

A shot fired, and a lantern on the wall exploded.

“You idiots are going to shoot your own emperor!” Amaranthe yelled.

“Surrender or die!” someone yelled back.

“Surrender and die is more likely,” she huffed, shoving the severed carpet patch away.

Amaranthe maneuvered the blowtorch into position and found the trigger. A funnel of flames shot out, and she cursed, yanking it back so it wouldn’t light a nearby chair on fire. She found an adjustment knob, and the flame narrowed into a tight beam. She applied it to the floor, hoping it would perform as promised and cut through metal. The floor, she feared, would be thicker and sturdier than the roof.

The flame scorched the metal, but a hole appeared. A small hole. She moved the torch a half an inch. This might work, but it was going to take time. Maybe more time than they had.

A shot fired, this time from within the car.

“Who’s shooting?” Amaranthe demanded without taking her eyes from the torch.

“I’m not aiming to kill,” Maldynado said, “but they’ll be less eager to thrust themselves inside if they’re convinced I’m trying to shoot ’em.”

On the other side of the square she was cutting, Sicarius knelt to face Amaranthe. He hadn’t said anything about her plan. He set Sespian down, and the emperor’s head lolled to the side. With his eyes closed, soft brown hair across his brow, and his face peaceful with sleep, he appeared young, like a kid, not an emperor. Akstyr was younger, but Amaranthe doubted many people would guess on looks alone.

Her gaze slid to Sespian’s neck, and queasiness rolled into her stomach. The bump they had seen in the newspaper picture was there. Not a mole or wart or any sort of growth on top of the skin. It was definitely something burrowed beneath the flesh, leaving a bulge the size of a pencil top. It was identical to nodules they’d seen on the necks of other people who’d crossed Forge. All too well, Amaranthe remembered the thug Sicarius had been questioning in a warehouse and how the man had launched into convulsions before pitching to the floor, dead.

Sicarius caught her wrist and took the cutting torch. Amaranthe hadn’t been paying enough attention, and she’d strayed away from her line. He went to work, moving the tool along more efficiently than she had been.

“Does this mean you’re willing to try my idea?” Amaranthe asked.

Gunshots punctuated her words.

“We have few options,” Sicarius said. “I won’t surrender him.” He gave her a quick, determined look, and it sent a wave of fear over her. Not for herself, but for the soldiers shooting, chopping, and hacking their way into the car. Sespian would never forgive Sicarius for killing all of his men, and Sicarius had to know that, but maybe he was afraid that leaving Sespian here would mean his death at the hands of Forge, and he was willing to risk Sespian’s eternal hatred to save his life.

“Sicarius...”

He ignored her. The flame burning through the floor reflected off the textured metal around it and cast a wavering orange glow upon Sicarius’s face, creating a dance of shadows and light across it and showing his intense determination.

“Boss!” Maldynado called. “I almost lost my left nut with that shot. These soldiers aren’t worrying about—ouch! I mean, they’re not worrying about where they’re shooting. We can’t hold ’em back for long.”

“Light off any more smoke grenades you have,” Amaranthe yelled. “And pile up any loose furniture in front of the doors.”

Sicarius finished cutting the square in the floor. He set the torch aside and wedged his black dagger into one of the cracks.

“Be careful.” Amaranthe eyed the smoke rising from the blackened metal. “That’ll be hot.”

Sicarius flicked her a dry glance before prying open their new trapdoor without touching the edges.

“I know, I’m stating the obvious again,” Amaranthe said, “but remember, that saves you from something gooey and sentimental.”

Sicarius had stuck his head through the opening, and she didn’t know if he heard her. It was a good thing her aim had been ragged and the hole had ended up on the wide side, because there was a thick beam running beneath the right three inches.

Sicarius popped back up. “It’s doable. You go first.”

“Because this was my absurd idea?” Amaranthe joined Sicarius on the other side of the hole, so that she faced the front of the train, and dropped to her belly. She could hardly object to leading the way. It was her idea.

“Because you need to get to the engine first to figure out your plan for keeping the soldiers busy until we reach the pass.”

Amaranthe offered a bleak, “Ah.” Yes, she had promised to come up with something.

“And the farther back someone is, the more likely it is that one of the soldiers will have noticed someone going under the couplings and will be ready to shoot,” Sicarius added. “You’re not expendable. Neither is Sespian, so I’ll go after you.”

Amaranthe hoped Basilard and Maldynado weren’t listening just then. She also hoped her plan wasn’t going to condemn anyone.

She ducked her head through the hole. It was deafening down there, with the wheels grinding and clacking past each section of the tracks. There was no light either, so they’d have to go by touch. She had a vague sense of a two-foot clearance but also saw the dark bumps of beams and protuberances that would make it closer to a foot in places.

“Boss?” Maldynado was behind her, and Basilard behind him. Blood streaked both of their faces, and a bruise swelled on Basilard’s temple. “We piled up the furniture,” Maldynado said.

“We’re taking the shortcut back.” Amaranthe pointed to the hole. “You two can figure out who’s coming last.” She lifted the torch. “Last one to leave gets to light the place on fire.”

Basilard’s eyebrows flew up. Maldynado grinned and grabbed the tool.

“It’ll distract them,” Amaranthe told Basilard, “keep them from figuring out where we went at first. It might split their forces, too, if it means nobody from the back cars can get to the front.”

“Enough,” Sicarius said. “Go.”

“I’ve got the lock,” someone shouted from outside the backdoor.

Amaranthe nodded. Yes, no time to waste. She squirmed onto her back so she would be facing upward after she slid headfirst through the hole. She paused to look Sicarius in the eye.

“Are you going to be able to carry Sespian through this? There’s not much clearance.”

“I’ll figure it out.” He pointed at the hole. “If you want these soldiers to live, go now.”

“Right.” Amaranthe caught Basilard looking at her with concern in his blue eyes, and she forced a reassuring grin onto her face. “Someone told me cleaning fish doesn’t get any easier for having put the task off.” That was one of his grandfather’s sayings, as she recalled.

Basilard managed a quick grin, but the concern didn’t leave his eyes. Then a bang drew his attention, and he vaulted over the hole with his weapons in hand. Sicarius was busy with a coil of rope, figuring out a way to tie Sespian so he could carry him.

Amaranthe lowered her head below the floor, reaching her arm through the hole to grip the far side of the beam. The cold, coarse steel offered a ledge a couple of inches wide on either side, and, if it stretched the length of the car, she thought she could climb along it reasonably well. Holding on with her feet might prove more difficult, and she tried not to think about what would happen if her heels thumped down on the railroad ties at fifty miles an hour.

“Stop thinking,” Amaranthe muttered to herself. The men didn’t have time for her to stall.

She scooted forward, ready to go, when Sicarius touched her leg. Amaranthe met his eyes.

“Be careful,” he said, a slight widening of his eyes letting her know he’d been listening earlier and meant it the same way she had.

“I will.” Amaranthe slid her other hand through the hole to grip the beam. “No need to get sentimental.”

He kept a light touch on her leg as she wriggled the rest of the way through the hole, and she missed it when it was gone.

As she’d thought, gripping the beam with her hands was doable—all of Sicarius’s training had its uses, for she suspected she could hold her body weight from her hands for a long time—but when it was time to pull her legs through the hole, finding a place to put them was more of a challenge. The beam was attached to the bottom of the car, so there was nothing to wrap her limbs around. She experimented with a couple of positions and almost wished she’d left her boots behind, because it would have been easier to grab hold with her toes. She settled for turning her boots outward and propping her heels on the inside ledges of the beam. Though she couldn’t imagine a way to feel more awkward, it took some of the weight away from her fingers, and she was able to inch forward, one hand at a time, her heels sliding along behind her.

Less wind whistled beneath the train than Amaranthe had expected. If not for the noise in her ears, and the reverberations emanating from the beam, she could have pretended they were standing still.

She came to an axle and had to squeeze between it and the beam. How Sicarius was going to get through with Sespian, she had no idea. He’d probably need to go underneath it, but it would take more strength than she had to manage that feat.

Light filtered down from somewhere ahead of her. Amaranthe reached the end of the beam, and tilted her chin up, trying to see the balcony. A hint of vertigo struck her as she viewed the railway ties in two places, in the light seeping down from the nearest balconies and several cars ahead where the locomotive chugged toward the mountains, its own lights illuminating the track.

Amaranthe closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself, then focused on the balcony. She’d hoped she might get lucky and that she’d be going under the coupling after the men had already charged inside, but that wasn’t the case. The noisy hum of the wheels kept her from hearing voices, but people’s movements stirred the shadows.

Something touched her foot. Sicarius, inching along the beam after her. The other men would be coming through if they hadn’t already. Amaranthe couldn’t delay.

She stretched her hand toward a bar at the base of the balcony. Her forearms were starting to burn from the effort of holding her body above the rails, but she told herself to toughen up. There were still three more cars to pass under.

Picking her way from bar to metal protrusion to bar, she eased into the space between the cars. Dots of light came through the grating on the balconies, and boots stamped about, inches above Amaranthe’s nose. She thought the darkness would protect her if anyone looked down, but crawling beneath all those soldiers made her nervous. Sweat moistened her palms. She winced. The last thing she wanted now was a damp grip.

She reached the end of the balcony and considered the sturdy coupling between the cars. Grabbing it would take an athletic feat, but she was more worried about the soldiers looking down and spotting an arm wrapped around it. The darkness might be enough to hide her through the grate of the balcony, but this was far more exposed.

Amaranthe inched forward and watched the faces through the grating. Men were standing on both balconies, not pushing at each other but leaning forward, poised to surge in to help the emperor as soon as they got the chance.

“Fire!” someone shouted. “The bastards lit the car on fire!”

“They’ll only fry themselves.”

“And the emperor. Get in there, private!”

Hoping they were suitably distracted, Amaranthe stretched an arm toward the coupling. Her fingers brushed the cold iron several times before she found a good grip. The men, with their longer limbs would have an easier time of it.

She managed to get her other hand on it, but her feet had reached the end of the beam. She tried find a spot to brace them on the underside of the balcony. Her foot slipped and her heel bumped the ground before she jerked it back up. A jolt of pain surged up her leg. She bit back a yelp—any noise would draw the soldiers’ attention—and flexed every muscle in her torso to keep her legs up as she pulled herself across to the next balcony.

No shouts arose as she squirmed beneath the next car. Good. So long as the others made it through too. Maldynado might have trouble because of his size, and Sicarius... She couldn’t even fathom taking this route with a full-grown man strapped to her chest.

Amaranthe found a beam to follow on the next car and continued forward. A few shouts drifted to her, loud enough to be heard above the roar of the rails, but she couldn’t distinguish words. She could only hope the soldiers were yelling about the fire, not that they’d spotted her men.

By the time Amaranthe reached the coupling for the next car, her fingers and forearms were quivering. Sweat bathed her face, dripping down the sides of her upturned cheeks. More than once her fingers slipped, and she had to react quickly to keep from losing a hand or arm between the wheels.

There were no soldiers waiting on the next set of balconies, and she took her time crossing beneath the coupling. She thought about crawling out and finishing the trek via the roofs or even running through the car, but with the luck she’d had thus far that day, she’d probably run smack into a platoon of soldiers hanging back to solidify their strategy.

By the time she reached the next coupling, her shaking forearms were cramping up. She pulled her legs up and hooked them around the entwined pieces of metal, trying to give her upper body a break. The position left her staring at the coupling. It’d certainly be convenient if she could simply have Maldynado unhook it after he passed through. The idea of her team pulling away on the locomotive while the rest of the train rolled to a stop was an appealing one, but the stout metal hooks looked like they’d take machinery or at least stout tools to unfasten.

A touch on her boot reminded her that Sicarius was behind her. Enough resting.

Amaranthe pulled herself beneath the next balcony and didn’t pause again until she approached the coal car. Once there, a new thought invaded her mind. What if some of the soldiers had thought to check on the locomotive as soon as they realized they’d been invaded? What if men were even now waiting in the coal car, prepared to attack any intruders who showed up there?

Those thoughts stirred anxiety in her belly, and the more she dwelled on them the more certain she became that the soldiers would have sent someone to check on the engine. But, when the balcony came into view, nothing but cold, dark sky waited above the grate.

Arms trembling more fiercely than the train itself, Amaranthe gripped the thin balustrades on the end of the balcony and hauled herself upright, again having to flex every muscle she had to keep her legs from dipping down to strike the ground. When she finally pulled herself over the rail and both feet stood upon solid metal, she wanted nothing more than to flop down on her back for a rest. Sicarius’s hand fastened onto the edge of the balcony, though, and she squatted down to see if he needed help.

He pulled his way up, using the balustrades with one hand and the back of the coal car with the other. With Sespian strapped to his chest, he couldn’t easily climb facing a surface, but he scaled his way up between the two, like someone crawling up the inside of a chimney. Sicarius bypassed the balcony and pulled himself straight into the coal car.

Amaranthe leaned over the side to check on Basilard and Maldynado. In the blackness beneath the train, it was hard to see anything, but she thought she spotted two promising lumps. She thought to wait and help them up, but Sicarius called down from the coal car, his voice low and barely audible.

“Amaranthe, come.”

She crawled up to join him. At first, she thought he needed help unfastening Sespian, but Sicarius jerked his head toward the front of the car.

Amaranthe sank to her knees in the hard coal. The soldiers they’d tied up were gone.

“They got free,” she said, then chastised herself for stating the obvious again.

“Or were set free,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe thought of Yara. Unless the soldiers had rushed back to help with the emperor, they had to have found her in the locomotive. What if Amaranthe had recruited Yara to help, only to get her killed?

Sicarius finished untying his load. Sespian startled Amaranthe by scrambling backward, duck-crawling several feet before dropping to his backside, hands bracing him, his chest heaving as he stared at Sicarius.

Chapter 15

Emperor’s bunions, when had Sespian woken up? Under the train? That must have been a terrifying way to regain consciousness. Had he realized yet who’d been carrying him? In the darkness, perhaps not, but he would soon enough.

Without a word, Sicarius left, sprinting toward the locomotive. The wide-eyed way Sespian watched him go told Amaranthe he had figured out who was carrying him. Sicarius had once admitted that Sespian feared him as a boy, and she couldn’t imagine that adulthood had quite stolen that feeling.

Torn between wanting to check on Yara and reassuring Sespian, Amaranthe blurted a quick, “Good evening, Sire,” then winced. What an inane thing to say at such a moment. But it sounded blasé, too, and it pulled Sespian’s gaze back to her. “Welcome to your kidnapping. I imagine you have questions and requests, and I hope to be able to accommodate them shortly, but we have more work to do. Ah, if you don’t mind, wait here. The next two men who pop up will look after you.”

As Amaranthe raced after Sicarius, she realized she’d not only been insulting, by saying Sespian needed looking after, but that she’d presumed to give him, the emperor of the entire Turgonian nation, an order. Maybe she could later claim it’d been a suggestion.

Sicarius had already swung down into the locomotive cab via the left side of the train. Amaranthe headed right.

Envisioning Yara dead on the floor, her throat slit, Amaranthe scrambled around the outside of the car too quickly. She misjudged a ledge in the darkness, and her feet skidded down the slick metal surface. The sudden weight shift yanked at her shoulders, nearly tearing her fingers loose from their grips. For a moment, she hung by one hand, legs dangling above the rails, the wind threatening to rip her from the train altogether. Her breath escaped in a terrified squeak.

Her first reaction was fear—mind-numbing terror—but fury replaced it. She wasn’t going to survive crawling beneath the moving train and pulling the emperor out of a car full of soldiers only to stumble and fall for no reason.

With that thought, she found the strength to fling her arm up where she could reach a handhold again. Once she had solid metal beneath all ten fingers, she hauled herself up, biceps quivering, and pulled her legs back onto the ledge.

After that, it took a monumental effort not to fling herself into cab—and onto its solid, reassuring floor—before checking to see if it was stuffed with soldiers. She forced herself to approach slowly and peer around the corner before revealing herself.

Sicarius stood at the far side of the cab with three downed soldiers piled about him, including the fireman they had tied earlier. He wasn’t tied any more. A fourth soldier stood on the side closest to Amaranthe, his back protected by the engineer’s chair. He gripped Yara, using her as a shield as he held a knife to her throat. A cut lip streamed blood down her chin, and both of her eyes were swelling. She hadn’t given up the engine room without a fight.

Sicarius had been crouched, his black knife in his hand, as if he meant to spring, regardless of the threat to Yara, but he must have seen Amaranthe, for he straightened and lifted an open hand toward the soldier. He said something, though she couldn’t hear the words with the wind whipping at her hair and clothes. An offer to deal perhaps.

His eyes never flickered toward her, and Amaranthe didn’t think the soldier had noticed her yet. His back was mostly toward her. She eyed the arm holding the blade to Yara’s throat.

Amaranthe eased her own knife out. She lunged into the cab, her weapon slashing at the soldier’s arm before her feet hit the floor. It sliced through clothing and flesh, and he cursed, but he didn’t drop his own blade. Without releasing Yara, he stabbed at Amaranthe.

She skittered back, but the blade never came near her. Yara rammed an elbow into the man’s gut at the same time as Sicarius sprang across the cabin. He ripped the soldier away from Yara, and, in one fluid move, fastened his arms about the man’s neck. Under other circumstances, he might have broken that neck, but he merely applied a chokehold. The soldier’s face turned red, then purple, and Amaranthe knew he’d pass out from lack of air shortly.

Basilard appeared in the doorway that Sicarius had vacated. With so many people sprawled about the floor, he didn’t seem to know where to stand.

Yara slipped back into the engineer’s seat.

“Are you all right?” Amaranthe asked. The question earned her a dark glower.

“I hope you pay your men well if you put them through events like this often,” Yara said.

“Not really. I think they stick around to see what crazy scheme I’ll come up with next.” Amaranthe nodded to Basilard. “Did you pass the emperor?”

Basilard signed, Yes. Maldynado banged up his knees and the emperor was helping him into the coal car.

“Uh, I think we’re supposed to be helping the emperor, not the other way around,” Amaranthe said. “We better bring him up here to keep him safe. We’ll have to find some space.” She chewed on her lip and surveyed the packed cab. Sicarius dropped the purple-faced soldier, adding another unconscious man to the pile. “I don’t quite know what to do with all these bodies though.”

“The furnace is getting low on fuel,” Yara said.

Amaranthe threw her a startled look.

“It was a joke.” Yara touched her split lip. “Mostly.”

“The rest of the soldiers will figure out where we went before long,” Amaranthe said. “See if you can slow the train down to twenty miles an hour. At that speed, we ought to be able to drop people outside without killing them, but it won’t be so slow that men can jump off and run up here to attack us from the ground.”

“I haven’t figured out how to adjust speed yet,” Yara said.

Amaranthe looked around. “What happened to the engineer?”

“The soldiers who swarmed me untied him, and he was one of the first to attack your assassin when he burst in. Your man sidestepped and assisted him on his way off the train. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the scream.”

“Ah.” Amaranthe decided not to mention that she’d been busy almost assisting herself off the train at the time. “It’s probably not a good idea to get rid of the people with the knowledge of how to operate the massive piece of machinery you’ve hijacked.”

Sicarius wasn’t around to hear her comment. He’d stepped out of the cab and was standing on the ledge outside, head turned toward the coal car. Checking on the emperor or keeping an eye out for soldiers or both, Amaranthe guessed. Knowing they’d have company soon, she dropped her chin into her hand and considered the meager offerings of the engine cabin.

“Basilard,” she said, “can you try to... I don’t know, stack these men up in the back here, so we have room if we need to fight? I’m going to...” Her gaze snagged on the fire station and the hose hanging there. “That might help.”

Maldynado lunged into the locomotive, making the space even tighter with his bulky form. He shook his head so vehemently, his brown curls flopped about his face. “That was awful. Who’s idea was that?”

Amaranthe handled it without trouble, Basilard signed.

“That’s because she’s little,” Maldynado said. “She’s a woman. They don’t weigh much. I had to hold twice as much weight from my fingers. And squeezing past those axles? While they’re spinning around at a billion revolutions a second? I couldn’t figure out if I was supposed to go under them or over them. I almost lost an important appendage that Lady Buckingcrest would dearly miss, should I show up without it.”

“Where’s the emperor?” Amaranthe asked.

Before Maldynado could answer, Sergeant Yara, who was still sitting in the engineer’s chair, turned around and asked him, “Are you whining again?”

Despite the cramped quarters, Maldynado managed to get an arm around her shoulders. “Of course, my lady. These other blokes are on the quiet side, so one of my duties is being the voice of the group. If I don’t protest the working conditions on everyone’s behalf, how will the boss know which parts of her command need improvement?”

“Did you assign him that duty?” Yara asked Amaranthe.

Amaranthe was busy unraveling the hose and hunting for the controls that would turn it on. No fewer than twenty identical red handles adorned the cab. “Uhm, no,” she said. “I believe he assigned that one to himself. Maldynado, the emperor?”

Maldynado turned sideways. Sespian had slipped into the cab behind him. He stood about six feet tall, with a build similar to Sicarius’s although less muscular, and Maldynado’s height and wide shoulders had blocked the view of him. Amaranthe made eye contact and gave Sespian a reassuring wave. He offered a quick return smile, though it had a strained feel, like that of a man stuck in a grimbal’s den and hoping the massive predator wouldn’t eat him. As far as Sespian knew, Amaranthe and her team might be no better than the enemy he sought to escape.

“What duties did you assign him?” Yara asked. Nobody else seemed to have noticed Sespian yet.

“Maldynado?” Amaranthe asked. “His job is to look pretty and get us good deals from female shop clerks and businesswomen.” She handed Basilard the hose nozzle, then screwed the other end into a spigot next to the furnace. She assumed it attached to the water tank and hoped it had plenty of pressure behind it.

“And to beat things up,” Maldynado said. “Don’t forget that. I like to thump fellers.”

“He seems expendable.” Yara pushed Maldynado’s arm away from her shoulders. “Touching.”

“Men coming,” Sicarius called.

Amaranthe pointed to Basilard. “You spray anyone who gets close. Maldynado, man the tap.” She pushed bodies aside and pulled her crossbow off her back and handed it to Sicarius. “Five quarrels are loaded and there are more in my ammo pouch.” She unclasped it from her utility belt and handed to him. “Aim for limbs, please.” Whether the crossbow would prove less deadly than a rifle, she didn’t know, but being able to shoot five times without reloading was a boon.

“Understood,” Sicarius said.

“Your job is to turn the water on and off?” Yara asked when Maldynado sidled in next to her and placed a hand on the valve. A woman whose face sported so many contusions surely had little reason for mirth, but she seemed to find that amusing.

“For now,” Maldynado said, “but if any soldiers make it in here, I’ll thump them good, and then you’ll be thanking me for the protection.”

“Doubtful.”

“Yara, I need you to figure out how to slow down the train long enough for us to clear out some of this dead weight,” Amaranthe said.

Yara’s smirk faded, and she nodded curtly, as if she’d been given an order from a commanding officer. Amaranthe pulled open a toolbox mounted on the back wall next to the coal chute.

“What’re you going to be doing during all of this, Corporal Lokdon?” came a quiet voice.

Sespian. Amaranthe had almost forgotten about him.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find a dangerous endeavor in which to partake.” Amaranthe rummaged around until she found a crowbar with a hook on the end. She couldn’t tell if it’d be sturdy enough for what she had in mind, but she didn’t see anything more substantial in the box. “Sire, why don’t you come stand next to Maldynado? He can protect you from the fighting, should any soldiers make it in here.”

“Protect me from my own men?” Sespian asked, then touched his neck. “The woman is the only one who—”

A shot fired from the coal car. The bullet clanged off something on the outside of the locomotive and ricocheted into the forest, but Amaranthe grabbed Sespian by the wrist anyway. She steered him away from the door to stand next to Maldynado.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the term friendly fire.” Amaranthe lifted a hand, palm toward Sespian’s chest. “Stay. Sire.”

His eyebrows flew up, which Amaranthe presumed meant people didn’t treat him like a hound very often, but his lips quirked with amusement instead of irritation. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Surrender the emperor, or be shot down,” a cry came from behind them.

“Time for water, Bas?” Maldynado asked.

Basilard held up a fist. Not yet.

Amaranthe wanted to see if her hose idea worked to keep the soldiers back, but it’d be even better if she could slither under the coal car and decouple the rest of the train before her men needed to push back a mass of invaders. Not that she was certain the train could be decoupled while in motion, but she had to try. It’d put an end to this battle much sooner.

With the crowbar in hand, Amaranthe headed for one of the exits. She glanced at a clock on the back wall on the way by. It felt as if hours had passed since they first crept back toward the emperor’s car, but it’d scarcely been twenty minutes. Another two hours until they reached the pass. Her hand tightened on the crowbar. This needed to work.

Outside the exit, Sicarius stood on the ledge, using the body of the train for cover as he fired her crossbow. Amaranthe knelt and peered at the wheels, trying to find a spot where she could wriggle through to crawl back under the train again. Yara hadn’t slowed the train down yet, and the earth and railway ties blurred past at an alarming speed. The idea of going back down there twanged at Amaranthe’s nerves, but she couldn’t walk through the soldiers to get to the coupling between the coal car and the first passenger car. It’d be easier to get to the coupling between the coal car and the locomotive, but her team wouldn’t make it much farther than the engine-less train if they dropped their fuel supply. No, she had to go under and take her chances.

Sicarius leaned out to fire the crossbow. Perched behind him, Amaranthe couldn’t see the quarrel streak away, but someone in the coal car cursed vehemently.

A return volley came, rifle balls clanging off the metal around Sicarius. He flattened himself against the body of the car. The soldiers didn’t seem to be able to get the right angle to hit him.

“Can you cover me, so nobody sees me slip under here?” Amaranthe asked during a pause in the shooting.

He looked back and down, taking in her and the crowbar. Though she hadn’t explained her plan, he figured it out. “No. You stay here with the crossbow. I’ll go.”

While Amaranthe debated whether that was an appealing offer or not, Sicarius shot another two quarrels. She wondered how he could reload the crossbow while hanging from the side of the train.

“Prepare to fire!” someone shouted from the coal car. “Fire!”

Before any guns went off, a stream of garbled curses flowed from the same direction.

“Water?” someone sputtered.

“Look out, it’s—Sergeant!”

Amaranthe allowed herself a bleak smile. Basilard’s hose work ought to add to the distraction.

Sicarius slid down beside Amaranthe, offering the crossbow. The idea of returning fire did sound less fraught, if not less dangerous, than clambering around beneath the moving cars, but she asked, “Is this because you think I’m not strong enough to pull apart the coupling or because you’re worried I’ll mangle myself trying?”

“You’re as proficient with the crossbow as I am, and you make a smaller target for them to shoot at.” Sicarius slipped the crowbar out of her grip and stepped around her, leaving the crossbow and ammo pouch in her hands as he passed.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer my question,” Amaranthe said.

Without glancing back, Sicarius stuffed the crowbar through his belt and climbed on the side of the engine toward a gap between sets of wheels. He rotated his body upside down and angled for the opening, scaling the side as effortlessly as a squirrel scampering down a tree.

Amaranthe almost yelled, “Be careful,” after him as he moved out of sight, but she didn’t want to alert the soldiers that someone was attempting to circumvent them.

A gunshot clanged off metal a few feet from her head, reminding her that she should be paying attention to what the soldiers were doing. She reloaded the crossbow from the relative safety of the doorway before creeping back out onto the ledge. Before she’d gone halfway, the coal car came into view. Several soldiers knelt behind the black hills her team had formed, ducking a thick stream of water shooting from Basilard’s side of the cab. More soldiers filled the balcony of the first passenger car, and more still knelt or stood on the roof behind them, staggered so they could fire at will. Sicarius was going to have a hard time opening that coupling without any of the soldiers on the balcony or the roof spotting him. Maybe it was pusillanimous of her, but she was glad he had volunteered for the task.

Farther back, flames poured out of broken windows and burned on the roof of the emperor’s old car. More soldiers occupied balconies behind it, many leaning out and shouting or simply trying to figure out how to bypass the fiery obstacle.

Men on the roof of the closest car spotted Amaranthe and fired.

She flattened her chest against the body of the cab for cover. The bullets clanged off or flew wide, but the soldiers had another plan to try. One man on the roof leaned out, his rifle in his outside hand while a comrade gripped him by the inside arm. That put Amaranthe in his line of sight. She scooted back, ducking into the cab before his weapon fired.

When she poked her head out again, someone was passing the man another rifle. She squeezed the trigger of her crossbow, and a quarrel sprang free. The wind—or maybe the fact that she was hanging out of a train—affected her aim, and it disappeared into the night. She ducked back in to chamber another round, then played gopher, sticking her head in and out, until she drew the soldier’s fire again. While someone was handing him another loaded weapon, she leaned out and took more careful aim this time. She still missed her target by a couple of inches, but the quarrel caught the outside of the man’s leg. He dropped his rifle. It hit the ground butt first, fired, and bounced into the forest. The soldier clutched at his leg, and his comrades pulled him back before he fell off the roof.

Amaranthe inched forward and shot two more quarrels. They both sank into men’s thighs. She was careful not to aim at vital targets, but she wanted to convince the soldiers that loitering on the roof might not be a good idea. Her next two quarrels dove for the men on the balcony. Sicarius ought to have reached the coupling, and she figured he’d appreciate it if she distracted the people standing over him.

After that, she had to duck back into the cab to reload. Yara must have found the right controls, for the train was slowing. Amaranthe hoped she could control the deceleration, and that they didn’t stop completely. If that happened, all those soldiers could jump to the ground, race up to the locomotive, and swarm her small team by the platoon.

“Charge!” someone in the coal car bellowed.

Amaranthe had only loaded three quarrels, but she rushed back out to the ledge in time to see four men springing to their feet.

They braved the power of the hose to sprint for the locomotive. They ran toward the center instead of to the sides, where Amaranthe and Basilard waited. They must have intended to climb onto the roof and attack from that direction. Basilard’s stream of water struck one man full in the chest with enough power to knock him on his butt. A knife—one of Basilard’s—spun through the air and sank into a second man’s thigh, dropping him with a howl of pain.

Amaranthe lifted her crossbow to shoot at another man, but two soldiers protected by the coal piles fired at her. She should have seen it coming, but she didn’t duck out of the way quickly enough. A burst of pain seared her shoulder.

In her haste to leap back and get out of the soldiers’ sights, her heel slipped over the edge. She dropped and her other knee slamming into the ledge. She caught a handhold with her left hand—barely—but the crossbow slipped from her grip, hitting the ground and disappearing into the darkness.

A soldier jumped around the corner and onto her ledge. Another leaped onto the roof.

Amaranthe grasped the edge of the door with her left hand and yanked herself into the cab. “Help!” she blurted.

Amaranthe stumbled into one of the prisoners and pitched to the floor, landing on the injured shoulder. Agony surged through her, and she couldn’t bite back a cry of pain. Fortunately, Maldynado sprang past her, taking her place at the door. Metal clashed on the ledge outside as blades engaged.

Someone caught Amaranthe beneath the armpits and helped her to her feet. Sespian.

“Thanks, Sire,” she managed through gritted teeth. She took a second to inspect her wound.

Blood saturated her upper shirtsleeve, and the bullet had gouged a hole in flesh as well as clothing, but she didn’t think it had lodged in her shoulder. No excuse for not being able to keep fighting.

With Maldynado on one ledge and Basilard on the other, she didn’t have anywhere to go though. Amaranthe backed up to the furnace, so she could watch both doors. She had a feeling someone would slip in before long. Footsteps on the roof lent credence to that notion. She glanced at the clock. Only ten more minutes had passed. Maybe she shouldn’t have told Yara to slow down the train.

Maldynado was pushed back to the door, and swords clashed within view of the window, his rapier and a soldier’s cutlass. The shorter blade was an ideal weapon for the tight quarters of a train, but Maldynado held his own. His own dueling style, which favored using the point of the weapon instead of the edge, worked in the narrow fighting space. After a long clash of steel where swords struck in such rapid succession that it sounded like one continuous clang, his rapier slipped past the soldier’s defenses and sank into the flesh of the man’s shoulder. The soldier screamed and tried to back away, but he had the same problem Amaranthe had had. His foot slipped off the ledge, and he pitched off the train.

“We still trying not to kill people?” Maldynado shouted into the cab.

“That’s the goal,” Amaranthe said. “Knock them overboard if you have to.”

“Yeah, I’ve already been experimenting with that strategy.”

Maldynado looked up a split second before a set of legs kicked toward him. Without hesitation, he ducked, avoiding a pair of heels that would have taken him in the chest. He popped back up and caught the soldier by the belt. He yanked downward, nearly toppling off balance himself as he hurled the man from the train. Amaranthe rushed forward and caught him by the back of the shirt, stirring a fresh wave of pain in her shoulder.

Maldynado had to leap back onto the ledge to meet the attack of another soldier before he could yell a thank-you.

“Basilard,” Amaranthe called, stepping over prisoners to check on the other side of the cab, “do you still need the water?”

She was afraid they’d run out if they left it on. Without water in the tanks, they could end up stranded in the woods. Or, even more unappealing, the boiler might blow up.

Basilard ducked something and lunged out of view. Amaranthe couldn’t tell if he was still using the hose.

“This isn’t chaotic,” she said. “Not at all.”

“Can I help?” Sespian had picked up one of the prisoner’s swords.

Amaranthe waved the offer away. “No, Sire. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

His chin came up. “I know you’re only familiar with me as a drugged simpleton with a sketch pad, but I have had some training. I’m not completely inept with a blade.”

“Of course not, Sire. I don’t see how you could be.”

That earned a puzzled head tilt from Sespian, and Amaranthe stifled a wince. She’d have to be careful not to make allusions to his parentage, especially when he didn’t yet know about that parentage.

“I just meant that I’m certain you’re fine with a blade, Sire, but I don’t want you fighting against your own men. We’re doing our best not to ki—permanently maim anyone, but...” Amaranthe shrugged. “I’d rather you not have to do anything that you’d regret later. Unless—” she lifted her eyebrows, “—I don’t suppose you could order them to leave us alone?”

Sespian’s expression grew wry. “If it were that easy, I’d have done so months ago. The soldiers would assume you were applying duress to get me to issue commands.”

“That’s about what I figured.”

“We’re under twenty miles an hour,” Yara said, voice raised to be heard above the pounding of footsteps on the roof and the continuous clamor of weapons outside either door. “If you want to roll some of the luggage out, now would be a good time.”

Luggage? Amaranthe was beginning to suspect the woman of having a sense of humor behind that ever-present flinty scowl.

“You could help me with that, Sire,” Amaranthe said. “It’d behoove us to clear the floor, in case...” She lifted her eyes in the direction of the fighting.

Sespian put aside his sword, and they grabbed the fireman by the armpits and legs to drag him to the door. Amaranthe’s shoulder flared with pain. You’re a minor wound, she told it, one that I’m ignoring. It sent an indignant throb down her arm.

On the way past the furnace, Amaranthe gave it a nod and said, “Yara, can you check on the coal, please?” She wondered if anyone else felt like a juggler with one too many spinning knives in the air.

Amaranthe and Sespian had dropped two men outside as carefully as they could when a volley of gunfire arose from the far end of the coal car. Amaranthe’s heart lurched. Had the soldiers seen Sicarius? She jumped onto the ledge behind Maldynado, barely noticing that he was exchanging sword blows with a man on the roof, and tried to see past him.

The soldiers on the balcony were shouting and waving. And shooting. Several men jumped onto the balcony railing and catapulted off it, grabbing the rear lip of the coal car. It took a second for Amaranthe to realize why. Sicarius had succeeded. He’d decoupled the cars, and the rest of the train was losing momentum and falling behind.

That didn’t mean her team was safe. No fewer than fifteen men were swarming the coal car and pressing against each other for a chance to get to the locomotive. Basilard continued to spray the hose, pounding high-pressure water into men’s chests, but with so many targets, people slipped past. Like the one exchanging blows with Maldynado from the roof. The big man wore the black of one of Sespian’s personal guards, and he had the high ground. Maldynado had to keep one hand gripping the doorjamb, lest he be pushed off the train.

Amaranthe touched the hilt of her short sword, thinking to help, but she wouldn’t be able to reach the man from her spot in the doorway. While she was glancing about for some kind of projectile weapon, she glimpsed a soldier kneeling behind one of the coal piles, taking aim at Maldynado.

Acting on instinct, Amaranthe grabbed a knife sheathed at Maldynado’s waist and hurled it at the man. He saw it coming in time to duck, but it disrupted his shot.

The big bodyguard kicked at Maldynado’s face. Maldynado ducked, but cursed, almost losing his grip on the train.

“I need a gun,” Amaranthe barked to anyone inside the cab who might be listening.

Sespian had retrieved the sword he’d picked up earlier, and he also had a pistol in hand, as if he’d been fearing he might need to use it. Uncertainty flashed across his face, but he extended the firearm toward Amaranthe anyway. He couldn’t feel good about helping his own guards get shot, but she didn’t have time to assuage his fears and promise to aim for non-vital targets.

“Thanks,” she said, already stepping back outside.

The soldier behind the coal hill was taking aim at Maldynado again. Amaranthe leaned out and targeted him with the pistol, making sure to move around enough that he saw her. The fellow ducked again.

Amaranthe switched her aim and whipped off a shot at the bodyguard attacking Maldynado. The bullet caught him in the knee. The man didn’t cry out, but his leg buckled. Maldynado grabbed his arm and yanked him overhead, hurling him to the ground.

Amaranthe winced. Even with the train running at half speed, some of these men were going to be lucky to survive. She was beginning to think they should have chosen another place for trying to get Sespian away from his people. This had turned into a—

“Your assassin is running beside the train,” Yara called out.

Another volley of gunshots came from the coal car, and nobody was shooting at Maldynado this time.

Amaranthe raced to the other side of the cabin, not certain what she could do to help Sicarius but positive she had to try.

At first, she didn’t see anything. Trees towered along the side of the tracks, and though their lower branches had been cut back, the higher ones stretched across the railway, blotting out the night sky. Even in the darkness, Sicarius should have been visible if he were running in the open stretch alongside the tracks.

“Where—” Amaranthe started to ask, but stopped.

A hint of movement amongst the trees, perhaps twenty feet back, caught her eye. More guns fired, bullets chipping at wood as they pounded into the forest. Sicarius must have had to sprint into the woods for cover after unfastening the coupling.

“Can you slow down any more?” Amaranthe asked Yara.

Sicarius leaped over a log, ducked a branch, and wove through the densely placed trunks. Despite the obstacles, he was matching the speed of the train, but Amaranthe feared he wouldn’t be able to veer to the side and catch up. He had to be running at his top speed as it was, and it couldn’t help that people were shooting at him.

“The controls don’t respond quickly,” Yara said. “It must take miles to bring this behemoth to a stop.”

“Do your best,” Amaranthe said.

Two more shots fired, and Sicarius’s blond hair, just visible amongst all the black of the forest, dropped out of sight. When he popped back up, he’d fallen several steps.

“Basilard, Maldynado, keep those men busy!” Amaranthe shouted, though she knew it was pointless. They were already doing the best they could. “Aim for their guns with the water, Basilard. Get their powder wet.” Maybe that would be a more useful order.

She grabbed the edge of the doorway, and leaned out, extending her hand for Sicarius. It was a pointless gesture—it wasn’t as if her sticking her hand out could make him run faster—but she didn’t know what more she could do. She thought about ordering her men to charge into the coal car, but three against fifteen odds would be foolish to take on. At least in their current setup, the soldiers were forced to attack via the narrow ledges leading to the locomotive.

Sicarius’s face turned her way.

“You don’t call that a sprint, do you?” Amaranthe called. “You can do better than that!”

Sicarius glanced toward the coal car, seemed to decide the people shooting at him were as distracted as they were going to get, and he angled out of the trees, sprinting to catch up with the train. On the flat, cleared ground beside the tracks, he could run faster, and his legs were a blur as he raced to gain ground. He caught up with the coal car and was nearing the locomotive where Amaranthe waited, hand still extended, when a soldier ducked beneath Basilard’s hose water and threw himself down at the edge of the car. He dropped his arm over the side, aiming a pistol for the back of Sicarius’s head.

Amaranthe grabbed at the knife on her belt, but knew her throw would come too late. Sicarius must have seen her looking at the sniper, for he whipped a knife over his shoulder. It slammed into the man’s eye. The soldier collapsed, the pistol falling free from his limp hand.

Amaranthe swallowed. There was no doubt as to whether that one would survive.

She glanced over her shoulder, hoping Sespian was somewhere he couldn’t see what was going on outside. She wouldn’t lie to him if he asked how many had been killed, but she’d prefer it if he didn’t have a reason to ask.

Sespian was bent over the furnace, shoveling coal into its belly. He noticed her checking on him and said, “The water tank is below an eighth.”

“We’re cutting off the water, Basilard,” Amaranthe called.

She stepped inside to turn the knob and returned, almost running into a leaping Sicarius as he caught the corner of the door and pulled himself inside. With his momentum, he might have knocked her to the floor, but he caught her about the waist and kept her upright, despite the jostle. Sweat streamed down his face, blood stained his short hair, and rips and holes gouged his shirt. She had a feeling she wouldn’t have survived if she’d taken the decoupling job.

“Welcome back.” Amaranthe might have hugged Sicarius had there not been witnesses around.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “We will discuss what I call a sprint the next time the group trains.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll be a fun day.”

Sicarius’s gaze shifted, and he met Sespian’s eyes over Amaranthe’s shoulder. He released her and stepped away.

Still poised before the furnace, Sespian stood straight, his fingers tight about the haft of the shovel. He looked like he was thinking of swinging it at Sicarius’s head. Something between fear and hatred hardened his eyes. Sicarius returned the stare without any of the same rancor, at least not in Amaranthe’s opinion, but many people found that unwavering gaze of his as icy as a glacier.

“Return to full speed?” Yara asked.

“Not yet,” Amaranthe said.

A gunshot fired in the coal car. They still had work to do.

“We need to help Maldynado and Basilard knock the rest of those men off our train.” Amaranthe pulled out her short sword, wincing as the motion drew a new surge of pain from the bullet wound in her shoulder, and tried to step past Sicarius.

He caught her by the arm. “You are injured.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Stay here.” Sicarius jumped out the door, bypassing Basilard by pulling himself straight up onto the roof.

“I give the orders around here, remember?” Amaranthe called after him. As expected, no answers floated down from above. “Difficult man.”

Considering Sicarius appeared much more injured than she did, she didn’t want to hang back and force him and the others to handle the fighting. After checking to make sure Yara and Sespian were fine, Amaranthe climbed outside again.

Sicarius had already cleared the roof. He leaped into the coal bed where Basilard and Maldynado joined him. Already they were advancing as a team, forcing their opponents back. In the confines of the coal bed, the soldiers couldn’t circle around her men to attack from the sides. They had to face the formidable swords and daggers face-on, and their numbers did little to help.

Not sure if she’d do anything except get in the way, Amaranthe waited in the corner, ready to help if someone faltered. But they didn’t. She rarely had a chance to watch the team at work, and admitted to a feeling of pride at the way they attacked as one unit, as if they’d choreographed their movements. Their opponents were forced back and soon ran out of room. Once the numbers were even, Amaranthe expected the soldiers to jump off the train of their own accord, but if anything they fought more tenaciously than ever at the end. True to her wishes, her men did their best not to kill anyone, and the last soldier sailed over the side of the car with nothing but bruises.

When only Maldynado, Sicarius, and Basilard remained standing, Amaranthe sheathed her sword.

“Well done.” She gave Sicarius a sheepish look. “I guess you were right and that you didn’t need me.”

“Of course we did,” Maldynado said. “Someone has to witness our glorious battles in order to relay our deeds to others.” He leaned to the side, eyes toward the locomotive cab. “Yara didn’t come out, eh? I thought she might enjoy seeing me do something more impressive than turning water on and off.”

“She’s with the emperor, and they’re busy keeping the train moving,” Amaranthe said. She remembered her idea about getting Sespian to develop an interest in Yara. It wasn’t the best time to worry about such things, but she couldn’t help but hope they were up there, talking and bonding.

“I’ll see if they need a hand,” Maldynado said.

Amaranthe was tempted to tell him to leave Sespian and Yara alone for a while longer, but he was already climbing past her, heading for the cabin. Basilard came up to her and pointed to her shoulder. It was too dark to read his hand signs, but she assumed he was asking after her health.

“It’s fine, thanks. Do you have any injuries?”

Basilard hesitated, then shook his head. Amaranthe took that for a yes, but not severe.

“We have two hours left before we reach the pass,” she said. “Why don’t you get some rest?”

Basilard pointed at the back of the locomotive.

“Hold on.” Amaranthe hunted about, looking for the lantern one of the men had brought out earlier. “Let me find some light, so I can see what you’re saying.”

Sicarius found the lantern first. He lit it and handed to her.

“Thank you,” Amaranthe said, but almost forgot about Basilard when she saw Sicarius under the light.

Whatever head wound he taken in the woods had bled copiously. Crimson smeared the side of his face and stained his blond hair. If he was bleeding elsewhere, his black clothing hid it, but the number of tears and holes made her uneasy.

Amaranthe caught herself before her hand strayed up to touch his cheek. She cleared her throat instead. “Thanks for...” Getting shot up on behalf of the team? Or protecting her from suffering a worse fate? Surely she couldn’t have run that fast to catch up with the train if she’d had to jump away to avoid gun-slinging soldiers. “Thanks for your help,” she said. That was ridiculously inadequate, but he inclined his head once.

Amaranthe held up the lantern and nodded for Basilard to sign whatever he’d been wondering. The light revealed a number of new gashes amongst the scars on his face, head, and hands as well. One of his sleeves had been torn down to his wrist, and blood ran down his arm. An embarrassed flush ran through Amaranthe because she had been quicker to thank Sicarius for his help—and to show concern over his injuries. Basilard had far less reason to be here, risking himself for this cause.

She gripped his uninjured arm. “Thank you as well, Basilard.”

He nodded solemnly, then signed, Will there be time for me to speak to the emperor on behalf of my people?

Yes, Amaranthe had to remember that Basilard had a reason for being here as well. She had best try to accommodate that if she wanted to keep him happy as a team member. Sometimes, she admitted ruefully, it’d be easier if everyone had joined up for the pay.

“You’ve already told him of the slavery and how your people are targeted, right?” Amaranthe asked.

Briefly.

“So, he knows. If I were you, I’d just try to talk to him while we’re doing... whatever it is he wants us to do for him. I can translate for you, of course, or Maldynado can.”

Basilard’s eyebrows twitched at that, and she recalled that Maldynado had chosen a dubious pseudonym for him when Basilard had signed up for the Imperial Games.

“Books, then,” Amaranthe said. “We should be back with him and Akstyr soon, and I’m sure he would translate for you. You might try teaching the emperor a few of your signs. He seems the curious, inquisitive sort.”

Basilard scratched his chin thoughtfully, then nodded and signed, Thank you. He headed for the locomotive, leaving Amaranthe alone with Sicarius.

Sometime during all the activity, the train had started climbing into the mountains. She wished there were some way to tell Books and Akstyr they didn’t need to cause a landslide, but the deed had probably already been done.

Sicarius was collecting his throwing knives and approached the man he’d dropped when he’d been sprinting alongside the train. The dead soldier lay at the edge of the coal car, his arm dangling over the lip. Amaranthe couldn’t chastise Sicarius for defending himself, not when the man had been about to shoot him in the back of the head, but the body was blatant proof that her plan hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped it would. It upset her that this soldier had died trying to protect Sespian.

Sicarius lifted the man by the hair and pulled his throwing knife free. Amaranthe winced. She wondered if he ever felt any remorse for those he killed. Perhaps not.

“Shall we leave him here or...?” Amaranthe waved to the forest. Tossing the body overboard sounded callous, even if they’d given the living soldiers the same treatment.

“Leave it.”

Amaranthe closed her eyes and sent a silent apology to the man’s spirit and to any family he might have. Small solace.

“Sespian will find out that some of his men died regardless,” Sicarius said.

“I know. I wasn’t planning to lie to him, but statistics tend to be easier to stomach than corpses.” Especially when the knife-in-the-eye wound would tell Sespian exactly who had been responsible. The last thing Amaranthe wanted was for Sicarius to get the blame for her failures out here. “We better head in and talk to him, find out what he wants us to do now that he’s free of Forge’s influence. Am I right in assuming his female chaperone is dead?”

“Yes,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe stepped toward the locomotive, but Sicarius rested a hand on her uninjured arm.

“We need to arrange time to speak with him alone.”

She nodded. That was part of the plan, although... “When you say we do you mean you and he or you, he, and me?”

Sicarius hesitated. “I do not believe he would listen to anything I had to say.”

“So, Books is translating for Basilard, and I’m translating for you?”

“He will listen to you.”

Maybe not after she told Sespian about the dead soldiers, Amaranthe thought, but what she said was, “And, should we find this time alone, do you want me to tell him everything?”

“You don’t know everything.”

Not surprising. “Do you want me to tell him everything I do know?”

Sicarius gazed toward the forest. He was still holding Amaranthe’s arm, and she rested her hand on his, trying to offer reassurance, if he needed it. One never knew with him.

“What do you think would be an appropriate course of action to ensure an optimal result?” he finally asked.

Amaranthe didn’t know if he had ever asked for her opinion on anything before. Given the occasion, she wished she had a better answer for him. “I don’t think you can ensure anything when it comes to people. I’m sure you find it odd, but most of us react based on feelings, not pragmatism. Rational hypothesizing can’t necessarily predict the outcome.”

His gaze shifted from the trees to her eyes. “People are impractical.”

“Of that I have no doubt. I’ll give you the same recommendation I offered Basilard. Spend some time with him. Let him get to know you as a person, not as the scary assassin who stalked the Imperial Barracks all through his childhood.”

“That is the person I am.”

“You’re more than that. Be yourself, but try to be... friendly. Talk about small, unimportant things. Ask him how he’s doing. Make a joke.”

“A joke.”

“You’ve done it before,” Amaranthe said. “Your sense of humor is dryer than the desert city-states, but it does exist.”

He stared at her as if she’d told him he had fur and horns.

“Also, smile after you make your joke. To let him know that’s what it was.” Amaranthe gave him a zealous smile to demonstrate. “As for what you should tell him... if he believes you, he might abdicate. He seems to be an honorable man, and he might feel he doesn’t have a right to the throne given that particular piece of information.”

“He would be safer that way,” Sicarius said. “I should have told him long ago.”

A lump of emotion tightened Amaranthe’s throat. A lot of people in Turgonia, when given the chance to have a son rule over the entire empire, would lust for the position it would earn the family without worrying about whether or not it was good for the child.

“Do you want me to tell him then?” she asked.

“No. I will do that. You tell him... that he has nothing to fear from me.” Sicarius released her arm.

Amaranthe squeezed his hand before letting go of it. “I will.”

Chapter 16

Akstyr shivered and stuffed his hands under his armpits. The snow had abated, but dark clouds lingered in the sky. Icy wind gusted across the mountaintops. Akstyr would have stamped about the snow-covered precipice to generate warmth, but his calf hurt, and the deep drifts made moving about difficult under any circumstances. He’d ventured close enough to the edge to verify that he could see the landslide-smothered railway below and then scooted back. Icicles the length of swords hung from a nearby outcropping, and he didn’t need to see if more ice lay underfoot.

The rounded top of the dirigible hovered behind him, with most of it floating below the level of his ledge. Anyone approaching the pass from the direction of Forkingrust wouldn’t see it. Akstyr had a red flag—technically it was a shirt one of the stowaways had been wearing—to toss over the side to let Books know when the train showed up. If Akstyr didn’t freeze to death before then.

“Shoulda kidnapped the emperor when he was near some army fort on the Gulf,” he groused. “By a beach. With palm trees. And sun. And girls not wearing any...”

A faint rrr-ring noise drifted to Akstyr’s ears, and he closed his mouth to listen. The train, that was his first thought—what else would be cruising through the mountains at night?—but the sound wasn’t right. Nor did it seem to be coming from the correct direction. The emperor’s train would be chugging in from the southwest, but this noise came from...

Akstyr tilted his head and spun slowly, trying to pinpoint the location. Mountain peaks surrounded him on all sides, and noise bounced about unpredictably, but he thought the noise originated in the north. He inched toward the edge of the precipice and peered into the darkness in that direction. Nothing but snow, rocks, and cliffs lay to the north. Akstyr didn’t think there was a road over there, or even a trail. The rrr-ring grew louder though, and he became more and more certain it was coming from that direction.

“Something in the ground?” he wondered. “In the mountain?” He thought of mining equipment, but didn’t think they were near any mines.

Then lights came into view, a lot of lights. And they weren’t on the ground. They outlined a sleek black dome-shaped craft gliding into view above a pair of peaks to the north. The noise grew louder as it cleared the ridge.

Akstyr had no idea what it was—some kind of flying contraption, but it didn’t have a balloon for lift, nor could he see any propellers or wings. All he knew was that it was huge. Anything should have appeared small next to the substantial mountain peaks, but it did not. He looked down at the dirigible for comparison. This new machine had to be at least four times the size. More like four hundred times the size, if one didn’t count the balloon on the dirigible, but only the occupiable space.

The lights illuminated hints of an inky black hull, but Akstyr would need a spyglass to see details. Or he’d need to be a lot closer, but that didn’t sound like a good idea. Somehow he doubted the thing was friendly.

After the craft cleared the ridge, it turned toward Akstyr, showing a narrower but still substantial profile and confirming that there weren’t wings. He let his eyelids drop and stretched out with his senses, seeking the telltale tingle of a construct that had been crafted using the mental sciences. He sensed... nothing.

“Mundane technology?” Akstyr muttered, shaking his head. How could that be? There wasn’t anything in the empire like that. Was there? Maybe he was just too far away to sense the Science being used.

He squinted at a horizontal bank of light near the top half of the dome’s front end. The illumination seemed to come from within rather than from the running lights—or whatever one called them—attached to the hull. Maybe the windows represented a navigation chamber, similar to the one Books occupied. Except there had to be room for a whole crew behind them.

A wolf howled in the distance, and another responded from a different ridge. The nocturnal wildlife was probably wondering what sort of monstrosity had invaded the mountains.

A cone of red light shot out of the base of the craft. Akstyr jumped. The crimson light bathed the snowy landscape below the dome, then started moving slowly from side to side.

“Searching,” he mumbled.

Akstyr stretched out his senses again. No kerosene lantern could throw out a beam like that. This had to be something made from the Science. But again, he sensed nothing.

The only thing he knew for certain was that it was heading in their direction.

Akstyr scrambled toward the slope he had climbed up to reach the precipice. He had no idea what they could do—that dirigible didn’t even have weapons—but he had to warn Books.

Snow sloughed down the slope ahead of Akstyr as he half-ran, half-slid back to where a rope dangled from the hatchway at the bottom of the dirigible. His leg and shoulder sent stabs of pain shooting through him, but he ignored them. If that flying behemoth found them, he might have a lot more than minor wounds to trouble him. He figured it belonged to that Forge group, but he couldn’t help but wonder if his mother had been the one to tip them off to the team’s location as well. If so, his stupid plan might have dropped buckets of donkey piss all over the team, and there’d be no cleaning up that mess.

Akstyr leapt out of the snow and caught the rope. “Books!” he called up. “Books, are you there?”

He was almost to the top when a shadow fell across the rope. Books grabbed his arm and helped him inside the craft.

“I told you to simply signal with a flag that they were coming,” Books said. “I would have flown closer to pick you up.”

“We didn’t work out a signal for gia-gantuan flying machine bearing down on us.” Akstyr slammed the hatch shut, not worrying about the rope still dangling through it. He pushed past Books and grabbed the ladder. He would have rushed straight up to navigation by himself, but he had no idea how to fly the dirigible. “Are you coming?” he demanded.

Books hadn’t moved. “I... yes. I’m just stunned.”

“By the flying machine?”

“That and the fact that you think giant can legitimately be combined with gargantuan to form a word.” Books collected himself and waved for Akstyr to continue up the ladder.

“Cut out that light, will you?” Akstyr pointed at a lantern on the wall. “Maybe if we go completely dark and stay in this little nook they won’t be able to see us.”

Books blew out the lamp and rushed to navigation, while Akstyr ran through the corridor and the cargo room, turning off every lamp he found. The engine pulsed softly in its room, throwing alternating light and shadows against the walls. Akstyr thought about tossing a blanket over it, but there weren’t any windows or portholes in that cabin, so he simply shut the door and let it be.

By the time he stumbled into the navigation cabin, Books had darkened it as well and had his nose pressed to the bank of windows. Fortunately, none of the gauges or panels in front of Books glowed or blinked—as far as Akstyr could tell their engine was the only Science-based mechanism in the dirigible, and nothing else was likely to glow sporadically. Unfortunately, they were still hanging from a giant beige balloon that would stand out against the snow and craggy lines of the mountains.

“I see it,” Books said. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, but can you really disagree that it’s gia-gantuan?”

“Now is not the time for jokes.”

“Who’s joking?” Akstyr leaned closer to the window, trying to see the details of the valley beneath them. “Can you take us lower? So that we’re right above the snow? Maybe we’ll blend in.”

“Maybe we’ll blend in?” Books frowned over his shoulder. “We’re mounted under an enormous balloon. It’s not white, so unless you want to get climb out and shovel snow on top of it, we’re not going to blend in. Besides, that... that... thing has a light beam shooting out of it. It must be magic. Won’t they just sense us out there?”

“It’s not Science-based.”

“What?” Books leaned so close to the window that he bumped his nose. “You must be wrong. There’s no mundane technology in the world that could put something like that into the air.”

“I’d be able to sense it if it were a construct.”

“They must be cloaking themselves from you somehow.”

“Whatever,” Akstyr said. It was impossible talking Science with people that hadn’t studied it at all.

“Whatever it is, that beam is searching systematically, like it expects us to be here.” Books’s words came out in a tumble. He was scarcely taking time to breathe.

Akstyr had seen Books get nervous before, and he wasn’t much use when he was like that. Amaranthe could always get him to calm down, but Akstyr didn’t think he could have the same effect. Nobody on the streets had ever told him he was reassuring.

“All our lights are off, and... maybe I can do something to help camouflage us.” Akstyr didn’t say the latter with a lot of conviction. He had studied illusions, sure, and he could do a few tricks, the sorts of things that might impress dumb guards on a train, but could he hide the entire dirigible?

“They’re getting closer.” Books’s gaze was riveted to the window, his hands gripping the console, his shoulders hunched and tense. The craft was higher than the dirigible, and Akstyr couldn’t see it from his spot behind Books, but the red search beam came into view, sweeping left and right, probing the snow with its telling light. “If we try to leave now, they’ll see us,” Books said. “But we’re too close to the pass too. If they keep coming toward it, they’re sure to see us anyway.”

“Not if we hide,” Akstyr said.

Books was only shaking his head. He didn’t seem to hear.

“If you don’t lower us deeper into this little canyon—” Akstyr rapped his knuckles on the control panel, “—I will.”

That broke through Books’s worried trance.

“Dear departed ancestors, no.” Books plopped down into the seat. “I’ll do it.” His voice lowered to a mutter. “If I can find the cursed levers in the dark.”

Akstyr allowed himself a tight smile. If he couldn’t be reassuring, threatening was an option.

The dirigible engine offered a smooth ride, and Akstyr might not have noticed they were descending except that the scenery outside the windows changed. The view of distant mountains disappeared, replaced with nearby cliffs and snowy slopes.

Akstyr sat cross-legged on the floor. He wished he had more time to think about how to go about manufacturing the illusion. He’d seen the terrain around the dirigible when he’d been up on the precipice, but he hadn’t thought to memorize it and think about how best he could add a piece to it—a piece that would make it appear like someone was looking at an empty canyon instead of a ship tucked in a nook. The artistry required daunted him. Even if he could pull it off, he would have to hope nobody over there was a practitioner, someone who could see right through such guises.

A few fat snowflakes blew across the windshield. Maybe a blizzard would roll in, forcing the other ship to abandon its search. That gave Akstyr an idea.

“This is as low as I dare get,” Books said.

A long squeal of metal assaulted their ears, and a jolt coursed through the dirigible.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have dared to get that low.” Akstyr thought the metal hull of the lower part of the craft could stand up to a few scrapes, but he was less certain about the balloon. He didn’t know what it was made from, but he assumed the material could tear.

“It’s difficult to steer a vessel this large in the dark,” Books said. “Especially when my control panel is also in the dark.”

“Just hold us here.” Akstyr closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

“Obviously,” Books grumbled, then raised his voice and added, “They’re getting closer, so anything you’re thinking of doing should be soon.”

“I’m already doing it,” Akstyr whispered, voice strained. He opened an eye to check outside, to see if the snow appeared to be picking up. The flakes drifting across the window had increased, though some were falling straight down while others slanted at an angle. “Stupid wind,” he muttered. He’d thought it would be easier working with the existing snow than creating an illusory storm from scratch, but perhaps not.

“Are you making it snow?” Books asked.

Akstyr ignored him and closed his eyes to concentrate harder. All the flakes had to be going the same direction, and there had to be more of them, enough to shroud the dirigible and convince the other ship to call off its search until the weather improved, ideally long after the team had finished in the pass.

“You are, aren’t you?”

The touch of awe in Books’s voice was flattering, but Akstyr would have preferred silence. He needed every iota of concentration he could muster. He caught himself breathing heavily, as if he’d been running stairs at one of Sicarius’s workouts. Though cold seeped up from the metal floor, he was anything but cold. Heat flushed his face, and sweat prickled his armpits.

“That craft must be magic,” Books said. “There’s no visible propulsion system. More than that, I don’t see how something like that could achieve lift in the first place. Emperor’s teeth, it looks like a big balrock ball that some student cut in half. Though it does seem to be designed to reduce drag. Maybe it has internal engines, and the body itself acts as a...”

Getting irritated or telling Books to shut up would have disturbed Akstyr’s concentration, so he did his best to ignore the analysis.

“They’re close,” Books whispered a few moments later. “They’re angling for the pass. Maybe they’ll miss us.”

Akstyr could think about nothing but the snow. Behind his eyelids, he pictured it, from the clouds high above all the way to the drifts below. Sheer will turned it into an illusion others could see and not simply an image in his mind.

“It’s getting hard to see them,” Books murmured. “But if I can’t see them, maybe they can’t see us. Uh oh, they’ve stopped. Their beam is... it’s behind the precipice. I think they’re looking at the landslide.”

More snow, Akstyr thought. Blizzard.

“I can’t see anything now,” Books said.

“They’re still there,” Akstyr whispered. He might not sense any Science built into the craft, but he could still feel the physical presence of something that large.

“Are they... coming this way?”

“They’re not moving.”

“It’s hovering?” Books asked. “Amazing. A dirigible can hover, of course, but that’s because the hydrogen is used in the balloon, a gas that’s lighter than air, thus—”

“Nobody cares, Books,” Akstyr said.

“Can you make it snow harder over the pass? Perhaps you could throw a little wind at them too.”

Akstyr opened an eye and glared. “You don’t want much, do you?”

The exchange stole his concentration, and illusion faded, leaving a third as many snowflakes in the sky. Akstyr gritted his teeth and refocused. Only when he’d filled the sky again did he feel safe enough to add, “I don’t know how to do auditory illusions yet. No wind.”

“Oh, it’s all an illusion?” Books asked. “That’s quite good. Maybe it’s worth sending you to school, after all.”

“Glad you approve, professor.”

Something nudged Akstyr’s senses. It came from the direction of the flying craft. Maybe there was Science in the bowels of that black machine after all. But, no, it felt... sentient. Like a person, not an object.

“I think they have a practitioner.” Akstyr’s stomach sank. Maybe the person had been asleep and had woken up when he or she sensed someone manipulating the scenery. That couldn’t be good.

“You’re overdoing it,” Books said.

“Huh?” Akstyr opened his eyes to a whiteout outside the window. The rocky terrain to either side of the dirigible had disappeared behind snowfall so thick one would be lucky to see a foot ahead. The shadow of the balloon protected the windows from fat flakes that might have coated the glass otherwise, but enough snow flew sideways that it still blotted out the view. “That’s not all me.”

Akstyr let his illusion slip away, and it didn’t make a difference. Wind moaned through the mountains, though their position in the canyon protected them.

The new presence he’d sensed faded from his awareness. Akstyr stretched out with his thoughts, but it was as if the snow was somehow muffling his mental reach. No, that wasn’t it. The other vessel was moving away.

“They’re leaving,” Akstyr said.

“That’s a relief,” Books said.

“Maybe. I think they’re following the tracks.”

“North or south?”

“South,” Akstyr said. “Toward the others.”

* * * * *

Maldynado’s voice floated out of the locomotive, and his words filled Amaranthe’s ears as she swung through the door to land inside. Yara was in the engineer’s seat while Basilard leaned against the back wall. Sespian stood before the furnace, the coal shovel still in his hands. Between Yara and Sespian, Maldynado lounged against the control wall, his arms flung wide, draped over valves and pipes, as he spoke.

“...nothing monstrous in size,” he was saying, “but substantial enough to show off my handsome features. And location is important. I’d hate to be like Korgoth the Cranky with that old, dank copper statue by the sewer treatment plant. I was thinking something in the Imperial Gardens would be nice. Or perhaps in the University District where all those pretty young female students would see—”

“Maldynado,” Amaranthe said, “why are you loitering around and talking while the emperor is shoveling coal into a furnace?”

“Er.” Maldynado’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he settled on, “He was doing that when I came in. I thought he was enjoying a chance to live like a peasant and partake in menial labor.”

Though Sespian did not appear offended, Amaranthe propped her hands on her hips and stared at Maldynado.

“Ah, yes, why don’t I handle that, Sire?” Maldynado took the shovel from Sespian and gestured for him to step aside.

Sicarius had come in after Amaranthe, but he merely stood by the door, as quiet as usual. If Amaranthe was going to convince him to chat with Sespian, or, ancestors help him, to make a joke, she would have to get rid of the crowd.

“Basilard, do you want to help me dig out our medical kits?” Amaranthe said. “It looks like we could all use some suture and bandages.”

“Alcohol, too, perhaps,” Yara said.

“For sterilizing wounds?” Amaranthe asked.

“Among other things.” Though the enforcer sergeant retained the usual determined set to her jaw, the haunted cast to her eyes suggested she had found the night’s adventure harrowing.

“We’ll see what we can find.” Amaranthe faced Sespian. “Sire, I... have to tell you that your kidnapping wasn’t entirely without casualties. I’d hoped that if it couldn’t be bloodless it could at least be deathless, but it seems that was too much to ask.”

Sespian’s young face grew grim, and he nodded. “I anticipated that. When I made the decision to contact you... It is something I carefully weighed beforehand. Perhaps it was selfish, but I assure you it wasn’t only my hide that I was thinking of. There are... things afoot that I couldn’t have halted from within the Imperial Barracks. Too many people watch me there. If I can survive long enough out here to investigate Forge’s latest scheme further, and to figure out some appropriate action to take, it will be for the good of the entire empire.”

His defensiveness startled Amaranthe. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might take the blame for the deaths of his soldiers, though, now that she thought about it, she realized it shouldn’t surprise her. He was a conscientious young man, certainly. His hints of evil afoot intrigued her, but the guarded way he was phrasing things implied he wouldn’t be sharing a lot of details. Not yet anyway. He must see her and her team as tools, not as allies. She would have to change his mind about that.

Amaranthe moved a pack off the top of the coal box and extended a hand toward it. “Sire, would you like to sit down? Perhaps you can let us know what, now that we’ve kidnapped you, you’d like us to do with you.”

Sespian moved toward the box, but, after a wary glance at the men all around him, chose to lean against the wall beside it instead of sitting down.

It was a tad crowded, and he might not feel comfortable with mercenaries looming on all sides. Amaranthe had to remind herself that the men she regarded as friends—family—were strangers to him, and even Maldynado, affable and smiling as he shoveled coal, was an intimidating figure. Shaven-headed Basilard, with more scars than most chopping blocks, looked like a bouncer who relished his work, and Sicarius... well, Amaranthe already had a good idea how Sespian felt about him. She didn’t know if he’d exchanged any words with Sergeant Yara, but doubted her presence alone was enough to put him at ease.

“Would you mind telling me where this train, what’s left of it, is going now?” Sespian asked.

He hadn’t answered Amaranthe’s question. Maybe he wouldn’t with such a large audience.

“The Scarlet Pass,” she said. “We have comrades meeting us at the top. From there... that’s up to you.”

“There aren’t many roads up there,” Sespian said.

Maldynado snickered. “Roads.”

Amaranthe quelled him with a glance. “Should our arrangements prove fruitful, we’ll have a flying machine of some sort picking us up.”

Sespian’s eyebrows jumped for his hairline. “A flying machine?” His face lost its guardedness, and he grinned. “I read a book when I was a boy about people’s attempts at building them. I had my sketchpad out, drawing various models for weeks. I even tried to build one myself out behind the kitchens. In case you were wondering, a dirigible with a balloon made from bed sheets won’t fly.”

Amaranthe smiled and nodded, encouraging him to open up to them, but Sespian seemed to feel he’d slipped up—it might not help that Maldynado was staring at him, slack-jawed—for he clamped his mouth shut. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Your men are probably concerned with more important things, such as when they’ll be paid. I have the money in Sunders City. If you could take me there, I’ll see to your fee and leave you to your next job.”

For the first time, Sicarius stirred. He gave Amaranthe a look that she doubted anyone else could read, but she saw the concern in it. Yes, Sunders City was only a day away by rail and probably less if they could fly over the mountainous terrain. That wasn’t much time for someone to build up to making an important announcement like, “Sespian, I am your father.”

Amaranthe acknowledged his look with a hand wiggle, though Sespian caught it and grew noticeably concerned by the exchange.

“We know you’re in trouble, Sire,” Amaranthe said, hoping to distract him from whatever suspicious thoughts must be going through his head. “We’d like to help. We’re not mercenaries simply in this for the money. I don’t know what led you to choose us, but if you’ve been following the papers at all—” she raised her eyebrows, hoping he’d nod or otherwise indicate he knew what she was talking about, “—you might know that we’ve been trying to work for the good of the empire.”

The concern in Sespian’s eyes deepened, though this time it looked like the embarrassed concern of someone realizing he hadn’t kept up with events the way he should have. “I’m sorry, no. I wanted to meet with you primarily because of your counterfeiting scheme last winter.”

Amaranthe blinked. “My, what? I mean, that was only for coercing Hollowcrest and that Forge duo into negotiating. We didn’t—we aren’t actively... We destroyed everything related to that.” Dear ancestors, he hadn’t chosen them because he thought they were pecuniary villains, had he?

“That’s the truth,” Maldynado said. “Much to Akstyr’s horror, the boss burned all of those fake bills.”

Sespian lifted a hand. “That’s fine, but surely you must have done research before embarking on that... scheme. And you have a history professor on your team, don’t you? Economics would be better, but perhaps he’s versed in that as well. My movements are tracked, so I haven’t been able to get out of the Barracks and do the type of research I need to do.”

Amaranthe struggled to guess the intent behind his words. He wasn’t thinking of starting a counterfeiting scheme himself, was he? That didn’t make any sense. As emperor, he controlled the Imperial Mint. The Imperial Mint that was in Sunders City. He’d mentioned a new Forge scheme. Were they doing something to the money supply?

Basilard’s fingers twitched. Tracking? Will someone be able to follow him to us?

Good question. “How are you being tracked, Sire?” Amaranthe asked.

“I’d... rather not share that information, as it’s tied to something... sensitive.” His hand strayed to his neck before he caught himself and dropped it into his lap.

The implant. Amaranthe stifled a groan. It made sense that the owners could use it for tracking too. One would want to monitor one’s victims if they were left to roam freely. She thought about telling Sespian about Books and Akstyr’s side trip, but she didn’t want to get his hopes up in case her men failed to find anything.

“I’d be open to discussing more with you in private.” Sespian’s gaze skimmed across the men, lingering on Sicarius before returning to Amaranthe. “Perhaps with you and your professor.”

Amaranthe opened her mouth, intending to agree to the private meeting, but Sicarius spoke first.

“From how far away can they track you and trigger the artifact in your neck? Can it kill you if you think or speak of matters Forge considers inappropriate?”

Sespian gaped at Sicarius, his face growing ashen. He recovered his composure quickly, but not before Amaranthe glimpsed a new fear darting through his eyes. Sicarius himself was as unreadable as ever. She knew his concern for Sespian had prompted the questions, but Sespian would simply be alarmed that an assassin knew about his vulnerability.

“We’ve encountered the devices before,” Amaranthe explained.

“I see,” Sespian said, and she had a feeling that was all he’d say if she didn’t get rid of some of the men.

“Maldynado and Basilard,” she said, “you two look tired. Would you mind taking a nap in the coal car?”

“A nap?” Maldynado said.

Meanwhile, Amaranthe met Basilard’s eyes, and signed, We’ll find time to talk to the emperor about your people later. I promise. What he’s dealing with has to be the priority.

Sespian noticed her signing, and his eyes narrowed. Amaranthe hoped he didn’t think they were scheming something. Basilard merely nodded and walked out.

“Maldynado.” Amaranthe pointed toward the door.

“A nap,” he muttered. “Do I look like a toddler?”

“You look like an overgrown—”

“You can do whatever you want,” Amaranthe hurried to say, before an argument could break out, “so long as it’s back there and not up here. Sergeant Yara? Can I prevail upon you to join them?”

“She can stay,” Sespian said.

Amaranthe didn’t wince, not outwardly anyway, but having Yara there would keep Sicarius from speaking freely. Still, if Sespian felt more comfortable because of her presence, that might be a good thing. Maybe they had exchanged a few words when they’d been alone, and he knew Yara was on his side. If only Amaranthe could make him believe she was on his side too.

“I’d rather he wasn’t here.” Sespian nodded toward Sicarius without making eye contact with him.

“He stays,” Amaranthe said.

Sespian grimaced. “I suppose it’s understandable. You must not feel comfortable enough around me to be without your bodyguard?”

Amaranthe almost blurted that that was ridiculous—even if she thought Sespian well trained enough to be a physical threat, she wouldn’t believe him capable of harming a woman who was trying to help him—but she caught herself in time. Erroneous assumptions or not, he was agreeing to Sicarius’s presence.

Amaranthe perched on the top of the coal box, clasped her hands between her knees, and gazed into Sespian’s eyes with all the guilelessness she could muster. “Sire, I understand that you have reasons to be uncertain about us, but whatever you think we’ve done or haven’t done, we’re here now. Why not make use of us? At the very least you should believe we’re not associated with Forge. If you’ve read the papers lately—” Amaranthe caught herself. Laying claim to a rash of assassinations might not be a good idea, especially if Sespian didn’t yet know Sicarius had been responsible. “We’ve been making trouble for them for a while, and I suspect they’d very much like to see me dead. And certain others in my party.” She glanced at Sicarius, but only for a heartbeat before refocusing on Sespian. “You know what those old military strategists say. The enemy of my enemy is... someone who could make useful cannon fodder. If you have some plot in mind, perhaps you could use us to create a distraction elsewhere.”

Sespian dropped his chin onto a fist and gazed at her.

Finding the response encouraging, Amaranthe pressed on. “Or use us as a research team. You mentioned an interest in what Books might know. He’s well versed in a number of topics, and I’m sure he could pontificate at length on the subject of economics. We have another man with knowledge of the mental sciences.” Amaranthe watched to see what Sespian’s response would be to an allusion of magic, but the term didn’t so much as make his eye twitch. He must be familiar with it. “He may be able to help get that implant out of your neck. We would be useful allies. I’m certain of it. Spend some time with us before heading to Sunders City and whatever you need to do there. We’ll help, regardless of the money.”

Sespian opened his mouth, paused, closed it, then shook his head ruefully. “It’s very easy to be drawn into what you’re saying, and I catch myself wanting to nod and agree. Maybe I should be taking notes on your technique.”

Amaranthe blushed and felt like she should stutter an apology, but she hadn’t done anything to be embarrassed about, had she?

“It’s her eyes,” Sicarius said, startling her.

Yara glanced over her shoulder at him, apparently surprised to hear him speak, but soon turned her attention back to the tracks. She seemed to believe she should remain silent for the discussion.

Sespian scratched his jaw. “Yes, maybe so. They’re like a doe’s. Warm and earnest and...”

“Wholesome.” Sicarius’s eyes glinted, and Amaranthe scowled at him. She knew he was referring to that conversation—that private conversation—she’d had with Deret Mancrest in the Imperial Gardens, where he’d called her wholesome. She didn’t say anything, though, not when Sicarius was finally taking part in the discussion. Sort of.

Unfortunately, Sespian didn’t share eye contact or a knowing smirk with him. All he did was eye Sicarius warily, as if he’d realized whom he’d been chatting with, then he shifted to face Amaranthe more squarely, pointing his shoulder at Sicarius.

“I would like to trust you, Corporal Lokdon,” Sespian said, “but you’re running around with my father’s assassin, someone without a conscience who’s murdered men, women, and children, and—”

“Those are people Hollowcrest and Emperor Raumesys ordered him to kill,” Amaranthe said. “Sicarius was raised by them to be an assassin. What choice did he have?”

“And even if I could believe he bore me no ill will,” Sespian went on without acknowledging her interjection, “what about that Marblecrest you’ve got on your team?” He waved behind his head, toward the coal car. “That whole clan is angling for my hide. They’re working with Forge, planning to put the eldest son on the throne and rule with one hand while panhandling to those entrepreneurs and bankers with the other. And you’ve got the youngest one in here, babbling to me about statues?”

“I...” Amaranthe didn’t know what to respond to first. She’d heard of the Marblecrests—they were one of the oldest warrior-caste families and had spent several generations ruling the empire until Tevok the Third had sired thirteen daughters and not a single son—and it didn’t surprise her to learn that Maldynado came from that line. What did surprise her was that his family was working with Forge and angling for the throne. And the Marblecrests would have a claim too. At one point, Amaranthe had had Books give her a list of the people who would be in the running should Sespian disappear—or the news about his parentage come out. If the latter happened, Sespian still had a claim through his mother’s line, but it wouldn’t be any stronger than that of seven or eight other families, and it would harm his interests if someone digging through Sicarius’s bloodlines didn’t find any warrior-caste patrons.

Amaranthe realized her mouth was hanging open as her mind darted all over the place—and that Sespian was waiting for an answer. “I probably should have asked Maldynado for his surname at some point,” she finished with a sheepish shrug.

She looked at Sicarius, wondering if he had known. He was wearing his expressionless mask and giving away nothing.

“You don’t know the names of the men working for you?” Sespian’s voice wasn’t exactly sarcastic—he seemed to be someone who was careful not to offend with his tone—but it might have been as close to it as he came.

“I don’t know their bloodlines, no. It’s never mattered before.” Amaranthe spread a hand. “Regardless, if you spend a few minutes with Maldynado, I think you’ll see that he’s no threat to you.”

“Yes, that was the gist I got from our brief conversation about statues, but I thought his... garrulous innocuousness might be a façade.”

Amaranthe smiled. “I do think he’s brighter than he lets on, but not in a duplicitous way.” She let the smile fade in favor of a more earnest expression. “I can get more details from him, but Maldynado’s been disowned, and he doesn’t speak fondly of his kin, so I doubt he’ll be a problem for you. If anything, he may be someone from whom you could gain inside information.”

Sespian leaned back. “Huh.”

The monosyllabic grunt reminded her so much of those Sicarius had issued when listening to her early plans, that she paused to consider it. With Sicarius, it usually meant he was open to the idea, and perhaps a little surprised he was open to it. Like father, like son?

“Buy him a drink,” Amaranthe suggested, “and I imagine he’ll spill everything on his eldest brother.”

“I’ll... consider it,” Sespian said, and Amaranthe caught him scrutinizing her eyes. He glanced speculatively at Sicarius, but didn’t say anything else.

Under other circumstances, Amaranthe might have laughed at him—at both of them. Her eyes were the same boring brown shared by ninety percent of the people in the empire, so she couldn’t imagine what they were talking about, but if something in her eyes got Sespian to believe she was on her side, she’d be happy to use it.

“I hope you’ll consider letting the rest of us help you, too, Sire,” Amaranthe said. “At the least, you’ll want that implant out of your neck before you head off to do... whatever it is you’re going to do.” If they had to perform some surgery on Sespian, that’d delay him a couple of days, and maybe she and Sicarius would find their moment alone with him. “I’m sure my mental-sciences man will have some ideas when we meet up with him again.” She wasn’t sure of that at all, but she hoped it would be the case.

“That’s the teenage boy with the spiked hair, isn’t it?” Sespian asked dryly.

“Er, yes, but he studies hard. He’s healed me before, after I’ve done foolish things and nearly gotten myself killed. Also, he’s only a year younger than you, Sire.” Amaranthe decided not to mention that Akstyr appeared older than Sespian. Emperors probably liked to be told they looked fierce and commanding, not baby-faced.

“Yes, and that’s why I’d doubt him. I’m not terribly wise or experienced.”

“We’ll find a solution. Books and Sicarius have a lot of experience they’ll share with him.”

Sespian shot another look at Sicarius. “How comforting.”

“Sire...” Amaranthe started, but didn’t know what to add, not with Yara there, and she didn’t think Sespian wanted her to send Yara away.

“Corporal Lokdon,” Sespian said, “I’d like to trust you and treat you as a confidante, but I’m afraid I’d be letting my feelings trample all over my pragmatism. These Forge people have been consuming my time and my sanity with their plotting and manipulation, and I haven’t had a chance to research what your group is doing. Your questionable allies aside—” Sespian gave Sicarius another narrowed-eyed glance, “—you went to that elite business school before becoming an enforcer, and some of your old classmates are affiliated with Forge.”

That was news to Amaranthe. Maybe she ought to be getting in touch with old comrades to see if they might be sources of information.

“I’m sorry to be mistrustful,” Sespian went on, “but I’ve been wrong once already.” He grimaced, and Amaranthe wondered how he’d been captured—or tricked?—into leaving the Imperial Barracks to end up in Larocka’s clutches the winter before. “If my concerns are unfounded, I apologize. I hope you can understand my position and won’t hold it against me.” He offered her a sad half-smile.

“Of course I won’t, Sire.” Amaranthe sensed that she’d made headway and had best not press him further. Knowing how little time they had, she wanted to, but if she was too insistent, he’d grow suspicious of her motives. At the least, he’d want to talk to her again with Books present to get more information on whatever economic scheme he was researching. “You don’t happen to know which of my old colleagues are involved with Forge, do you?” she asked.

“Boss!” came Maldynado’s voice from outside. “We have a problem!”

Amaranthe lifted a hand toward Sicarius, about to ask him to check it out, but he was already heading for the exit.

“What do you think, Sergeant Yara?” Sespian asked. “Are these outlaws to be trusted?” He said it casually, as if he were simply making conversation, but something in the intent set of his face made Amaranthe think the answer might matter.

Yara turned in the engineer’s seat to face Sespian. “I think you can trust Lokdon, Sire.”

At that simple endorsement, Amaranthe let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Sicarius, halfway out the door, had paused to hear the exchange. He met and held Amaranthe’s eyes for a moment before leaving, and she thought it might be an acknowledgement that she hadn’t been an idiot for involving Yara after all. She didn’t know if the sergeant’s words would sway Sespian in the end, but they couldn’t hurt.

Only a few moments passed before Sicarius returned. “There’s something flying overhead,” he said without preamble.

“Books and Akstyr?” Amaranthe asked.

“Not unless Maldynado pleasured a whole platoon of wealthy businesswomen.”

“That’s... not impossible,” Amaranthe said, but Sicarius had already swung back outside.

“What?” Sespian asked.

“I’m not sure. Stay here, please, Sire.” Amaranthe headed for the door.

Snow greeted her when she climbed outside. They were still in the forest, with evergreens towering to either side of the tracks, but the railway sloped upward more steeply than it had before. Amaranthe climbed into the coal car, where the men were crouching and looking skyward.

“That thing’s huge.” Maldynado spotted Amaranthe. “Did you see it?”

“No, what is it?”

“A flying... I don’t know. Castle?”

It wasn’t a castle, Basilard signed.

“Then what was it?” Maldynado asked.

Big.

Amaranthe scratched her head. A big, flying not-castle. Lovely description.

Sicarius was crouching on top of the locomotive cab. Amaranthe clambered up beside him.

“Can you describe what we’re dealing with?” she asked.

He pointed through the falling snow toward the slope ahead. At first, Amaranthe saw nothing. Then, dark against the white mountainside, a massive black craft floated across the railway, dwarfing the evergreens beneath it. Intermittent lights outlined its half-sphere shape. It was flat on the bottom and convex on top, like the dome of a building. A steady, conical red beam shot out the front, its focus downward as it illuminated a swath of snow-covered trees in its path. The vessel had to be miles away yet, but its size made it seem much closer.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.” Amaranthe twisted to look at the men. “Maldynado, is there any chance that’s the flying contraption you sent Books and Akstyr to pick up?”

“No, they were getting a dirigible,” Maldynado said, “not a giant black flying fortress.”

Up ahead, the craft had disappeared, but the image remained etched in Amaranthe’s mind. Was this some secret new technology Forge had designed or somehow gotten its hands on? She thought of the underwater laboratory her team had infiltrated that summer. For all its strangeness, it had appeared to be a mix of imperial technology and magic. Whatever this was, it seemed utterly alien.

Sicarius hadn’t moved. He crouched, elbows on his knees, gaze toward the spot the craft had occupied.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Amaranthe asked.

“It’s making its way down from the mountains,” Sicarius said, “going back and forth over the tracks.”

Looking for them, perhaps? “You didn’t answer my question,” Amaranthe pointed out.

“It’s possible they haven’t seen us yet. The snow is picking up. It may hide our smoke.”

“Sicarius...”

He pulled out his collapsible spyglass and lifted it to his face. “There are three tunnels between here and the pass. If we speed up, we may be able to reach the closest one, stop the train, and hide in there until the craft flies past.”

Amaranthe doubted he could see the tunnels with the spyglass, not with so many trees in the way, but she trusted he knew the railway by heart. While she had rarely traveled out of the city, he’d been all over the empire and to other nations during his previous career.

Wind battered at Amaranthe and she pressed her fingers against the top of the cab for balance. “At the risk of sounding like a nagging wife, I’m going to ask again if you have an idea as to what we’re dealing with.”

Sicarius lowered the spyglass. “It reminds me of technology I saw in my youth. Extremely deadly technology. We don’t want to be noticed by whoever is piloting it.”

“Technology? Not magic?”

“Come.” Sicarius stood, unperturbed by the wind and snow gusting at his chest. “We need to hurry if we’re going to make the tunnel.”

He slithered over the edge of the roof and into the cabin.

“I don’t know why I bother asking him questions.” Amaranthe didn’t feel up to duplicating Sicarius’s exit, so she hopped down into the coal car before angling for the ledge leading back to the locomotive cabin.

“Can we come back in now?” Maldynado asked. “I don’t know if you noticed the snow, but it’s getting a touch nippy out here. I’d hate to be unable to perform to my fullest capacity because of cold-induced... atrophies.”

“The only thing that might atrophy because of the cold isn’t something you need right now,” Amaranthe said.

Maldynado hopped onto the ledge and followed her into the cab. Sicarius had the furnace door open and was shoveling mounds of coal inside. Yara still sat in the engineer’s position, but a new grimness marked her face, and Amaranthe had a feeling she’d seen the mysterious craft. Sespian stood behind her, gripping the back of her seat.

“You don’t know that for certain,” Maldynado said, stepping inside after Amaranthe. “What if there’s a beautiful woman flying that thing, and her people capture us using superior magics, and our only hope of survival will come if I can seduce her, thus distracting her while the rest of the team escapes?”

“Maybe I was mistaken,” Sespian said, “and he’s not a Marblecrest.”

Maldynado’s step faltered and Basilard, swinging into the cabin after him, had to skitter to the side to avoid crashing into him. For a moment, Maldynado looked like a bumbling private caught at the end of an enemy cannon, or at least like someone who’s secret was out, but he recovered and shrugged.

“Technically, I’m not, Sire,” Maldynado said. “I’m disowned. Disappointed the old man one too many times, as it were.”

I can’t imagine why, Basilard signed.

The cab grew crowded with everyone inside, and when Maldynado lifted an arm to say, “You wound me, Bas,” he clunked Yara in the head with his elbow.

“I told you not to touch me, you ungainly goon,” Yara said.

Maldynado bowed deeply, this time bumping Basilard. “My apologies, my lady. Perhaps you’d like me to drive while you stand in a place less likely to be disturbed by human activity?”

Amaranthe opened her mouth to say less yammering and more focusing on the problem would be good, but Sicarius acted first. He spun away from the furnace and hurled his favorite dagger at the floor. Instead of bouncing off, the black blade sank an inch into the textured metal. Even though she’d been watching him, Amaranthe jumped in surprise. She started to ask what he was about, but Sicarius pointed at the quivering dagger hilt.

“Unless I miss my guess, that is the technology we’re dealing with up there.”

Chapter 17

“If we don’t avoid detection, we will die shortly,” Sicarius said, his knife still quivering where it had stuck in the metal floor.

It took a moment for people to pull their eyes away from the dagger, especially Yara, who hadn’t seen the weapon before.

“Yara,” Amaranthe said quietly, “push the train to full speed, please.”

Yara tore her gaze from the knife. “Understood.”

“As soon as we enter the tunnel, start braking,” Sicarius told her. “We need to stop before we come out on the other side.”

Yara nodded once.

Sicarius yanked his dagger out of the floor, sheathed it, and returned to shoveling. Heat poured from the furnace, and a vortex of red and orange flames writhed inside. The needle on the gauge that marked miles per hour crept toward the maximum line. Without the dozens of heavy cars behind it, the engine needn’t work as hard as usual, but they were climbing a steep slope, and the locomotive trembled as it picked up speed. Vibrations thrummed through Amaranthe, rattling her teeth in her skull. She tried not to think about curves in the tracks that they’d encounter as they ascended into the mountains, curves that were not safe to go around above certain speeds.

Basilard gathered the firearms left in the cabin from the soldiers and hopped onto the coal box. He started checking and loading everything. If that craft was made from a material similar to Sicarius’s dagger, Amaranthe couldn’t imagine what a black-powder weapon could do to damage it. Maldynado was standing next to her, and she gave him a bleak look.

“My plan’s starting to sound better now, isn’t it?” he asked.

Amaranthe might have laughed, but she didn’t want to draw Sicarius’s ire. She simply said, “What if it’s a man?”

“A what?”

“A man in charge of the enemy craft,” Amaranthe said. “Would you still be willing to seduce him so the team could escape?”

“I... uhm.”

“Just wondering how far into the realm of self-sacrifice you’d be willing to travel to help your comrades.”

Maldynado propped his hands on his hips and gazed out one of the front windows. “Is it a pretty, young man, or an ugly old curmudgeon?”

Basilard’s eyebrows arched, and Yara looked over her shoulder at Maldynado.

“What?” he asked.

Amaranthe decided to join Sicarius at the furnace before he started throwing knives around again to silence the conversation. His grimness worried her, and she wished she’d tried harder in the past to pry out the story of where he’d gotten that dagger.

Sicarius lifted his foot from the pedal, letting the furnace door swing closed. He gripped the shovel and watched the tracks ahead. The snow was picking up outside, cutting down on the visibility, but Amaranthe spotted a hint of red light in the distance. That search beam.

“I’d have more ideas if I knew more about what this is,” she said.

“I have no facts, only conjecture,” Sicarius said.

“That’s more than the rest of us have.”

The train headed around a slight curve, and Amaranthe had to grab the wall to brace herself. The floor quaked beneath them. The needle on the speed gauge had passed the last line and was pressing against the rim.

When the tracks straightened out again, Sicarius pointed through the snow. “There.”

In the distance, a towering cliff rose with a dark tunnel entrance in the center of it.

“We’re going to make it,” Amaranthe said, “and then you can take the time to enlighten us while we’re hiding in the dark.”

The domed top of the black craft came into sight above the cliff.

“Or not,” she murmured.

The craft was still a ways from reaching the edge of the cliff, and its beam swept back and forth over the rocky hillside above the tunnel, but it was covering ground rapidly. Amaranthe remembered math problems from school where she’d had to calculate when the paths of two trains coming from opposite directions would cross. She chose not to attempt such a calculation now. It was going to be close, and she didn’t want to know if they’d be on the wrong side of that closeness.

“What’s the worst thing that can happen if they spot us?” Amaranthe’s voice vibrated with the trembling of the locomotive.

Sicarius shook his head once, then pinned Sespian and Yara with his stare. “Increase speed.”

“If we go any faster, the train will fly apart,” Sespian said.

“Let it,” Sicarius barked.

As the train closed on the tunnel, the cliff seemed to grow larger, filling the sky, and the black craft disappeared from view. It hadn’t gone anywhere though, and Amaranthe could see it in her mind, drawing ever closer.

“Can that beam do more than light up the scenery?” she asked.

Sicarius didn’t answer.

“Even if it’s just to tell me that you don’t know, or that my questions are annoying, some kind of response would be appreciated,” Amaranthe whispered to him.

Sicarius met her eyes, his gaze considering, and he opened his mouth to say something, but a loud clank came from the engine. Resounding thunks followed as something dropped off the bottom, banged against the wheels on its way by, then flew out onto the tracks behind them.

Maldynado stuck his head outside, watching behind them. “I hope that wasn’t an important part.”

“A few more seconds, and we’ll be in the tunnel,” Yara said.

An ominous shadow fell across the train. The snow stopped abruptly. No, it hadn’t stopped; it was being blocked.

Amaranthe grabbed the side of the doorway and stuck her head outside. The sky was gone. She couldn’t see anything above the trees except the flat black bottom of the craft. There was nothing to look at except that blackness, no protrusions, no color, no etching or detail. Under daylight it might be different, but now Amaranthe had the impression of the same inky alloy as that of Sicarius’s dagger.

The train sped into the tunnel before the red of the searchlight crossed over the edge of cliff. Safe, Amaranthe thought. Maybe. When she glanced back, she saw a scarlet curtain fall across the tunnel entrance. It must have covered a quarter mile swath of snowy forest. More, the light caught the back half of the coal car before the train was swallowed by darkness.

“Full stop,” Sicarius said.

Yara pulled gradually on the brake lever. Sicarius pushed her out of the way, grabbed the lever, and threw his weight backward.

Brakes screeched. In the confining tunnel, the noise blasted at Amaranthe’s eardrums. She was too busy being hurled forward to notice for long. Someone slammed into her back. With her cheek already flattened against the window, she was in no position to complain.

Sparks flew up from the wheels, brightening the dark stone tunnel walls. The exit, a slightly less dark hole on the far side, approached rapidly. With the speed the train had been going, Amaranthe didn’t know if it could stop in time.

The forward force lessened a smidgen, and whoever was pressed against her back tried to peel away from her. She planted both hands on the window and pushed herself upright.

On the other side of the furnace, Sicarius crouched, leaning back, the tendons in his neck standing out as he continued to pull at the long brake lever. Smoke poured from the engine, shrouding the view ahead. If something in there had caught on fire...

The train halted inches from the snowy overhang at the end of the tunnel. Smoke continued to leak from the seams of the engine, though at least the noise abated. Amaranthe’s ears ached after all that screeching.

“You’re insane!” Yara shouted. “You could have wrecked the train and killed us all.”

Amaranthe stepped toward her and patted the air with a placating hand. Yelling at someone who carried as many knives as Sicarius was never a good idea.

But all Sicarius said was, “Your efforts would not have halted the train in time.”

Amaranthe touched his shoulder and nodded toward the tunnel exit. “Check it out, will you? I think they came over the cliff in time to see us go in.”

Sicarius released the brake, slid past Basilard and Maldynado, and hopped out of the train.

“That man is a lunatic,” Yara growled.

Maldynado was pushing his shoulder-length brown curls out of his face with one hand, and with the other he patted Yara on the shoulder. “Yes, but he’s a lunatic that’s good to keep on your side.”

“Touching,” she snapped at him.

Maldynado lifted his hand and met Amaranthe’s eyes. “The man who can tame this woman would excel in a career of training tigers, sharks, grimbals, and other wild creatures with bad attitudes.”

“Are you trying to be clever?” Yara touched her forehead, where a new knot was rising. She must have banged against something too.

“Rarely,” Maldynado said.

Sespian pointed a shaky hand toward the ominous black plumes wafting from the engine. “Should we get out of here? I don’t think our train is making another run.”

“I concur,” Amaranthe said.

“We have to walk up to the pass?” Maldynado asked. “How far is it from here?”

Yara glared at him.

“I’m not whining,” Maldynado said. “I’m just concerned we won’t make our meet-up time with Akstyr and Books.”

Basilard hopped to the ground and Amaranthe followed him, gravel shifting under her feet when she landed. She touched the rock wall for balance and grimaced when her hand came away dirty with algae or some other slick, damp growth. She pulled out her kerchief.

Basilard coughed and waved at the smoke in the air. It had a tarry, burning-rubber odor that made Amaranthe’s eyes water.

“Are you all right?” she asked Basilard, figuring he’d been the one to crash into her from behind.

Fresh blood streamed from a deep gash on his head, but he merely nodded. When he caught her eying it, he signed, New scar.

“We may all have them by the time this is over,” Amaranthe said.

Whose idea was it to let Sicarius drive? That was worse than a Maldynado ride.

“You haven’t been in a garbage lorry with him.”

“I heard that,” Maldynado said from the other side of the train.

“Do you have the emperor over there?” Amaranthe asked, wanting to make sure everyone was out.

“Yes,” Sespian called back. “Though I think we should move away from the train before the boiler explodes.”

“Get back in the train,” Sicarius called as he ran back down the railway toward them.

“In the train?” Amaranthe asked, not certain she’d heard him correctly.

“In. Now!”

A boom sounded somewhere outside. The earth quaked, and something that sounded like a rifle shot emanated from the rock overhead. Stones detached from the ceiling and clattered onto the tracks.

“Now is good,” Amaranthe said.

Before she’d taken more than a step toward the train, Sicarius grabbed her about the waist and hoisted her inside. He leaped in after her, and lunged to the other side where Sespian was climbing in. Sicarius gripped Sespian’s forearm and hauled him in so swiftly that the emperor’s feet flew from the ground and he let out a startled squawk.

Basilard, Maldynado, and Yara climbed in of their own accord, the last person ducking inside a second before a head-sized rock plummeted from above and landed on the still-smoking engine. It bounced off but left a gouge in the metal.

A succession of booms followed the first, some of them so loud that the echoes seemed to bounce around in Amaranthe’s head. More rock fell, sometimes pebbles, sometimes boulders. Dust filled the passage, competing with the smoke. Amaranthe dragged a sleeve across her face, wiping away tears.

“Would it be better to run outside?” Even yelling, she wasn’t certain anyone would hear her.

A boulder slammed into the top of the locomotive cab, and the ceiling dropped so low it cut into Amaranthe’s view of the others. An inch to the left, and it would have smashed in Maldynado’s head. Eyes bulging, he backed away, then decided that wasn’t enough and dropped to the floor, arms protecting his neck and skull.

“Down.” Sicarius jerked his thumb toward the floor so everyone would see.

Amaranthe dropped to her knees beside Maldynado. Dust had flooded the cab, and she tied her kerchief around her mouth and nose.

“They’re hovering outside,” Sicarius said. “They want to drive us out. They—”

Another round of booms drowned out his voice. Rubble poured from the ceiling, and plumes of dust stormed into the tunnel. Visibility vanished. Even with the kerchief, fine particles invaded Amaranthe’s throat and nostrils. Shards of rock flew sideways, ricocheting off metal—and people—inside the cab.

She sank low, her head tucked into her knees, her eyes clenched shut. They were being buried alive; she didn’t want to see it.

A sharp rock struck her temple, and she grunted in pain. Amaranthe felt like she was breathing dirt instead of air, and a spasm gripped her lungs. Coughs wracked her body. She fought against panic and the urge to run outside and take her chances with the enemy craft. By now there might not be an outside to run to.

A light weight settled on her upper back. She peeled open one eyelid and found herself looking at Sicarius’s jaw. He’d draped himself over her, protecting her head.

Amaranthe took comfort from his presence and forced herself to stay calm, to breathe slowly, to pull as much air from the dust miasma as she could. What seemed like an hour of quaking and falling rubble was probably only a minute. The noise finally faded, and other coughs—and more than a fair number of curses—filled the air. At least, if her men were cursing, they were alive.

“Emperor’s balls,” a raspy Maldynado said, “we’re trapped.”

Amaranthe lifted her head, and Sicarius shifted away. Her first thought was to check on the emperor and her team to make sure everyone was alive, but the walls of rubble surrounding them on all sides stunned her. Rocks blocked one doorway and half of the other, and boulders had rolled into the cabin. The windows were broken. A single wan lantern had survived the rockfall, and its weak flame flickered, half-choked by the hazy air. Weak or not, it revealed plenty. As Maldynado had said, they were trapped.

“Emperor’s what?” Sespian lifted his head and brushed dirt and pebbles out of his hair.

“Uhm, never mind,” Maldynado said.

Basilard’s fingers flickered, their movements exaggerated so the signs were readable in the poor light. You’ll have to rework your curses, given the present company.

“Maybe so.” Maldynado poked Yara who hadn’t yet lifted her head. “You alive, Grouch?”

Yara stirred, and rubble sloughed off her as she sat up. She looked at Maldynado’s hand, but was apparently too battered to bother berating him for touching.

Sicarius had his eyes closed, head tilted to the side. Listening for more attacks? Amaranthe didn’t hear anything except for periodic shifts of dirt and pebbles trickling to the earth.

“Are we going to be able to get out of here?” Sespian asked.

He sounded calm, despite their position and the blood trickling into his eye from a gash on his brow. Good, nobody was panicking yet.

“Of course.” Amaranthe bumped Sicarius’s arm with the back of her hand. “Right?”

Sicarius eyed the walls of rock. “We’re not far from the tunnel exit, though bringing down the cliff might have compromised the entrance area and caused a landslide.”

“I’m going to call that a yes,” Amaranthe said.

“Optimistic,” Sespian said.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” She flung open the toolbox, or tried to. Flying rocks had dented the lid and warped one of the hinges. The box creaked open slowly. “Grab tools, everyone. Let’s see if we can dig our way out of here.”

“Uhm.” Maldynado looked back and forth from the toolbox to the walls of boulders surrounding them. “Unless you’ve got a steam tractor tucked inside there, I don’t see how—”

Amaranthe cut him off by pressing the coal shovel against his chest. “We’re getting out of here.”

“What if the enemy is waiting outside?” Maldynado asked.

“I doubt they’ll stick around all night.” Amaranthe selected an axe for herself. It wasn’t an ideal tool for digging, but it ought to be sturdy enough to lever rocks aside. “They’ll probably think they’ve buried us alive.”

“Then... they’ll probably be right,” Maldynado said.

She scowled at him. “You aren’t digging yet?”

Maldynado lifted his hands. “All right, boss, I’m digging.” He headed for the side of the cab that was only halfway hemmed in.

The rubble appeared less dense on that side, and Amaranthe spotted an open area at the top of the tunnel. Though no drafts of cool air whispered down from above, she thought that might be a route of less resistance. Basilard and the others were rooting through the toolbox for something suitable. Sicarius had slipped out past Maldynado and was squeezing through a gap between two boulders. If there was an escape route there, that’d be fantastic, except that it was pointing in the opposite direction, to the rear of the train instead of toward the exit.

Amaranthe pointed at the gap near the tunnel ceiling. “I’m going to climb up there and have a look.”

“Be careful,” Sespian said.

Sicarius, who hadn’t quite slipped away into the darkness, paused to look at Sespian and then Amaranthe. She could never guess at the thoughts going through his head, but feared they might have to do with their conversations regarding non-sentimental words to convey sentimental feelings. It wasn’t the time to worry about it, she told herself.

“Thanks, Sire,” Amaranthe said. “I will.”

She thought to send a similar warning to Sicarius, but he had disappeared into the dark crevice.

“Where’s he going without a light?” Maldynado asked.

Amaranthe didn’t answer. She climbed past Maldynado, hands gripping rock cold with the mountain chill. Pebbles shifted under her feet, but she managed to squirm up the stone wall to the gap. There was room for her to lie flat on her belly with her head brushing the stone ceiling, but not much more. She doubted the bigger men could follow her, but it hardly mattered. A few feet ahead of her, the rocks filled the gap, creating a solid wall from floor to ceiling. She crawled toward it anyway. Maybe it was only a couple of feet thick and she could dig her way through the barrier. She refused to believe that it was impassable. She hadn’t put this much effort into rescuing Sespian just to have her team die in a cave-in.

Chapter 18

After an hour of digging and prying at the rocks with the axe, Amaranthe returned to the cab. New gashes adorned her knuckles, and the shoulder wound she’d taken earlier burned like a furnace. Even her back and neck ached as a result of trying to dig from such an awkward position.

Unfortunately, the others had made little progress, unless she could count the dented lanterns someone had found and lit. Sicarius wasn’t back yet, so maybe he’d discovered something, though she didn’t find it encouraging that he’d been heading toward the end of the coal car instead of the tunnel exit.

With shoulders slumped and weary expressions on their faces, Maldynado, Basilard, Sespian, and Yara looked as tired as she felt.

“This could take days,” Maldynado said, leaning on his shovel.

“Unless we run out of air before then,” Yara said.

Amaranthe groped for something optimistic to say. “Books and Akstyr will have missed us by now. Maybe they’ve flown back down the mountain, found the landslide, assumed we were in it, and are seeking a way to help us escape.”

Unless they tangled with that nightmare craft and are now dead, Basilard signed.

So much for optimism.

“Is there any food?” Sespian asked. “Or should I attempt to look particularly unappealing in case your team resorts to cannibalism?”

That earned him a round of surprised stares.

Sespian cleared his throat. “It was a joke. I hope.”

“We have plenty of food, Sire,” Amaranthe said.

Maldynado lifted a hand to his mouth and leaned close to her. “You’re not going to feed the emperor those awful Sicarius bars, are you?”

He wasn’t quiet enough with his whisper, for Sespian asked, “Sicarius bars?”

At that moment, Sicarius appeared out of the darkness and climbed into the cab. So much dust covered him that none of his clothing remained black.

“One bar,” he said, “provides all the fuel you need to perform adequately for the day.”

“But they taste awful,” Maldynado said.

“That is irrelevant.”

“They’re made with brains,” Maldynado said.

“Yes, and liver and hearts,” Sicarius said. “Organ meat is nutrient-dense and rich in fats that can sustain you for long periods of time. The Zeyzar, a tribal people in Moratt, regularly feast on raw tripe, brain, and heart, and they—”

Amaranthe placed a hand on his arm. “If we’re going convince the emperor to try them, you might want to stop talking now.” She pointed a finger at Maldynado. “And you, shush.”

Maldynado lifted his hands and blinked innocently.

“Not... human brains, right?” Sespian asked.

“Of course not,” Sicarius said. “The average human has an abysmal diet. I wouldn’t wish to fuel my body with meat from such an impure source.”

Yara gaped at Sicarius. Maldynado lifted a finger and opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of commenting, for he shut it again. Sespian looked... horrified. Amaranthe realized it hadn’t been exactly clear that Sicarius objected to cannibalism for more than dietary reasons.

She gripped his arm before he could say anything else, grabbed one of the lanterns, and pointed him toward the gap he’d been investigating. “Why don’t you show me what you found out there?”

Sicarius gave her a curious backward glance but let her push him out of the cab. On their way out, Amaranthe heard Sespian mutter, “That man is a ghoul.”

She winced because she knew Sicarius would hear the comment too. When he paused, Amaranthe waved him toward the crevice. A vaguely puzzled expression put a dent in his usual mask, but he led the way into the narrow passage.

“I didn’t find anything useful,” Sicarius said. “There’s an area that survived the cave-in, but it’s blocked beyond that.”

“Just keep walking.”

That earned Amaranthe another backward glance, but he continued deeper, alternately turning sideways and ducking to maneuver past boulders and jagged slabs of cement.

“I take it back,” Amaranthe said when they came out into an open area—and when she deemed they were out of earshot. “Don’t try to bond with him. You’re too...” She groped for a tactful way to say he was too inhuman for most people to relate to, but failed to find one. “You’re too you,” she finally said with a sigh.

“I see,” Sicarius said.

She might have imagined the stiffness in his tone, but she gave him a quick hug anyway, just in case he thought him being... him bothered her.

“Just stand at his side protectively,” Amaranthe said. “With the way this night has gone, I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a chance to save his life sometime soon. That might do more to endear you to him than words.” Especially words that could be misconstrued as an interest in cannibalism, she thought. “It’s hard not to come to appreciate someone who saves your life.”

Sicarius folded his arms across his chest. Just because he had asked for her advice earlier that night didn’t mean he wanted it all the time now.

Amaranthe lifted a hand to let him know she was done and inspected the chamber. Here, the tunnel walls remained intact, though spider webs of cracks and fissures left her suspecting they were none too stable. She took the lantern and walked a ways, but found Sicarius was correct. A solid wall of rubble blocked the passage from floor to ceiling. For all she knew, it might extend all the way to the far end of the tunnel. There were a few crevices wide enough that she could slip into them—if she turned sideways and was willing to mash important female protrusions—but they didn’t look like they went anywhere.

“You checked these?” Amaranthe asked.

“Yes.”

“And they dead end?”

“Yes.”

Amaranthe walked back to the center of the chamber and lifted the lantern to study the ceiling. Cracks streaked across the cement up there as well. Another blast from the enemy craft might send the entire tunnel crumbling down upon their heads. Uneasy thought that, but she hadn’t heard anything of the sort since the initial cave-in.

“We have a steam engine at our disposal,” Amaranthe mused, “if we can dig it out. I wonder if we could somehow use it to build a drill and go up. No, even if we had the tools to create something like that, there’s probably a hundred feet of rock above us, maybe more. It’d take months, and tons of explosives, which leads me to wonder what that craft could have possibly been tossing at the cliff to bring down the tunnel.”

She leaned toward Sicarius and raised her eyebrows. Before, he’d been focused on getting the train into the tunnel, so she could understand him not answering her questions, but surely they had nothing better to do right now than discuss this new enemy.

“I’ve saved your life several times,” Sicarius said.

“Uh... yes, you have.” That was not what she’d been hinting for him to bring up with her ascending eyebrows.

“Is that why you... appreciate me?”

Ah, her advice. “Well, we know it’s not your tongue that’s won me over.” Amaranthe meant the comment to be flippant or teasing, but tongue had perhaps not been the best word, because it brought to mind the night he’d kissed her in the Imperial Garden. A flush heated her cheeks. She hoped the poor light hid it. “I mean, the way you talk. Or don’t talk. It’s just... a lot of things, all right? A girl appreciates it when...” A handsome man with muscles honed like a steel blade takes her in his arms and... No, no, Amaranthe told herself, concentrate on the current predicament. “We’ll discuss it later. Right now, I need to know everything you know about that craft. You’re obviously familiar with the technology. Why all the secrecy?” There, that was much safer than discussing tongues and appreciation. And more pertinent to the matter at hand as well.

Sicarius watched as she fumbled through her response, one of his eyebrows elevating slightly. From him, it was a lot of expression, but she could only wonder at his thoughts. He probably read hers all too well.

“I was sworn to silence on the matter,” Sicarius finally said.

“By whom?”

“Hollowcrest, Raumesys, and Lord Artokian, the Imperial Historian.”

Amaranthe was ready to brush off the first two names—after all, Sicarius had killed Hollowcrest; how much loyalty could he feel to the man’s memory?—but the last one made her pause. “Because whatever you found was so strange, it’d shock the general public if people learned of it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Sespian must know about it, though, right?”

“Unknown,” Sicarius said. “The artifacts the marines brought back from the expedition to the Northern Frontier ought to be in the Imperial Barracks somewhere, but Sespian, despite having seen my knife before, seemed startled by its capabilities when I lodged it in the floor.”

“What happened in the Northern Frontier? And why were you along on an ‘expedition’ up there?”

“A team of archaeologist pirates was attempting to uncover ancient advanced technology to use against the empire. I was sent to make sure they did not succeed.”

“Ancient advanced technology?” Amaranthe asked. “How would that be possible? I know there are some lost civilizations out there, but technology is at its peak now, isn’t it? If there’d been a time when humanity had greater means than we have today, I’m sure I would have heard about it in school. Or Books would have brought it up in one of his unsolicited lectures.”

“Humanity is at its peak, yes,” Sicarius said. “This wasn’t human technology.”

“Er, what?”

“The archaeologist working on deciphering the foreign language wasn’t there willingly and didn’t share all of her findings, but, based on the artifacts we returned with and the details the marines and I reported, the Imperial Historian judged that the technology was derived from one of two possible sources. The first suggestion was that the work came from a race that lived in the world so long ago that almost all sign of them has been lost.”

“Huh. And the second possibility?”

“Extraterrestrial beings.”

Amaranthe snorted. “When I told you to start making jokes, I meant for you to do it in front of Sespian, so he could see that you have a sense of humor.”

Sicarius’s face was the epitome of seriousness.

“Truly? You’re telling me aliens from outer space brought that knife here—” Amaranthe waved toward his sheathed blade, “—and gave it to you?”

“Whichever theory is true, the creators of the technology disappeared from our world long ago. Some of their artifacts remain, and they are extremely dangerous. Floating boxes this large—” Sicarius outlined a one-foot square with his hands, “—killed numerous marines by incinerating them.”

“You saw this with your own eyes?”

“They tried to incinerate me as well.”

“Oh,” Amaranthe said.

“I heard the archaeologist talking with Starcrest, and—”

“Wait, Starcrest? Fleet Admiral Starcrest? The legendary naval strategist?”

“Yes,” Sicarius said.

“Who was the archaeologist?”

“A professor from Kyatt,” Sicarius said. “Tikaya Komitopis.”

The name was familiar, and Amaranthe wriggled her fingers in the air as she tried to place it. “The cryptanalyst who cracked all our encryption codes during the Western Sea Conflict?”

“Yes. She believed these boxes were simple cleaning machines designed to eliminate trash.”

Amaranthe blew out a slow breath. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed Sicarius exactly, but having two such significant historical figures contributing to the research did seem to lend more credence to the story.

“This flying craft,” Amaranthe said, “is something that was brought back from the expedition?”

“No. We went to a remote area only accessible by dog sled. Nothing large was retrieved.”

“Then someone got it later.”

“The marine captain in charge of the expedition blew up the entrances to the tunnels afterward. Regardless, everything was in the middle of a mountain. Even if such a large craft had been inside, it never could have been flown out.”

“So where did that thing come from?” Amaranthe asked.

“Unknown. Perhaps an archaeological expedition unearthed another site with ruins from the ancient civilization, and Forge learned of it.”

“Are you sure this craft is made from the same technology?”

“I would need a closer look under better lighting conditions to be positive,” Sicarius said, “but I deem it highly likely.” His gaze flicked upward, reminding her of the power it must have taken to collapse so much of the tunnel, a tunnel set deep in what had been a very old and stable cliff.

“Suppose you’re right. Are we sure those were Forge people up there, piloting that thing?”

“Who else would want us dead and know where we are?”

Sicarius had a long list of people who wouldn’t mind taking a shot at him, but... “Even Forge shouldn’t have known where we were,” Amaranthe said.

“Sergeant Yara may have informed someone.”

“And then come along so she could put herself in danger? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Akstyr then,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe grew still. She hadn’t told Sicarius about Rockjaw’s tip, and she was positive Books didn’t regularly confide in Sicarius either. Had he found out another way? And, if so, did he know that she knew and hadn’t said anything? Surely he’d see something like that as a betrayal, even if her only intent had been to keep Akstyr from getting killed.

“What makes you suggest him?” Amaranthe asked carefully.

“He’s not as deeply under your spell as the others.”

“Maybe it’s because he avoids eye contact,” she said, referring to his comment that her eyes had some persuasive quality. “Anyway, how those people figured out where we were is something to dwell on later. For now, we need to escape.”

Sicarius looked toward the crevice leading back to the locomotive. A long moment passed before someone came out of it covered with dust. Sespian.

He paused at the entrance, glancing between Amaranthe and Sicarius with an uncertain expression on his face. When nobody else followed him out, Amaranthe wondered if he might have been concerned at the idea of her wandering off alone with Sicarius.

Amaranthe lifted an inviting hand. “Any thoughts, Sire?”

“I was curious as to whether you’d found a way out.”

“Not yet,” Amaranthe said.

“I was also wondering if you knew who those people were and if they were trying to kill you... or me.” Sespian grimaced, perhaps worried that this mess was his fault.

“We don’t know anything for certain yet,” Amaranthe said, “but Forge is always at the top of my list of conniving misfits determined to make my days bad.”

“Why,” Sicarius said, “is it ‘conniving’ when the enemy does it and ‘planning’ when you do it?”

Sespian’s eyes flickered with surprise at the joke. Amaranthe bit down on her lip to keep a grin from spreading across her face, though she was ridiculously proud of Sicarius for managing the line with a witness—this witness in particular—around.

“Because our motives are noble,” Amaranthe said, “and we’re not simply trying to add gold to our bank vaults. We don’t even have bank vaults. Or accounts for that matter.”

“Most imperial citizens don’t,” Sespian said. “Though that’ll change if those bankers have anything to do with it.”

“Oh?” Amaranthe put on her most attentive and earnest expression, hoping he might explain further.

Sespian glanced at Sicarius and shook his head once. Amaranthe wanted to shout out that Sicarius was his father and that Sespian could trust him more than anyone in the world, but she was afraid—no, she was certain—that statement would only drive Sespian away and raise his suspicions against the group. He’d think it some kind of trick instead of the truth. No, she had to get Sespian and Sicarius to spend some time together before anyone sprang that little fact upon him.

“Anyway, Sire, I don’t think they were after you,” Amaranthe said. “Or at least you weren’t the priority. After all, they’ve been keeping you alive for these last nine months, so why would they try to crush you with a rockfall now?”

“They may be prepared to make their move,” Sespian said grimly.

“Possibly, but we’ve... irked them a few times of late.” She winced, knowing ‘irked them’ might describe her team’s meddling over the water-poisoning and baby-creating projects, but wasn’t an appropriate way to talk about thirty assassinations. She had no wish to take responsibility for that, but she doubted Forge would separate her from “her assassin” as so many people liked to label Sicarius.

“Oh,” Sespian said in a way that suggested he hadn’t considered the possibility.

That probably meant he hadn’t seen recent newspapers or didn’t know Sicarius was responsible for those deaths. If that was the case, she wasn’t going to bring it up.

“Either way, it’s time to get out of here,” Amaranthe said. “I imagine they’ve moved on by now.”

“You have a plan?” Sicarius asked.

“The digging hasn’t been terribly productive so far,” Sespian said.

“I wouldn’t have suggested digging if I’d know about this big sturdy chamber.” Amaranthe strolled over and patted one of the walls, blocking the view of a particularly substantial crack.

“Sturdy,” Sicarius said in a flat monotone.

He must already have an inkling of what she wanted to try.

“You might want to stay here, Sire,” Amaranthe said, then jogged for the crevice. She didn’t want to explain her idea, and handle objections, more than once.

She wasn’t surprised when both Sicarius and Sespian slipped through the dark passage after her. She found Basilard, Maldynado, and Yara sitting inside the cab, digging tools discarded. Given how little progress anyone had made, Amaranthe couldn’t blame them for giving up.

“The secret,” Maldynado was saying, “is to hold your nose while you chew so you don’t taste it. He pulps up the meat pretty good and glues it together with bone marrow fat or something, so the texture isn’t as horrific as you’d think, though sometimes you do get these chewy bits...” Maldynado pointed to Yara’s hand; she was holding one of Sicarius’s meat bars. “Then you’ve just got to swallow quick without thinking too much about it,” Maldynado finished.

Basilard was halfway through one of his own bars, and he merely shook his head as Maldynado went on about them. They’re fine, he signed. Sufficient for the purpose.

“I can’t believe you’d say that, Bas,” Maldynado said, “you being a fair to excellent chef and all.”

You are too used to city food. My people make something similar for travel. We usually add spices and dried berries to give it flavor.

“Flavor, a completely foreign idea to that inhuman—er, hullo boss.” Maldynado noticed Sicarius as he hopped into the cab behind Amaranthe. “And... others.”

Amaranthe plopped down on the coal box next to Basilard and fought back a yawn. The clock on the wall was broken, and she didn’t know how late it was, but she knew they had long since missed meeting with the others at midnight.

“Got any new plans?” Maldynado asked.

“As a matter of fact... yes.” She paused to pick grit out of her eyes, or maybe simply because she had a flair for the dramatic. “Who wants to disable the safety valves and blow up the boiler?”

“What?” Yara asked at the same time as Sespian did. He and Sicarius remained near the doorway behind Amaranthe.

Maldynado leaned toward Amaranthe and peered into her eyes. “I thought you got shot in the shoulder, not the head.”

“We’re close enough to the exit, that blowing up the boiler might clear the rubble for us,” Amaranthe said. “Like using blasting sticks.” She smiled and tried to appear confident, though she wished Books was there to do some calculations. She didn’t know if the explosive power of an overheated boiler could move that many tons of rock, but it ought to at least shift some of the rubble around. Given how close they were to the exit, that might be enough. “There’s a chamber a little ways back where we can hunker down. There should be enough rock between it and the engine that we’ll be protected.”

“Unless the reverberations in the rock cause the ceiling over that chamber to collapse,” Sicarius said.

“If it held off that bombardment, maybe it’s sturdy enough to survive our little explosion,” Amaranthe said.

“Maybe?” Maldynado asked.

“Does anyone have a pen and paper?” Sicarius asked.

Sespian unbuttoned a pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook with a pen clipped to the spine. He flipped past a few pages with sketches on them—Amaranthe was glad he still made time to pursue that passion, if only in hurried spare moments—and opened the book to a blank page before handing it to Sicarius.

Sicarius stalked to the controls and wrote down a few numbers.

“What’s he doing?” Yara asked.

“Calculating the likelihood that the boss has gone insane?” Maldynado suggested.

Sicarius bent his head over the notebook. From what Amaranthe could see, he was solving equations, and she figured she should be considerate and leave him alone to finish. She managed to do that for almost an entire minute until her curiosity undermined her power for consideration. She strolled over, hands clasped behind her back.

He gave her a dark look and she froze. He rarely gave her his icy stare any more, and she’d forgotten how chilling it was.

“You don’t approve of my idea?” Amaranthe asked.

Sicarius’s gaze flickered toward Sespian before settling onto the paper again. Ah, Sespian’s presence changed his willingness to take risks. Foolhardy ones anyway.

Sicarius finished writing and stared hard at the paper.

“Some sort of blast wave calculations?” Amaranthe guessed. “What’s your conclusion?”

“That your idea might work to free the front of the train.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“There’s no guarantee that the chamber you want to hide in won’t collapse or that we won’t simply end up trapped back there. New detritus might block the return route.”

“Any way to figure out the odds of that nook collapsing?” Sespian asked.

“Not when we have no way to determine how much it was damaged in the previous cave-in,” Sicarius said.

It’d be safer to dig out, Basilard signed.

“We could cause more rock to fall simply by moving rocks aside,” Amaranthe said. “And that might squish everyone too.”

“It would take a week to dig out by hand,” Sespian said. “I... don’t have a week. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I was going to try and escape at Sunders City. I didn’t have much hope of it working, but I figured I had to try. I need to get there sooner rather than later.”

“If you’re crushed by rock, you won’t get there either way,” Sicarius told him.

“All right,” Amaranthe said, “we’ll vote. Who wants to dig out and who wants to risk an explosion?”

“Vote?” Sespian asked.

“He’s the emperor,” Yara pointed out. “Shouldn’t he be making the decisions?”

About our lives? Basilard frowned. He’s not my emperor. And he’s eighteen.

“Nineteen,” Amaranthe said.

Sespian’s eyes narrowed. “What did he say?”

“You’re very wise for such a young man,” Amaranthe said.

Now Basilard’s eyes narrowed.

“Vote time,” Amaranthe said. “Who wants to dig out?”

Yara, Basilard, and Sicarius lifted hands.

“And who wants to blow this engine up, and see if we can be out by dawn?”

Amaranthe and Sespian raised their hands. Maldynado sighed deeply, then raised his as well.

“Are you on our side because you have faith in me,” Amaranthe asked him, “or because you don’t want to dig?”

“Oh, I have faith in you,” Maldynado said, “and I don’t want to dig. My main reason for hesitating was that I fear this story might get twisted around at some future date, and I’ll be blamed for blowing up the train.”

“Why would you get blamed?”

“Nobody ever blames the woman for blowing things up, such as garbage vehicles, even when the explosions clearly happened as a result of her crazy schemes.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Amaranthe smiled until she considered the split votes. She might be the leader of the team, but there was so much of a risk of failure—of death—that she didn’t feel like she could order them into this. Even if she tried it, she might bump up against the boundaries of her leadership. If Sicarius didn’t agree to blow up the locomotive, nobody there would be able to go through him to do it.

“If I issue an imperial mandate that says we will blow up the engine,” Sespian said, “would that affect any of your votes?”

Amaranthe met Sicarius’s eyes. If he wanted to win favor with Sespian, this might be a good opportunity for him to switch sides and join him. Sicarius stared mulishly back at her. It was Yara who sighed and lowered her hand.

“Four to two,” Sespian told Amaranthe. “Will that do it?”

Basilard caught Sicarius’s eye and signed, Will it be at all comforting to know we were right as we lie dying?

If we’re right, our deaths will be too swift for thoughts, Sicarius signed back.

“I can tell I need to learn this language,” Sespian said.

“Basilard will be happy to teach you.” Amaranthe patted him on the back.

Basilard didn’t quite glare at her, but she could tell he wasn’t interested in “bonding” just then. She gave him a smile anyway. Someone had to be encouraging, after all.

“Who wants to handle the blowing up of the train?” Amaranthe asked. “I’ll stay, but I wouldn’t mind some manly strength in case it’s needed. I assume the steam will need to build to the failure point, and there should be time for us to get back to join the others.”

“I’ll handle it,” Sicarius said.

The others grabbed their gear, filed out of the cab, and squeezed into the crevice winding back toward the chamber. Amaranthe picked up the coal shovel, intending to help Sicarius.

He took the tool from her and pointed for her to follow the others. “Go.”

“Sicarius...”

He turned his back to her, kneeling to rekindle the fire in the furnace. His displeasure made her doubt her decision. Maybe she should be listening to him. Maybe they should simply take their time and dig their way out. If the emperor and her team died in that tunnel, Forge would have its way, with no one to oppose the organization. Her contributions to the empire would be forgotten, she’d have no place in the history books, and Maldynado would never get a statue. Dying would be irritating on its own merits as well.

“Maybe you’re right,” Amaranthe said. “We should just work on digging out. If we’re here long enough, Books and Akstyr might find us.” If they hadn’t had a run-in with the enemy aircraft.

“It’s too late now,” Sicarius said, his back still to her. “This is what Sespian wants.”

Thanks to her. “I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned my idea.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe I can make him decide he wants something else,” Amaranthe said.

Finally Sicarius stood and faced her. “Perhaps you could.”

“I will.” Amaranthe nodded and turned for the door.

She had her foot in the air and was about to hop down when Sicarius stopped her with a, “No.”

“No?” she asked.

“I wish to protect him.”

“Yes...”

Sicarius inhaled and exhaled slowly. “He would not appreciate it. He has a mission of his own that is his priority.”

A thread of guilt squirmed through Amaranthe’s belly—Sespian wouldn’t have a notion that it was possible to expedite their escape if she hadn’t brought up the idea. “I think you’re right,” was all she said.

“Go join the others.” Sicarius flipped a thumb toward the crevice.

Amaranthe thought of saying “Be careful,” but it seemed too little for the moment. She stepped back into the cab and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. He didn’t return the embrace, but at least he no longer seemed rigid and angry.

“Good luck,” she said, pulling back. “Remember, don’t do anything foolish up here to get yourself blown up. The plan is for you to run back and join us before the explosion. So you can get squished in the cave-in like the rest of us.”

Sicarius snorted. “A superior death, no doubt.”

“Just make sure to get back there. If we’re going to get squished, I want time to plan something significant. Like dying holding your hand, so we’ll be together for all eternity.” Amaranthe winked and hopped out of the train before he could scoff or roll his eyes. She’d never actually seen him do either, but that suggestion might warrant an emotional outburst.

* * * * *

Amaranthe paced about the cavern. It would take time for the water in the boiler to heat up and more time for the steam pressure to reach dangerous levels, but she felt as if she’d been waiting for hours already. She tried to nibble at a fingernail before remembering she’d decimated them all.

The others sat or stood near the wall of rubble farthest from the train. Sespian and Yara looked like they were contemplating fingernail chewing as well. Basilard and Maldynado were engaged in Last Soldier, a strategy game one could play with marbles, or in this case small pebbles scavenged from the cavern. Though Amaranthe knew they had to be as nervous as she, their blasé demeanors made her envious.

A lantern sat on a railway tie next to Basilard and Maldynado, its flame straight and steady. No hint of wind or a draft down here, she thought.

She stopped beside their game, thinking she should at least pretend she wasn’t nervous. Leaders were supposed to display confidence about their plans, weren’t they? At the very least, chatting might make her less aware of time creeping past.—and help avoid the thought that something might have happened to Sicarius while he was building up the fire. What if, with no place for the smokestack fumes to escape to, they’d filled the tiny space and asphyxiated him?

“Who’s winning?” Amaranthe blurted. Distraction, she needed a distraction.

“Basilard, but he’s cheating,” Maldynado said.

Basilard signed, Now, how am I cheating?

“If I knew how you were doing it, I’d stop you.”

I don’t know why I play with you.

“Because I’m fun,” Maldynado said, “and I buy you a drink after you win, even though you cheat so often.”

You buy drinks no matter who wins.

Maldynado smiled. “See? That’s why I’m fun.”

Their conversation didn’t do as much to distract Amaranthe as she’d hoped, and she nearly fell over in relief when Sicarius burst out of the crevice on the far side of the chamber.

Before she could say anything, he pointed at the floor in the center of the chamber and barked, “Down.”

Amaranthe hustled onto the railway, waving for the others to join her. Being next to the walls of rock when a new explosion went off might not be a good idea. She sank to her knees and buried her face in her lap, her arms protecting her head. Soon, bodies pressed against her on all sides.

When the explosion came, its boom was so muted that Amaranthe questioned whether it truly came from the locomotive. It sounded so distant that it might have occurred outside. A faint tremor shook the earth, and dust drizzled to the floor in places, but the cave-in they had worried about didn’t materialize.

“Is that it?” Maldynado asked. “Are you sure you blew up the boiler correctly?”

Sicarius gave him a cool stare.

Sespian’s shoulders slumped. “We’re going to be stuck here for days.”

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, Amaranthe thought. It would give her a chance to wheedle details out of Sespian, and Sicarius could find opportunities to spend time with him. She walked over to the lantern, intending to pick it up and lead the way to the locomotive for an inspection, but she paused, her hand hovering over the handle. The flame was flickering.

“Draft?” she wondered.

Amaranthe grabbed the lantern and hustled for the crevice.

“Wait for us,” Maldynado hollered. “That’s our only light.”

Amaranthe barely heard him. She scraped past boulders, clunking her head more than once in her haste to reach the locomotive. A breeze whispered across her cheeks. Yes, they’d definitely poked through somewhere, but would it be enough to allow them to escape?

When she burst out of the cramped passage, she stumbled over rubble and almost sprawled to the ground. She gripped a newly deposited boulder to catch herself. Rubble had completely buried the locomotive, and she couldn’t see the boiler at all. But it didn’t matter. Cold flakes of snow drifted through the top half of the tunnel exit and landed on Amaranthe’s nose.

“Huh,” came Sicarius’s familiar monotone from behind her.

“I guess there won’t be any hand-holding today,” Amaranthe said, a smile on her face as she turned around.

Maldynado and Sespian were in the passage behind Sicarius, and she blushed at her silly statement, hoping they hadn’t heard it.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Maldynado drawled. “This looks like an occasion for celebratory touching.” He looked over his shoulder, probably seeing if Yara had joined them. “I’m always available for such activities.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Amaranthe said. “Shall we—”

Sicarius grabbed her arm and shoved her back into the crevice. He stepped in front of her, a throwing knife appearing in his hand.

Sandwiched between him and Maldynado, Amaranthe couldn’t see anything, but she heard rocks shift and pebbles clatter up ahead.

“Am—” The male speaker broke into a spatter of coughs before finishing her name.

“Is that Books?” Amaranthe asked, not certain from the single syllable but figuring Forge minions wouldn’t call out to her by first name.

The coughs ended, followed by a raspy, “Amaranthe, is that you? Unwisely blowing up tunnels from within them? I hope you studied the structural stability of the passage before—” The voice broke into another bout of coughing.

Amaranthe grinned. “That’s Books.”

She nudged Sicarius, and he stepped aside, though he did not sheathe his throwing knife. More rubble shifted, and Books’s head appeared over the lip of the pile. Sicarius left Amaranthe’s side to jog, then climb toward him. She thought he might offer Books a hand, but he skimmed past without a word and disappeared down the other side.

“Good to see you as well,” Books called over his shoulder.

“He’s scouting.” Amaranthe scrambled up the rubble pile. Rocks shifted and slipped beneath her feet, sending a cascade down behind her. “We ran into a strange flying craft.”

“Yes, we opted to hide from it.” Books eyed the buried locomotive. “Wisely, I believe.”

“Booksie, how’ve you been?” Maldynado called. “How’s the dirigible? Lush and luxurious as is fitting for an emperor? And weary mercenaries who’ve been severely mistreated of late?”

“Your dirigible came infested with thugs who attacked us in the middle of the mission,” Books growled at him. “And then more thugs jumped Akstyr when he was setting the charges at the pass, and—did you say emperor? Did you succeed in getting him?”

Sespian and Yara stepped out of the crevice behind Maldynado and Basilard.

“Sire!” Books blurted and attempted to bow from where he knelt at the top of the rubble pile. He almost pitched face-first down the slope.

“Charges at the pass?” Sespian asked mildly.

“Er, did I not mention that, Sire?” Amaranthe had reached the top of the rubble pile and could see out to the forest beyond the destroyed tunnel. She turned around to give Sespian a sheepish smile. “I must apologize for the destruction of a section of railway, especially when we didn’t need that particular distraction.”

“She’s rather cavalier about destroying imperial property, isn’t she?” Sespian said.

“She has single-minded focus,” Maldynado said. “She’ll stop Forge and help the empire, even if she has to blow up the entire continent in the process.”

Amaranthe decided it’d be better not to comment. Besides, if that craft was still around, they needed to get out of there quickly, as soon as she made sure her men were well.

“Is Akstyr all right?” Amaranthe peered more closely at Books and touched his arm. Dark bags lurked under his eyes, and a swollen bruise rose from the side of his jaw. He must have had a grueling night too. “Are you all right?”

“His injuries are graver than mine, and he had to do some draining magical mumbo jumbo to keep that aircraft from noticing us. I left him on watch in navigation. If everyone here can climb, we can get back on board, and I can tell you the rest.”

The grim set to Books’s face told Amaranthe she might not want to hear “the rest,” but she nodded and said, “Agreed.”

Chapter 19

Akstyr removed his nose from the navigation cabin window and sat back in the chair. Books was walking out of the crumbled tunnel entrance with the others. That was good, Akstyr supposed, though apprehension stirred anew in him when he saw Amaranthe and Sicarius. Books would tell them what Akstyr’s role had been in this mess. Amaranthe would forgive him, he figured, but Sicarius? After all the times he’d thought about betraying Sicarius for that bounty, it’d be pitiful if confiding in his mother was what earned Akstyr a throwing knife in the back.

But he ought to be safe for the moment. He’d memorized the schematics and dissected one of the tiny metal balls from the shaman’s box. If the emperor was truly implanted with one of the spheres, the team would need him to help with the operation. That meant Sicarius couldn’t kill him. Akstyr grimaced. Until five seconds after the surgery.

Light winked somewhere outside, and Akstyr lurched to his feet. He was supposed to be keeping watch, not simply sitting around. He and Books had followed the black craft out of the mountains at a distance, though they couldn’t have kept up if they’d tried. For all of its size, that thing skimmed through the air effortlessly. From miles back, they’d watched it shoot narrow white beams into the top of the cliff, caving in the tunnel. The craft had loitered, its red searchlight probing the rubble, for a long time before drifting south along the railway. Books had waited longer than Akstyr thought they should before flying close to the destroyed train tunnel. Once there, they’d shouted for survivors and tried to pull rubble away but had had no luck. Books had been in the process of calculating how to use blasting sticks on the blocked entrance when the explosion had come from within.

Akstyr scoured the horizon, searching for the light he’d seen out of the corner of his eye. Dawn might only be an hour or two off, but it was still dark outside. It didn’t take him long to find the light. A small, blue circle pulsed on and off on top of the cliff. Something the black craft had left behind on accident? Or on purpose?

Akstyr closed his eyes and stretched his mind in that direction, but once again he did not sense anything otherworldly about the device. “Can’t be good, whatever it is.”

He jumped to his feet, and, reminded of his wound with a stabbing pang, hobbled toward the door, intending to warn the others. He almost crashed into Sicarius, who was striding into the navigation cabin ahead of Books and Amaranthe.

“Uh,” Akstyr said eloquently.

The icy stare Sicarius leveled at him made Akstyr stumble back, wound forgotten. The man was always icy, but there was an extra edge to his glare today. Had Books already spoken to him?

When Amaranthe came in, she patted Akstyr on the shoulder. “Keeping us afloat?” She waved at the controls, then noticed him favoring his leg, and added, “And keeping yourself alive?”

“Yes.” Until Sicarius gets me alone, Akstyr thought. He pointed toward the glowing object on the cliff. “I was going to tell you about—”

“I see it,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe leaned on the console and peered outside. “What is it?”

“I could only guess.”

“That’s permitted, you know,” Amaranthe said. “Especially considering there’s more knowledge behind your guesses than the rest of us have put together.”

Books huffed at that comment. Akstyr caught his eye, pointed to Sicarius’s back, and signed, Did you tell them? About... He tapped his chest.

Books opened his mouth, but Akstyr stopped him with a shushing wave, then wriggled his fingers.

Not yet, but I told Amaranthe there was something she’d have to know. I can’t keep this a secret. It threatens the group.

I know, Akstyr signed, but please don’t tell her when he’s around.

He pointed to Sicarius only to realize Sicarius’s head had rotated in his direction. Akstyr gulped. If he’d seen all of the signs...

“My guess,” Sicarius said, “would be that it’s a monitoring device.”

Amaranthe tore her gaze from the blinking light. “Monitoring... us? The cave-in? To see if we make it out?”

“Yes.”

“And would it then be able to send that information back to the enemy craft?”

“Yes,” Sicarius said.

Books raised a finger. “How do you know what it’s capable of? Akstyr says it’s not magical, and even if it is—”

“We’ll do explanations later,” Amaranthe said.

“We need to get this craft moving,” Sicarius said. “The emperor’s destination is Sunders City.”

“Can’t you even tell me if—”

“Now.” Some of Sicarius’s icy glare hit Books.

Books quailed under it and slunk to the controls. “Very well.”

Sicarius and Amaranthe headed back down the corridor, and Akstyr overheard her asking, “Our craft won’t be anywhere near as fast as theirs, will it?” and Sicarius responding, “No,” before their conversation was too far away to hear.

“So good to have him back,” Books muttered.

“I’ll say.”

“Wait,” came Amaranthe’s voice from the corridor.

Akstyr winced in anticipation of more trouble when she hustled back in, dragging Sicarius behind her.

“Were you able to get through to the shaman’s workshop?” Amaranthe asked. “Did you find anything?”

“Yes,” Akstyr blurted, relieved to have a chance to remind that he could help with the implant. He hustled down the corridor to the cabin he’d claimed for himself, grabbed the box and the schematic, and rejoined the others. “These are the implants. I’ve studied them. With some help, I think I could remove one.”

“Oh!” Amaranthe startled Akstyr by grabbing him by the shoulders and kissing him on the cheek. “That’s more than I dared hope for. Wonderful.”

Books cleared his throat. “I helped retrieve them.”

Amaranthe stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek too. For a moment, Akstyr thought she might try the same move on Sicarius—he was standing there, face utterly expressionless as usual—but she merely smiled at him and said, “The emperor will want to know about this.”

“Likely,” Sicarius said and walked out.

Akstyr doubted if he cared a whit if the emperor’s neck exploded or not.

“Akstyr,” Amaranthe said, “gather whatever materials you think we might need to remove the device and... I assume the surgery will be dangerous?”

“Oh, hugely dangerous. To him and me and anyone in the room.” Akstyr tapped the box. “These things can jump like crickets.”

“Grab a couple of hours of sleep then. I want you rested. In the meantime, I’ll be busy convincing the emperor to trust you with his life.”

Amaranthe walked out, and Akstyr watched her go in silence. When he’d been studying the spheres, he’d been focused on figuring out how they worked—and how to make them not work. Only now, at the mention of lives, did he realize the enormity of the responsibility in his lap. He’d have to perform, or at least help perform, surgery on the emperor over all of Turgonia. What if he messed up and Sespian died?

* * * * *

Amaranthe strode down the corridor toward the suite they had assigned Sespian. She was relieved that Akstyr and Books had found the devices and had a plan of action, but she worried her skills of persuasion might not be up to convincing the emperor to undergo the surgery. He had no reason to trust Akstyr with his life.

Maldynado and Yara’s voices drifted up from the cargo area. Maybe Amaranthe and Sicarius could snatch a moment to talk to Sespian alone, though they probably didn’t have time for big revelations. That blinking light worried her.

Before she reached the suite, a door to one of the smaller cabins opened. Sicarius stood on the threshold.

“A moment.” He stepped back, gesturing for Amaranthe to step past him and go inside.

Not certain what concern he might voice, Amaranthe tried to find a clue in his eyes, but, as always, he gave away nothing. As she walked into the cabin, she tried not to feel like a student being taken aside by a teacher for a lecture on her failings. Things were going as well as could be expected, and they had a potential solution to Sespian’s most pressing problem. Sicarius ought to be pleased.

No lanterns burned in the room, and Amaranthe had only a glimpse of two empty bunks before Sicarius shut the door. Blackness swallowed them.

“If this is going to be a private admonishment, I wouldn’t mind a light,” Amaranthe said. “I need to see your face so I can know when my attempts at levity have crossed from amusing you to irking you.” Not that his face ever gave away much, but sometimes she could decipher his mood through the degrees of hardness.

Before Amaranthe could turn toward him, or start patting around for a lantern, Sicarius wrapped his arms around her from behind. It was so uncharacteristic that her first thought was that he was launching some sort of training exercise and expected her to defend herself. But she’d already be on her back with a dagger at her throat if that were the case.

Arms around her waist, Sicarius stepped close, his chest pressing against her back. Something—his chin?—came to rest on her shoulder.

“This... may be a foolish question, given our positions,” Amaranthe said, her voice a little squeaky, “but is this... a hug?”

Sure, he’d hugged her before—so few times that she had no trouble counting them—but that had usually been after she’d nearly gotten herself killed some way or another. Certainly never during a mission when there was work to be done and other people were nearby.

Sicarius snorted softly at her question, his breath whispering across her neck, stirring gooseflesh. “Thank you.”

The quiet words startled her more than the hug. Amaranthe couldn’t ever remember him saying them.

“For... sending the men to look in the shaman’s cave? For going against your wishes and bringing along Sergeant Yara, who, as you noticed, vouched for us to Sespian? Or maybe for my unique style of leadership which, at no extra charge, includes non-linear thinking, inappropriate jokes, and a tendency to blow things up?” Stop burbling, a voice in the back of her mind said. She’d been wanting hugs—all right, more than hugs—from him for a long time, so she should simply appreciate the rare moment.

“Yes.” He kissed her on the neck, and the warmth of his lips sent a wave of heat through her.

Amaranthe closed her eyes and leaned back into him, enjoying the feel of the hard muscles beneath his shirt molding into her back. She clasped his hands with her own, exploring his strong, calloused fingers with her thumb. His neatly trimmed nails were lacking in teeth marks. He had to have been as worried of late as she, but chewing on nails had perhaps not been allowed during his young-assassin training sessions.

Too soon, Sicarius lowered his arms and stepped back. “Later.”

“Wait,” Amaranthe blurted, spinning and groping in the dark to catch one of his hands. “Later, what does that mean? Later, we’ll resume hugging in a dark room? Later, there’ll be more than hugging in a dark room?” A cool draft brushed against the skin of her neck, reminding her of the feel of his lips there.

Sicarius opened the door, and Amaranthe groaned to herself, knowing she wasn’t going to get an answer. But, on the way out, he squeezed her hand. Before he disappeared into the corridor, he gave her a backward glance with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Huh,” she murmured.

It took Amaranthe a moment to collect herself and push musings of what “later” might entail to the back of her mind. When she stepped into the corridor, she was almost knocked on her rump by a sweaty, bare-chested Maldynado skittering backward past the door. He paused in a crouch, his face to the navigation cabin, his fists cocked.

“What are you—” Amaranthe started.

“I’m faster than you thought, aren’t I?” Maldynado asked, ignoring Amaranthe. “You’ll need to come up with more speed or fancier combinations than that to touch me.”

“All you’ve proven so far is that you’re good at running away,” came Yara’s voice from a few paces farther up the corridor.

She was stalking toward him, her fingers curled into fists, her face flushed with exertion.

“I don’t want to hurt you by throwing a punch that’ll knock you on your lean little rump,” Maldynado drawled. “I thought it was sufficient proof of my manliness that I could evade all your attempts to pummel me.” He spread a hand across his muscular chest, fingers splayed.

“Hurt me!” Yara sputtered. “You couldn’t hit a drunk possum stuffed in a sack.”

“What a lovely image,” Maldynado said. “Is that one of your rural adages? It’s quite charming.”

Yara charged him. Maldynado danced back into the cargo bay and glided to the side when Yara ran in. She jumped after him and launched a punch at his belly, a quick jab that would have caught up with many opponents, but he evaded it easily.

Before Amaranthe could veer for Sespian’s suite, Maldynado and Yara sparred their way back down the corridor. Amaranthe stepped between them, hands upraised. “It’s very possible that enemy craft is coming back to visit us. Would you two mind making sure everything in the cargo area is battened down, in case there’s an... altercation?”

A sheepish expression on her face, Yara said, “Of course,” and hustled to the cargo bay.

Though Maldynado couldn’t have managed a sheepish expression if he’d tried, he did shrug and start to stroll in that direction. Amaranthe caught him by the bare, sweaty arm.

“What are you doing?”

Maldynado’s eyes widened innocently. “What do you mean?”

“She finds you annoying. Why are you bugging her by inflicting yourself upon her?”

“She only thinks she finds me annoying.” Maldynado smiled and gestured toward the corridor. “This seemed like the best way.”

“Way for what?” Amaranthe wondered if she truly wanted the answer.

“Wooing her, of course.”

“Wooing?”

“It’s drafty up here. You don’t think I’d be running around with my shirt off for no reason, do you?”

Amaranthe glanced toward the cargo bay, but Yara was out of sight. “What do you mean wooing her? Are you joking?”

“Of course not, boss. We’ve been out of town for several days now, and a man has needs.”

Amaranthe dropped her forehead into her palm. “I didn’t think you even liked her.”

“Oh, she’s insufferable, but there aren’t many options up here. She’s prettier than Books anyway.”

“Listen, Maldynado. I don’t think you’re going to have much luck wooing her, but either way, she’s off limits.”

“What? Why?”

Aware of the fact that Sespian was probably in his suite a few feet away, Amaranthe lowered her voice. “I brought her along for the emperor.”

“Uh, pardon?”

Amaranthe wasn’t about to go into the real reason, so she said, “He’s the one who promoted her, and I think she feels loyal to him. Maybe more.” The last was a stretch—nothing Yara had said implied she had romantic notions toward the emperor, but surely he was a more appealing candidate than Maldynado, someone who could vex her without saying a word.

“If that’s her interest, that’s fine,” Maldynado said, “but I’m not going to step aside for his sake.”

“I don’t think it’s very gentlemanly of you to pursue a woman you’re not genuinely interested in.”

“Maybe not, but I’m a disowned lout, not a gentleman, remember?”

Amaranthe was surprised he was fighting her on this. He usually accepted orders without much of a battle, so long as they didn’t involve getting up too early. “But what if the emperor developed real feelings for her? He could offer her a wonderful future, not simply a roll around the cargo bay.”

“If he wants her, he can fight for her.”

Amaranthe opened her mouth, intending to protest more, but Maldynado added, “I don’t think it should be within your prerogative as my employer to tell me whom I can and can’t date.”

Her shoulders slumped. He was right. Amaranthe didn’t even know if Sespian had any interest in Yara or vice versa. She’d simply hoped that she could play matchmaker and forever end Sicarius’s concern that Sespian might have feelings Amaranthe. Well, maybe that could still happen. Maldynado might be pretty, and he might look quite scintillating walking around with his shirt off, but Yara didn’t seem to be impressed with any of that. Maybe she’d prefer a sweet fellow who would treat her well. Anyway, Sespian hadn’t said anything on the train that suggested he still had feelings for Amaranthe. Maybe he’d forgotten all about it when the drugs wore off.

“Very well,” Amaranthe said. “Do as you wish.”

She left Maldynado scratching his head, and she wondered if she should have fought harder. He seemed to have expected to lose.

Amaranthe lifted her hand to knock on Sespian’s door, but paused. She heard voices. Had Sicarius gone in to speak with Sespian? If so, maybe she should wait. But, no, he’d asked for her help for any conversations they might have.

She knocked, and the conversation stopped.

“Come in,” Sespian called through the door.

When Amaranthe entered, she found Books in there with Sespian, not Sicarius. He sat on one of two purple velvet chairs edged in gold trim with a crystal chandelier dangling precariously low overhead. Books’s hands were on his knees, and he wore an earnest expression on his face. Sespian faced him while sitting cross-legged on a wide bed draped in flawless white furs. Barefoot and clad in rumpled clothes stained with grease and coal, he didn’t quite fit into the opulent room. Amaranthe wished she’d thought to have fresh clothing available for him. Women were supposed to think of such things, weren’t they? When they weren’t busy planning kidnappings and train infiltrations?

“Come in, Corporal Lokdon,” Sespian said.

Amaranthe realized she hadn’t moved passed the threshold. She took a couple of steps, then hesitated again. “I’m sorry, Sire. I’m not sure what the proper protocol is.” She looked toward Books for advice. “Should I bow or curtsey as I come in?”

Sespian’s eyebrows arched. “You’re worrying about protocol now? You were giving me orders and having me shovel coal before.”

“That’s when we were busy kidnapping you. Given the chaos of the moment, it seemed more acceptable to be remiss in social responsibilities then.” Amaranthe waved toward Books. “I thought you were piloting the dirigible.”

“Basilard said he’d get me if anything came up.”

“Ah. Are you discussing... economics?” Though removing the implant was foremost in Amaranthe’s mind, she ached to know what mission Sespian had in Sunders City and how it might tie in with the team’s counterfeiting scheme from the winter before.

Books’s brow crinkled in puzzlement.

“Not yet,” Sespian said.

“I came to, ah...” Books picked at a thread on the arm of his chair.

Sespian waved Amaranthe toward the second chair. “He’s been inquiring after the fate of the Spearcrests.”

Ah, Books hadn’t mentioned Vonsha Spearcrest often, but Amaranthe had suspected he still had feelings for the woman, despite her betrayal.

“Yes,” Books said, “it seems the family was asked to retire in the south.”

“On a piece of land near the Gulf,” Sespian said. “Their role in the water debacle demanded reprisal, but I didn’t wish to decimate the entire family because of the actions of one individual, one who had a reason to feel bitterly toward the throne. They’ve been asked not to return to the capital, but they retain their warrior-caste status, and their new home is arguably more appealing than that remote mountain property.”

“It has lemon trees,” Books said, “and a view of the water.”

A longing note in his voice made Amaranthe wonder if he was thinking of retirement too. Or maybe visiting Vonsha. As far as Amaranthe had heard, the woman had been sleeping with that shaman and had only spent the night with Books to distract him, but she supposed it could be hard to put feelings aside, no matter how inappropriate they were. Not for the first time, she thought of what her father would have to say if he were alive and knew she was mooning after an assassin.

“I came to talk to you about the implant, Sire,” Amaranthe said. “The men recovered samples and a schematic, and Akstyr believes he can remove the device. How would you feel about a small surgery?”

“A schematic?”

“Yes,” Books said. “From the Mangdorian shaman who made the devices. I translated the text for Akstyr, and he studied it on the way here.”

“Surgery, you say.” Sespian touched his neck. “There’s a possibility of death, I assume.”

“Yes,” Books said. “According to the information I translated, the implants were never intended to come out. In fact, they’re something of a death sentence. Even if they’re not called upon by their controller, they wear out after about six months, and the poison within leaks into the bloodstream where it—”

“Books,” Amaranthe whispered, making a cutting-off motion with her hand. “Let’s focus on the details of how it can be removed, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yes, I apologize, Sire.”

Though Sespian had grown pale, he said, “No, it’s fine. I want to know everything before I make any decisions.”

“That’s about all I have. Akstyr will have to tell you the rest.” Books shifted to face Amaranthe. “Though I need to talk to you about our flight over here. The pilot Lady Buckingcrest sent with us assaulted me, and there were two men hiding in the engine room who tried to shoot Akstyr when he went down to explore.”

“I see.” Amaranthe dropped her chin into her hand. “Do you think the men might have been along to spy and Akstyr, in stumbling across them, forced them to take action?”

“The pilot wasn’t open to discussing the situation with us, and the other two died in the fight. Akstyr was lucky to survive.”

Amaranthe glanced at Sespian, worried he would frown with disapproval over men being dispatched, whether it was in a fight or not, but whatever he was thinking wasn’t on his face. He’d been much easier to read when he’d been influenced by that drug. Now, he reminded her more of Sicarius, though there was a gentleness to his visage, even when it wasn’t giving anything away.

“Is it possible Maldynado’s lady friend is a member of Forge?” Amaranthe asked Books. “Or one of their allies? And unbeknownst to Maldynado, she sent the men along to hinder us?”

“Perhaps. Or...” Books eyed the open door and lowered his voice. “What if it wasn’t unbeknownst to Maldynado?”

A chill crept in the pit of Amaranthe’s stomach. “What are you saying?”

“He’s the one who directed us to Lady Buckingcrest and this mode of transportation. As I recall, you had another errand you wished him to accompany you on that night, but he insisted that we needed a superior conveyance.”

Sespian’s interest sharpened at this new turn in the conversation. “As a Marblecrest, he could stand to gain much if his family took the throne. If Forge knows you’re between them and success, they might have infiltrated your group with a spy.”

Amaranthe raised both hands and patted the air. “Maldynado’s not a spy. He’s the first man I recruited for my team, and running into him was accidental.”

“Are you certain?” Sespian asked.

“Yes. I was dodging enforcers at the time, and he was wearing a loincloth. Nobody would set something like that up. Since then, he’s been among my most loyal of team members.”

“Well, he would be, wouldn’t he?” Sespian stroked his chin. “An unreliable man would be suspect or in danger of being released.”

“He’s not a spy, Sire. We’ve been through life and death together in the last nine months. He would have gotten fed up and left my side at some point if he didn’t have a very good reason for being there.” Amaranthe glowered at Books, annoyed that he’d brought this up in front of the emperor. Sespian had just met Maldynado and had no reason to trust him yet, but Books ought to know better.

“And what is that reason?” Sespian asked.

“He wants a statue made of himself,” Books said.

“I see,” Sespian said in a tone that meant he didn’t think that was “a very good reason” at all.

Amaranthe sighed. “Let’s wait until we have more evidence before we start accusing comrades of colluding with the enemy. For all we know, those two men followed Books and Akstyr, snuck on board, and were hoping to collect someone’s bounty.”

“That wouldn’t explain why the pilot attacked us,” Books said, “but I’ll agree that there’s insufficient evidence to accuse anyone. Besides, Akstyr might be the one to blame for at least some of our troubles. He has a new bounty on his head, and he told his mother he’d be at Forkingrust or the pass.”

“His mother?” Amaranthe resolved to get the full story from Books, but he’d already said more in front of the emperor than she would have liked.

Someone cleared his throat in the corridor. Basilard. We are approaching a tall mountain, and this boat may need to make a course adjustment.

Books stood, bowed to Sespian with a, “Sire,” and headed for the door.

Also Maldynado is attempting to teach himself how to pilot.

“Dear ancestors.” Books’s calm walk toward the door turned into a sprint.

“Boat?” Amaranthe asked Basilard, in part because the word choice amused her and also because she wanted Sespian to know they weren’t chatting about suspicious things when her people signed back and forth.

No word yet for... Basilard pointed toward the ceiling.

“Not many dirigibles in your mountain homeland, eh?” Amaranthe asked. Though Sespian had other concerns at the moment, it wouldn’t hurt to remind him that Basilard was a foreigner, here helping because he wanted to improve his people’s lot.

Basilard shook his head and lifted a hand for a departing wave.

Shut the door, please, Amaranthe signed. And if you see Sicarius, can you tell him to join us in a few minutes?

After Basilard left, Sespian crossed a finger over his throat and asked, “What’s that sign mean?”

“Ah, that’s the one Basilard made up for Sicarius.”

Sespian grimaced. “I hope you were telling him to have him leave us alone.”

“If you’re left alone with me, I’ll pour all my efforts into convincing you to let us perform this surgery on you and then to use my team as your own personal... emperor’s edge.” Amaranthe felt silly saying the group’s name—Maldynado had teased her about it so often that she’d stopped using it—but maybe it would amuse Sespian.

“Hm,” was all he said.

“Are you thinking of letting us try to remove it?” Amaranthe asked, wanting a feel for where he stood.

“Oh, I’m thinking of very little else. Having the promise of instant death held over my head every day for the last five months has dampened my enthusiasm for my job. In the beginning, I thought I could fight Forge, keep them out of the Barracks and the government, but they have spies everywhere. Knowing they can track me down and end my life at any time has made it difficult to keep up the fight, but if the implant were gone...”

“How did they embed the device to start with?” Amaranthe asked.

“A team of hooded men came into my bedroom one night, held me down, and gagged me. My first thought was that Sicarius had finally come to kill me, but he always worked solo. I didn’t see any of these men’s faces, though the leader was older. He had hard gray eyes, and I could see the hint of a scar under one.”

Amaranthe sat up straighter, but Sespian wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at his lap, and he continued speaking.

“While they held me down, Peadraga, that woman who was with me on the train, strolled in and inserted the device. She didn’t need any tools. She simply laid it on my throat, and it burrowed in while I could do nothing to stop it.” His lips twisted as if he wanted to spit. “I don’t know if my personal guards, who should have been at my door, were Forge’s from the start or were paid to look the other way. Turgonians pride themselves on duty and honor, but it seems there’s little loyalty that can’t be bought. Maybe I’m just not the ruler my father was and people feel they have no reason to risk themselves backing me.” He pushed a hand through his hair.

“That’s not true. You care about the people. They’ll see that one day and appreciate it. You’ve been born into a difficult era, where the empire is trying to reconcile great technological and socio-economic changes with a centuries-old system of government. None of your predecessors had to deal with anything like this. Besides, you’ve yet to have a real chance to rule, so you can’t compare yourself to Raumesys.” Amaranthe realized that what she meant as an encouraging talk sounded a bit like a lecture, so she tacked on a weak, “Sire.”

Sespian snorted softly.

“I honestly believe you’re the open-minded, forward-thinking person we need in charge right now,” Amaranthe said. “We just need to make sure you survive and have the leeway to apply your vision.” It wouldn’t hurt if he had an older, experienced advisor he could trust either. She imagined Books or even Sicarius in that role. Maybe it was hubris, but she thought Sespian would benefit from having her whole team on board. If only she could get him to see that. “Don’t let anyone beat you down. This is worth fighting for.”

“Odd,” Sespian murmured.

That wasn’t quite the response Amaranthe had expected. “Me? Or my speech? Or both?”

“I get a lot flatterers telling me what they think I want to hear in order to get what they want. Why is it that I believe you when you do the same?”

Maybe Amaranthe should feel insulted—he’d just called her a flatterer who was angling for something, after all—but the puzzled crease to Sespian’s brow took the bite out of the words. “Because I don’t hide the fact that I want something? And I don’t think I want anything that’s particularly evil or would require you to compromise your integrity. I just want my name cleared.” All right, she wanted Sicarius’s name cleared, too, but that probably would compromise Sespian’s integrity, and she doubted Sicarius particularly cared about that aspect anyway. “There’s more to it than that, of course,” Amaranthe went on. “Me wanting to be someone who matters and to live up to the expectations of a dead father, for example. But my life story, dreams, fears, and so on can wait for when we have more time. Right now, I only wish to know what reassurances I can give you to get you to say yes to this surgery. There was a beacon of some sort left behind on that cliff, and I’m afraid that means the other craft will know we’re alive. They may already be looking for us. If someone on board that craft can trigger your implant... Well, I’d find it rather inconvenient to lose you so soon after retrieving you. I doubt Maldynado’s older brother would pardon me.” There, finish with a smile. What more could she do?

“I’d like to hear the life story sometime,” Sespian said, surprising Amaranthe. That wasn’t the part of her speech he was supposed to focus on. “If we survive the next few weeks, perhaps you’d like to have dinner with me? Some place quiet? And private?”

“I... uh...” Amaranthe felt like a deer caught on the railway with a train barreling out of the night toward it. Her mind wouldn’t come up with something useful to do, and she could only gape at Sespian. He wasn’t supposed to be interested in dinner with her any more. He was supposed to want to have dinner with Yara. “Sire, you’re...” The son of the man I love, she thought, but she couldn’t possibly say that. “Young. Yes, young to me. I don’t think we’d be a good...” Amaranthe trailed off when she realized Sespian was watching her intently. It wasn’t, she sensed, in hopes that she would agree to his proposition. A moment passed, and he said nothing. Finally, she asked, “Was that a test?”

Sespian smiled sadly. “If you’d said yes, it wouldn’t have necessarily proven or disproven anything, but because you said no... I suspect I can trust you.”

Amaranthe slumped back into the cushy chair. She wasn’t certain whether she was more relieved that Sespian had admitted to trusting her or that he hadn’t truly had his hopes pinned to her saying yes about the dinner proposition.

“As to conditions for the surgery,” Sespian said, “I want everything explained. It has to sound logical and there has to be a good probability of success. I don’t want Forge to be able to hold that power over me any more, but I also don’t want to commit suicide.”

“Of course, Sire.” Amaranthe stood up and headed for the door. “I’ll let Akstyr know.”

“Corporal Lokdon?” Sespian slipped off the bed and met her a couple steps from the door.

“Yes, Sire?”

“If we both survive this with our sanity intact, I hope you’ll reconsider the dinner offer. I won’t always be young. If it helps, I’ll probably be old and doddering before you, thanks to the drug that curmudgeon Hollowcrest used on me.”

Amaranthe gripped his hands. “Sire, I’m sure you’ll live a long and fulfilling life.” Except she wasn’t sure of that. Sicarius, she recalled, had been concerned when he learned the name of the drug Hollowcrest had used. That knowledge had fueled his cold fury when he broke the old general’s neck with his bare hands.

The door opened. Belatedly, Amaranthe remembered that she’d told Basilard to send Sicarius in.

She released Sespian’s hands and yanked hers behind her back, but not before Sicarius witnessed the handholding. His expression never changed, but he looked into her eyes for a heartbeat, and then he looked into Sespian’s for several more.

“Nothing’s going on,” Amaranthe said, though she promptly realized that made it sound as if there were something going on. “We were just—”

Without a word, Sicarius walked away.

Chapter 20

Sun shown through the porthole in the tiny cabin, and Akstyr pulled his blanket over his head, trying to block it out. At Amaranthe’s insistence, he’d slept a couple of hours, and he wouldn’t have minded more, but the light was bugging him. Something else was bugging him, too, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. A nagging unease.

Akstyr stretched out with his senses and nearly fell out of the bunk when he felt someone in the cabin with him. A dark cool presence. He tore the blanket off his head, spotted Sicarius standing in the shadows by the door, and bolted to his feet. That was the goal anyway. The blanket tangled around his legs, and he tumbled to the floor in an ungainly heap. Certain Sicarius wasn’t there for any comradely reason, Akstyr rushed to untangle himself and find a standing position. He finally managed, but not without the help of a hand on the wall.

If Sicarius were the type to cackle diabolically before killing someone, he’d surely be doing so now. But he simply stood there, wearing all of his knives, his body unmoving, his face unreadable.

“What do you want?” Akstyr tried to sound gruff and unconcerned, though he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. Also, it was hard to look tough standing barefoot with a blanket pooled at one’s feet.

The quietness of that Science-made dirigible engine meant there were no thrums or reverberations coursing through the craft, and Akstyr could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. Fast. He wondered if Sicarius could hear it too. He wasn’t saying or doing anything, but Akstyr had the impression that Sicarius might be debating whether to kill him.

Akstyr clenched a fist. Sicarius could try. Akstyr knew ways to defend himself that had nothing to do with physical contact.

“Well?” Akstyr demanded.

“You’ve been talking with bounty hunters,” Sicarius said. “I know you’ve thought often of having me killed.”

Akstyr tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He wanted to say something valiant, but he couldn’t get any words out.

“You may have doomed us all by speaking of our plans to your mother.” Sicarius’s eyes bored into him, hard and unwavering.

“That was a mistake, I know. It won’t happen again.”

“I kill those who threaten me.” He wasn’t attempting to intimidate or posture; he was simply stating a fact. That made it worse.

“I saved Am’ranthe that one time. Amaranthe,” Akstyr added, thinking that it might be somehow important to pronounce each and every syllable in her name just then. Respectful-like. “I’m important to the team. She wouldn’t want you to kill anyone important to the team.”

“I’ve studied the schematics for the implant,” Sicarius said.

“Uh?” The topic change surprised Akstyr, but encouraging it seemed like a good idea.

“The artifact is designed to be sensitive to physical tampering. It hides if it’s touched, and if someone attempts to remove it, it kills its victim.”

Why was Sicarius telling him this? Akstyr had studied the schematic too. He already knew all about the devices.

“It’ll take someone with Science training to destroy it,” Sicarius said.

“I know. I’m not sure I can destroy it, on account of that shaman having been so experienced at Making things, and it’s real strong for something so little, but I was thinking I could stun it for a few seconds. Then someone like you could go in and cut it out before it can squirm away. Once it’s out, you can drop it on the floor and stomp on it.” Akstyr finished with a gulp of air. He’d rushed to make sure he got out the second part, about how he might be able to do something, before Sicarius decided he was useless after hearing the first part. Akstyr didn’t know why Sicarius would care about the emperor or the implant, but if he did that was good for him.

“If you are successful in removing the implant,” Sicarius said, “I will forget your prior transgressions.”

A part of Akstyr wanted to be indignant—the man was a notorious criminal, so he hardly had any justification for calling anything Akstyr might have done to get rid of him a “transgression”—but a bigger part of him was so relieved, he could barely think of an answer. If Sicarius was willing to forget the past, then he could start over, work with the team, get the money for school without betraying anyone, and not have to spend his life looking over his shoulder. And he’d been planning to get that implant out anyway. That was why he had joined the group in the first place, so he could work on Science stuff. The challenge of trying to beat that old shaman’s invention intrigued him.

“Agreed?” Sicarius asked, startling Akstyr from his thoughts.

It wasn’t like Sicarius to get impatient and prompt someone for an answer. Usually he didn’t care if someone answered or not.

“I’m planning to get it out, yeah,” Akstyr said. “But, out of curiosity, what happens if something unforeseen happens, and I can’t stop the implant from... doing it’s job?”

Several long breaths passed before Sicarius answered.

“Do not fail,” he said and walked out the door.

* * * * *

Amaranthe and Sicarius stood by the door in Sespian’s suite. Books sat in one of the purple chairs with the schematic of the device spread across his lap. Akstyr stood by a table laden with scissors, suture wire, tweezers, and Sicarius’s black dagger. Sespian waited on the bed, eying the implements. His face was paler than usual, though he was nodding stoically and grunting in a manly I’m-not-scared-about-this-surgery way as Books and Akstyr explained the procedure.

“They’re fragile once you get them out of your body, so you can smash them with a hammer, but that’s not a real good option when they’re still inside,” Akstyr said.

“I’d imagine not,” Sespian said.

Amaranthe lifted a thumbnail to nibble on only to remember she’d already chomped it down to the nub. She was going to have to find a way to encourage faster nail growth if she was going to be in stressful situations so often. Sicarius’s face seemed a tad paler than usual, too, as he listened at her side. He hadn’t said a word about the handholding, but Amaranthe hadn’t had a chance to pull him aside and explain it either. She wasn’t sure what to explain anyway. Sespian apparently did still care. That was a problem, but one for another day. She forced herself to focus on Akstyr.

“Don’t worry,” Akstyr said. “With Books’s help, I figured that I could stun them with a... uhm, are you squirrelly about the mental sciences?”

“Sire,” Books whispered.

“Are you squirrelly, Sire?” Akstyr asked.

“Though I don’t have much experience in such matters, I’ve read many of the files in the Imperial Intelligence Office, and I’m aware of reports suggesting the human brain is capable of more than Turgonians officially believe and acknowledge.”

Akstyr gave him a blank look.

“Not squirrelly, no,” Sespian said.

“Good.” Akstyr held a tiger-striped sphere up to one of several lanterns placed around the bed, adding to the light that flowed in through a pair of portholes. “I’ve been practicing on the ones we filched from the shaman’s cave.”

Sespian leaned close to study the details of the small but intricate sphere. “Hard to believe such an insignificant-looking device could kill a person.”

A tiny barb sprang from the surface, and Sespian jerked backward. Sicarius stirred at Amaranthe’s side, and she imagined him springing to Sespian’s defense, should the need arise. It seemed Akstyr was merely showing off a... feature though.

“Slicker than a greased prick, isn’t it?” Akstyr asked.

Books leaned out of his chair to cuff him. “Don’t say things like that in front of the emperor.”

Akstyr rolled his eyes.

“And say Sire,” Books whispered, as if Sespian weren’t right there, watching their exchange. Fortunately, a hint of a smile touched the emperor’s lips.

“Slick, isn’t it, Sire?” Akstyr asked.

“I’ve translated the shaman’s notes to determine how they work,” Books said, launching into his best lecturing professor tone. “There are four of these prongs in each sphere. If someone tries to remove the device from the victim’s flesh—”

“Me,” Sespian said.

“Ah, yes, you. If someone tries to remove it prematurely, the device attaches to the jugular, and the barbs spring out like that.” Books pointed to the protrusion on the sphere. “The barbs pierce your vein, and poison flows into your bloodstream. It’s a near-instantaneous process. The poison induces a seizure, and the victim dies within seconds.”

Sespian was staring, transfixed, at the barb.

“Why don’t you skip to telling him how we’re going to remove it?” Amaranthe suggested.

Sespian tore his gaze from the sphere. “A splendid idea.”

“I couldn’t figure out how to destroy them or turn one off,” Akstyr said, “but I have managed to stun some of them for several seconds.”

“Some?” Sespian asked.

“Four out of five.” Akstyr shrugged. “Those’re good odds, aren’t they? Each one is a little different. They’re machines but individual hand-Made artifacts too.”

“Magical,” Sespian said for clarification.

“If you insist on using that ignorant Turgonian word, I suppose.”

“Sire,” Books hissed. “And don’t question the emperor’s education, which I’m certain is far superior to yours.”

Sespian lifted a hand. “It’s all right. I prefer straight talk here. Akstyr, what happens after you stun it?”

“I’ll have to keep concentrating to make sure it doesn’t wake up, so someone else will cut open your neck, dig around in there, and pry it out.”

Amaranthe winced at Akstyr’s bluntness. Surely that had to be straighter talk than anyone would want.

“I see,” Sespian said. “And who will be wielding the knife?” He didn’t look at Sicarius. In fact, he seemed to be making a point of not looking at Sicarius, as if he feared that someone might have already chosen him, but by pretending he wasn’t there, Sespian could change the outcome.

“You’ll want our swiftest, most agile person with a blade, Sire,” Amaranthe said and tilted her head toward Sicarius.

“I’ll try to stun it real fast, so it doesn’t start moving around,” Akstyr said, “but it has this reflex to burrow deeper when there’s a chance it’ll be discovered.”

Sespian lay back on the bed, and Amaranthe wondered if he was thinking it’d be better to take his chances and leave the implant in there. If he decided that, she’d have to try and talk him out of it. With the shaman gone, there wasn’t likely anyone better around than her team for this surgery.

“All right,” Sespian said. “Let’s do it. I’m going after Forge people, so it’d be better if they didn’t have this control over me, or the ability to see me coming.”

That hint of what his mission was made Amaranthe want to grab his arm and wheedle details out of him, but the surgery had to be the first priority. Afterward, she could—

“Company’s coming,” Maldynado bellowed from the cargo hold.

Amaranthe groaned. What was he doing in there? Maldynado should be in the navigation room with Yara. Books, after grudgingly acknowledging that his expertise might be needed for translations during the surgery, had given them a flying lesson.

When Amaranthe opened the door, Sicarius lifted his head, a question in his eyes.

“You, Akstyr, and Books have a job to do,” Amaranthe told him. “Stay here. The rest of us will buy you the time you need.” She hoped that sounded half as confident as she meant for it to sound.

“Understood,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe slipped into the corridor and trotted to the cargo hold. Maldynado had both hands pressed against the exterior hatch, his face close to the porthole in the center. When he saw Amaranthe, he stepped back and pointed. A dark dome was flying above the mountains behind them. Though daylight had come, it did nothing to alleviate the inky blackness of the craft.

“How far until we get out of the mountains?” Amaranthe asked.

“We’ve been cruising along to the northwest all night,” Maldynado said, “and we’re almost out, but we have sixty miles of lakes and wetlands to cross before we reach Sunders City.”

“If we can make it to the populated areas on the outskirts of town, they might veer off. You’d think that monstrosity would be something they’d want to keep a secret from people.”

“That’d still be fifty miles.” Maldynado stabbed a finger at the porthole. “They’ve gotten closer, just while we’ve been talking. There’s no way they won’t catch up with us.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance they’re just flying in the same direction as we are and haven’t seen us yet?” Amaranthe murmured.

“About as much chance as there is of Sicarius joining us for drinks, whoring, and bouts of unbridled laughter after the mission is over.”

“Us?” Amaranthe asked. “You think there’s a chance of me joining you for that?”

“You’d be more likely to do it than him.”

“I... think it’s safer if I neither agree nor disagree with that.” Convinced the trailing craft was only going to get bigger instead of smaller, Amaranthe spun a slow circle, taking in everything in the cargo bay. “We still have half a box of blasting sticks,” she mused.

“Unfortunately, they’re in here and the enemy is way out there. Not only did Lady Buckingcrest betray us by sending along ambushers, but she gave us a tub with no weapons. Unbelievable. Pleasuring a woman all night doesn’t count for as much as it used to.”

Amaranthe hadn’t mentioned Books’s hypothesis that Maldynado might somehow be behind the stowaways and the fact that this black craft had found them in the first place. She trusted Maldynado and couldn’t believe he would betray her. Besides, if by some remote chance he was a spy, wouldn’t he have arranged things so that he wouldn’t be on the dirigible when it was attacked?

“Maybe you’re getting older and less appealing,” Amaranthe said as she dug through lockers, hoping to find useful equipment that had come with the craft.

Maldynado sniffed. “We’re about to face death together. Do you really think this is the time to insult me?”

“Sorry, you’re right. Insults after battles. Come help me with this, will you?” Amaranthe waved to a locker where she’d found long, wide strips of canvas-like fabric and buckets of a black tarry goo. “Repair supplies for the balloon, I’d guess, though maybe we can—” A shudder ran through the floor. “Actually, why don’t you check on navigation?” Amaranthe might tease Maldynado about his proclivity for crashing vehicles, but most of those crashes had been a result of her orders. In truth, she’d always found him competent at working machinery. She knew less about Basilard and Yara’s capabilities. “Send Basilard back to help.”

“You got it, boss.” Maldynado jogged for the corridor.

“And keep this boat as steady as you can,” she called after him. “That’s a delicate surgery they’re performing on the emperor in there.”

Amaranthe eyed the cargo bay door, wondering if they could open it while flying.

Maldynado paused inside the corridor. “Maybe we should put off the surgery. What if those blokes start attacking us?”

Amaranthe frowned. She trusted Maldynado, she did, but now that Books had brought up his suspicions, she couldn’t help but think there might be a reason Maldynado didn’t want that device out of Sespian’s neck. If his family was angling for the throne and was in position to seize it if Sespian disappeared...

She shook her head. “If that’s their plan, Sespian will want that thing out of his neck before we crash and get captured by someone who can make it kill him at any time.”

“That’s not a very optimistic thought.”

“Sorry, we haven’t had much sleep, and I’m finding it hard to remain hopeful about the future.” Amaranthe pulled out one of the fabric strips and tugged at it experimentally. No stretchiness, hm. Maybe she could find some rubber.

Maldynado muttered something in parting, but she was too focused on her new plan to hear the words. By the time Basilard joined her, Amaranthe had buckets, fabric strips, and rubber cords strewn across the deck in front of the cargo door.

Basilard signed, What are we making?

“Slingshot,” Amaranthe said. “I could use some help.”

Basilard’s eyebrows rose. That probably meant she should be worried about her plan, but there wasn’t time for self-doubt. She peeked through the porthole. Its massive size might mean the black ship was farther back than it appeared, but either way it had halved the distance between them. The sun’s light glinted off the snowcaps on the last of the mountains, but its rays failed to reflect off of that craft. It almost looked like a black hole in the sky, coming to swallow them.

“I’m going to fly lower,” Maldynado called down the corridor. “Maybe we can lose them in the wetlands.”

That other craft could likely do anything the dirigible could do when it came to navigating, but Amaranthe kept the thought to herself and simply pointed for Basilard to come help her. She hoped her slingshot idea wouldn’t end up being laughable to the enemy. Whatever that craft had fired at the cliff to collapse the railway tunnel could doubtlessly pulverize the dirigible, perhaps from a great distance. It might never need to get within range of Amaranthe’s weapon—and calling the clunky slingshot a weapon was surely delusional. She kept working anyway.

* * * * *

Akstyr sat next to the bed, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes half closed. He could see the faint bulge at the side of the emperor’s throat, but he needed to sense it as well. Unfortunately, he was having a hard time concentrating. Sicarius stood on the opposite side of the emperor’s bed, his black dagger in hand. His role might be to cut out the implant, but Akstyr couldn’t help but remember his earlier words and wonder if Sicarius might cut his neck, should he fail here.

“No pressure,” he murmured.

“Should I be worried that you look more nervous than I do?” the emperor asked. He was lying on the bed, his hands folded over his belly, as if in relaxed repose, but tension tightened his interlaced fingers.

“Nah, I’m not nervous,” Akstyr said out of some notion that doctors should be brave for their patients. “Just...”

“Pensive?”

“Right.”

“There may be little time,” Sicarius said, his tone hard, the words clipped.

“Right,” Akstyr repeated.

Sespian sighed, lay his head back, and closed his eyes. The tension didn’t ebb from his fingers.

“Is there anything I can do?” Books asked softly from behind Akstyr.

“No,” Akstyr said. “I’ve memorized everything you’ve translated for me. I just need quiet.”

He took a deep breath and closed his own eyes. He stretched out, trying to sense the artifact without letting it sense him.

Since Akstyr knew what the devices looked like, he was able to picture the buried one in his mind. He imagined it nestled beneath the skin, a knot burrowed into the muscle, and slowly the made-up picture in his head coalesced into the real one. It had life of a sort. An awareness. It emitted... a question or perhaps a probe, as if it knew something, or someone, was there.

Akstyr fought for calmness. It wasn’t certain yet, or it would have already moved. He summoned energy in his mind, like coiling one’s body before springing into the air. He was about to unleash the energy, to attempt to stun the device, when the floor tilted. It nearly threw him from his seat, and he only caught himself by grabbing the emperor’s footboard. The dirigible groaned and tilted back the other way.

“Check on it,” Sicarius said.

At first, Akstyr thought Sicarius was talking to him, but the door slammed, and he realized Books had left. Akstyr shifted on his seat, not thrilled at being left alone with Sicarius. Well, Sicarius and the emperor, who was sitting up, frowning.

“Lie down, Sire,” Sicarius said. There was no deference in the way he said sire, and it was clearly an order. “Continue,” he told Akstyr in the same tone.

“Maybe,” Akstyr said, directing his words to the emperor instead of Sicarius, “we should wait until—”

The floor titled again, this time toward the nose of the craft. Akstyr’s heart jumped. They weren’t heading toward a crash, were they?

“—someone besides Maldynado is driving,” he finished. Nobody smiled at his attempt at humor. It didn’t amuse him much either. He wanted to lunge to his feet and run up to the navigation cabin to check on what was happening.

“Continue,” Sicarius repeated. The way he said it made Akstyr suspect he didn’t have the option to leave. “Before this gets worse,” Sicarius added.

Sespian nodded grimly. “Do it,” he told Akstyr and lay back down.

As if it was so easy. Akstyr closed his eyes again and struggled to regain his focus. He probed the area beneath the scar tissue, trying to find the device. He frowned. It wasn’t there.

Chapter 21

Amaranthe, using clamps she had scrounged, fastened one end of the slingshot to a vertical strut to the left of the cargo door. Basilard was doing the same on the other side. The already tilted floor angled more steeply toward the nose of the craft, and Amaranthe found herself hanging onto the strut as her feet threatened to skid out from beneath her.

“I didn’t think a dirigible could tilt that much,” she said.

Though Basilard was struggling to hold on as well, he managed to one-handedly sign, Maldynado’s driving.

“Good point.”

Something scraped behind them. The box of blasting sticks sliding across the floor toward the corridor. Amaranthe’s heart leaped. Those should have been secured when the men first came on board.

“What’s going on back here?” Books clawed his way out of the emperor’s suite and into the corridor.

“Grab that box,” Amaranthe shouted.

Alarm widened Books’s eyes, and she wished she’d kept her voice calmer. If he fumbled it and didn’t catch it before it smacked into the wall or slid down to the navigation cabin...

Books managed to catch the box before it struck anything.

“Thanks,” Amaranthe said. “Secure that, will you? And bring us a few sticks. And that lantern that’s sliding your way too.”

“I came back here to see what was happening, not get pressed into labor,” Books said, though he headed toward her.

“What’s happening is we need someone pressed into labor.” Amaranthe nodded toward the porthole in the door. “Maldynado’s swerving about isn’t helping much. They’re getting close.”

“Dead deranged ancestors,” Books whispered, staring at the hole.

Amaranthe doubted he could see details from across the cargo hold, but the black ship now filled the view. It blotted out the mountains and the sky with its bulk. Amaranthe couldn’t tell if it was bringing weapons to bear, but, even if it didn’t, the craft could probably destroy the dirigible simply by running into it. Like a steam tramper squishing a fly.

“Has it done anything yet?” Books was strapping down the box of explosives.

“It’s just following us,” Amaranthe said. “Getting closer and closer. Basilard, think we’re ready to open the door and test our blasting-stick slingshot?”

Our?

“You helped me construct it.”

It’s your idea.

“Basilard says we’re ready to go.” Amaranthe extended a hand toward Books. The dirigible tilted to the side, and her feet slipped. Only her fingers wrapped about the strut kept her from tumbling toward him.

“I can... read his signs,” Books said, his words broken as he focused on climbing on hands and knees up the slanted floor while he clenched blasting sticks in his fists. “That’s not what he said.”

The nose of the dirigible rose and the floor tipped the opposite direction so quickly it nearly hurled Books into the cargo door. Amaranthe and Basilard caught him before blasting sticks could fly from his hands. For a moment, the greens and browns of the wetlands were visible through the porthole before the craft leveled.

“That idiot,” Books growled. “I should be piloting. He’ll kill us before the enemy has a chance.”

Something flashed outside. Amaranthe and Basilard almost clunked heads as they leaned toward the porthole for a look. Maldynado had brought them within fifty feet of the ground. The tips of trees would claw at the dirigible’s metal hull if they dropped any lower. The other craft wasn’t quite as low, but it was far too close for Amaranthe’s tastes. A white beam shot out of the dome’s black belly. It sliced through the sky and tore into the earth below. Trees burst into flame or were hurled from the ground altogether. Marsh water boiled and erupted into geysers. The beam zigzagged across the ground with clumsy madness, and Amaranthe thought of a kid scribbling on the sidewalk with chalk.

“Why’s it shooting the ground instead of us?” Books asked.

Amaranthe thought of Sicarius’s explanation for the strange craft’s existence. If the original expedition had needed Admiral Starcrest and a genius code cracker from an enemy nation, maybe the technology was so foreign that the Forge people were struggling to work everything. Except they were having no trouble flying after her team in that monstrosity...

“I don’t know,” Amaranthe said, “but we better take advantage of the fact that we’re not a smoldering ball of flame yet.”

Even as she spoke, the beam zigzagged again, striking a stout cypress. The wood exploded beneath the power, or perhaps the heat, and shards flew everywhere. Flames erupted from the ten-foot-tall stump that remained.

“Good idea,” Books said.

“Let’s get this door open,” Amaranthe told Basilard.

“While we’re flying?” Books asked. “Is that wise?”

“Wiser than lighting a blasting stick in a room without an open door.”

Amaranthe unfastened a safety latch and tugged at the unlocking mechanism. It took several tries before she could muscle it loose. A smack sounded, as suction was broken, and the door dropped outward. It happened so abruptly that she might have followed, if not for Basilard. He grabbed her by the back of the shirt and kept her from falling.

Wind tore at her hair and clothing. The black craft loomed closer than ever, blocking out everything but a sliver of the ground where a swath of flames burned, devouring trees and undergrowth. The stink of smoke filled the cargo hold, and Amaranthe stumbled back, coughing.

Basilard waved at Books for one of the blasting sticks and pulled the slingshot back until his arms quivered. He nodded for Books to light the stick and place it in the center of the pouch. Books lit the fuse, then fiddled with the placement of the stick for so long that Amaranthe feared it would go off in the cargo hold. Basilard swatted his hand away and released the slingshot in time.

The blasting stick sailed through the doorway. With the black craft so close, it would have been hard to miss, but Amaranthe held her breath, not knowing what to expect.

The explosive disappeared in a starburst that filled their view and made her squint. She lifted an arm to protect her eyes from the brilliance.

“Get another one ready,” Amaranthe said before the smoke cleared. She doubted one would be sufficient.

The wind shredded the black-powder cloud. Nothing had changed. The great craft was still closing, with no hint of damage marring its inky hull.

“Did we hit it?” Books asked. “The stick must have exploded too early, before it struck the craft. We’ll try to time it better with this one.”

Amaranthe nodded, waving at them to ready another attack, but a heavy feeling plagued her gut. The blasting sticks might not be enough to damage the other craft.

* * * * *

Though Akstyr kept his eyes closed, he could feel Sicarius watching him with the intensity of a starving wolf. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of Akstyr’s face and dripped from his chin. He chastised himself for noticing. Concentrate, he told himself. He had to block out Sicarius, and block out the awareness of his body if he hoped to find the artifact.

It had left its spot beneath the emperor’s knot of scar tissue to burrow deeper. As Books had said, it was designed to hook to the jugular to deliver its poison if tampered with, so that must be where it had gone.

Akstyr imagined his senses were blood cells, able to navigate through the body with ease. Slowly, his consciousness drew closer to that main artery. Something alien brushed against his awareness. The device. Yes, it was there, attached to the jugular.

As he had started to do before, Akstyr coiled his mental energy, preparing to hurl an attack. He dared not loiter, because that thing must have already sensed a threat. One chance. That was all he had.

“It’s on his jugular,” Akstyr whispered without opening his eyes. “Right here.” He pointed at the emperor’s neck, directly over the artifact, and was careful not to touch the skin. “You’ll have to slice deep to get it out, but not too deep.”

“Understood,” Sicarius said.

Sespian heard, and he had to be terrified, but he kept his breathing calm. He continued to lie still, though his knuckles tightened where his hands gripped each other across his belly. A detached part of Akstyr observed that it was interesting that he could sense all of that with his eyes closed, but he forced the thought away, turning his concentration again toward the artifact.

He summoned all of his mental might into a tiny ball, targeted the artifact, and unleashed the coiled energy in a single blow.

At that moment, the dirigible shuddered, as if they’d hit something—or something had hit them. The disturbance affected Akstyr’s aim, and his mental blow glanced off the artifact instead of hitting it squarely. He kept his concentration and eased in closer, prepared to hurl another attack, if he had time. The artifact was frozen though. His blow must have been enough to stun it.

“Now,” Akstyr said, his eyes flying open. “Get it out.”

Sicarius gave him a hard, appraising look—it only lasted a half a second—but his hesitation filled Akstyr with alarm.

“I swear,” he blurted. “It’s stunned, but only for a...”

Sicarius’s hands blurred into motion.

Sespian stiffened, and tried to pull away, but Sicarius held him down with one hand while the other...

Akstyr started. It had happened so quickly, he had missed Sicarius switching tools. He already held the artifact aloft, captured in a pair of tweezers. Sicarius dropped the small sphere to the floor and smashed it beneath his boot.

The emperor sat up, a hand clasped to his throat, his eyes wider than gold coins. Blood spilled between his fingers, but not a lot. Sicarius hadn’t nicked the artery.

“He got it.” Akstyr handed the emperor a thick cloth from the table. “You’re not bleeding a lot, but you can use that to stop it.”

A resounding thud sounded, and another quake coursed through the dirigible. What was Maldynado doing? Mowing down trees?

Sespian took the cloth with his free hand and pressed it to his throat. Blood dripped from the palm of his other hand, joining spatters on his shirt. “What do you people consider a lot?” he asked, though there was relief in his eyes.

“Depends on who you ask,” Akstyr said. “Basilard and Sicarius probably wouldn’t blink unless they had a leg fall off. Maldynado’s been known to complain about splinters.”

“I will suture your wound.” Sicarius picked up the needle and spindle of thread Amaranthe had laid on the table earlier.

The relief faded from the emperor’s face. He watched Sicarius thread the needle with concern. Akstyr wouldn’t be thrilled about Sicarius being his surgeon either.

“I can fix him up with the Science,” Akstyr said. “The way I did with Am’ranthe that time. It’ll probably leave less of a scar than the needle and thread.”

Sicarius looked Akstyr in the eyes, and Akstyr forced himself to hold the stare. He had a feeling there was some measuring going on in there, measuring that went beyond whether or not he was qualified to mend a cut.

When Sicarius gave one firm nod, Akstyr knew it applied to more than the doctoring. Akstyr had passed the test, and Sicarius was giving him another chance to do right by the group. Akstyr nodded back, the same single nod.

“You do not mind?” Sicarius asked the emperor.

“Oh, no.” Sespian blew out a slow thankful breath. “That’s fine by me.”

“Lie back down, Sire,” Akstyr said, remembering to add the honorific this time. “Here, I’ll hold the cloth there while I work.”

He thought of telling Sicarius that he could leave to help the others—at the least, someone needed driving assistance—but the way Sicarius folded his arms over his chest said he wasn’t going to leave the emperor alone. He might be willing to forget Akstyr’s past transgressions, as he called them, but that didn’t mean he trusted Akstyr. Oh, well. It was a start.

* * * * *

“It’s getting closer,” Books said. “They’re bound to figure out how to aim that beam sooner or later.”

He was stating the obvious, and Amaranthe bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. She pointed toward the horizontal bank of windows—at least they looked like windows—near the top of the dome. The feature was the only thing on the craft that wasn’t made from the black material. “Aim for that, Basilard. Maybe it’s something like glass and isn’t as—”

A fit of coughing overtook her. Smoke filled the air outside and had invaded the cargo bay. Half of the wetlands were burning below. As Amaranthe struggled to still her coughs, a lake came into view. She recognized it from maps and knew it was only a few miles outside of Sunders City. If her team could avoid that beam for another fifteen or twenty minutes, they’d be flying over farmhouses and orchards on the outskirts of town. Surely that craft would leave them alone then.

Basilard must have gotten the gist of her request for he sank low in an attempt to angle the next blasting stick higher. He’d timed a couple of the previous ones to explode right as they struck the hull, but they hadn’t damaged the craft at all. Not a single scratch marred that impervious black alloy.

Books lit the blasting stick, and it sailed away.

Amaranthe crept as close to the open door as she dared. She craned her neck, watching the spitting fuse twirl end over end as the stick sailed toward the glass-like material. The explosive burst with a bang and a spewing of black smoke. She was so focused on it that she didn’t see the white beam leave the ground right away. Its angle changed, switching from vertical to diagonal. It slashed through empty sky, then pierced the hull of the dirigible.

Light exploded to Amaranthe’s right. The ship bucked like a mule, its back end jerking up so quickly that the men flew across the cargo hold and were smashed against an interior wall. She caught the slingshot and kept from flying through the air after them. Something clunked against the wall near the men. The box of blasting sticks.

Amaranthe cursed, but there was nothing she could do. She dangled by her hands, legs scrabbling to find a hold on a floor tilted forty-five degrees.

“Maldynado,” Amaranthe yelled, “you need to land us now!”

“We’re above the lake!” came his shout from the navigation cabin.

White light flashed outside the doorway. Before Amaranthe could groan a, “Now what?” another explosion rocked the dirigible.

Thick, black smoke roiled past the cargo door. The floor started to level, and she tried to get her feet under her.

An ear-splitting snap echoed from outside. The floor fell away again, this time in the opposite direction. Amaranthe’s legs swung about, a hundred-and-eighty degrees, and she scarcely managed to maintain her hold on the slingshot. Before the flexible band had swung inward, but now gravity sent it—and Amaranthe with it—toward the cargo door.

She flung a leg out, trying to hook it on the jamb, but there was too much momentum carrying her downward. The floor was still tilted at an impossible angle, and she only managed to bump the edge of the door as she swung outside.

Amaranthe hung on with fingers like vise clamps, but soon she dangled fifty feet above murky water, the slingshot the only thing keeping her attached to the dirigible. Smoke clogged the air, and she struggled to see what had happened. The back half of the craft dangled, severed from the balloon.

“Amaranthe!” Books called. “Hold on!”

She looked up, hoping help was coming. But a boom erupted from within the cargo bay, and smoke gushed out the doorway.

“Books?” Amaranthe called. “What was that?”

Shards of wood and the battered remains of the blasting-stick box spilled out of the doorway. The sticks followed, falling like deadly rain drops.

Amaranthe let go of the slingshot.

Better to fall into the water than be pelted with explosives. That’s what she told herself anyway, though her heart tried to leap out of her chest as she plummeted more than forty feet. What if the murky water was only a half a meter deep? What if she landed on a log? Or an alligator? Or what if that white beam cut her in half before she hit the water?

A boom thundered a few feet above her. The shock wave slammed into Amaranthe, hurling her sideways and down. She hit the surface at an angle, and, instead of dropping in feet first, landed on her back. The water slapped her as hard as if she’d struck cement. She submerged a few feet and hit the bottom. The dense mud was more giving than solid earth, and nothing snapped or cracked in her body, though landing on her back had stunned her so badly, she couldn’t move her limbs. For a terror-filled moment, she feared she’d broken her spine and would be paralyzed for life.

Something brushed her hand, and her fingers twitched away from it. Thank her sturdy ancestors, she could move. More objects brushed against her. Blasting sticks. The water ought to render them useless, so she didn’t worry about them. Finding the surface was more important.

Forcing still-stunned limbs into movement, Amaranthe managed to push off the mud. Her head broke the surface, and she swiped water out of her eyes. Smoke tunneled down her throat, and she coughed up water with air. At least her lungs were working. Her ears rang, and she could barely hear herself coughing. Something warm—blood?—trickled out of one ear. She ignored it and searched the sky for the dirigible, for her men.

Smoke shrouded the wetlands like a fog, but she spotted orange above a cluster of trees on the horizon. Flames bathed the half-deflated balloon, and its body hung in branches, dented and dangling.

No sooner had Amaranthe located the dirigible than it dropped out of sight behind the trees. She didn’t see it crash, but she heard it. Though it must have gone down a mile from her, the sounds of snapping wood and groaning metal traveled clearly across the wetlands. A flock of ducks paddling near the shoreline hurled themselves aloft amidst much quaking.

Half swimming, half walking on the muddy bottom, Amaranthe maneuvered toward the closest bank. She checked the sky as she traveled, expecting to see the black craft hovering nearby, but it was nowhere to be seen. The smoke slowly cleared, and insects resumed droning. Or perhaps they’d been droning all along and Amaranthe’s ringing ears were now recovering enough to hear them.

A splash sounded to her right. An alligator flicking its tail before disappearing beneath the surface.

Amaranthe touched her belt, but she didn’t have any weapons, not even her knife. Maybe she should have kept one of the soggy blasting sticks, if only to beat at predators with it.

She reached the shoreline without incident and climbed toward dry land, mud sucking at her feet with each step. Twice she almost lost a boot, but she would have slogged through the swamp barefoot if she had to. She needed to check on the others. Between the crash and the explosion in the cargo hold, she worried that...

Amaranthe clenched her jaw and forced worries out of her mind. She’d find them and see what was what. Until then, she’d simply focus on walking there. Nothing more.

She found herself on a muddy peninsula, blanketed with wet, brown leaves. Vines and curtains of moss dangled from tree limbs, and animals skittered away from her, rustling the underbrush.

Before Amaranthe had taken more than five steps, a black-clad figure stepped out of the trees ahead. She started to smile, to lift a battered hand in greeting, but it wasn’t Sicarius. The man had white hair, not blond, and the weapon belted at his waist was a long trench knife with brass knuckles at the hilt, not a sleek black dagger. A crescent-moon scar cupped the bottom of one of his eyes.

Though Amaranthe had never seen him before, she recognized him from the men’s description. Major Pike, Hollowcrest’s old Master Interrogator.

He wore a pistol at his waist as well as the dagger, and Amaranthe didn’t think challenging him to a fight sounded like a good idea, not when she was battered from the events of the last twenty-four hours, and she lacked a weapon. She eyed her surroundings, wondering if she could run along the shoreline and evade him long enough to find the downed dirigible. But other people were stepping out of the trees as well. Four men in black fatigues wore swords and approached Amaranthe with rifles aimed at her. Two women she didn’t recognize walked behind them. A fifth man approached her from the side, and he had a familiar face. He looked like an older, harder version of Maldynado. The army general brother who wanted to take Sespian’s position on the throne.

Amaranthe glanced behind her, wondering if it might be best to hurl herself into the water and take her chances with the alligators.

“I wouldn’t, Ms. Lokdon,” Major Pike said, his voice hard and raspy, as if someone had applied a garrote to his throat once. “You’re not so valuable to us that we’d be upset if we had to put a bullet in your back.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Amaranthe said.

The major waved toward two of the men. They stepped forward as a pair, one keeping a rifle aimed at Amaranthe’s chest while the other unclasped handcuffs. The efficient way they approached her left little doubt that they were well trained. Even if they weren’t, there were too many other guns pointed her way. There was nothing she could do.

As the cold metal handcuffs snapped about her wrists, Amaranthe lifted her chin and stared defiantly at her captors. A tight smile came to Major Pike’s lips, and a predatory gleam of anticipation entered his eyes.

~

Afterword

I always swore I’d never be one of those authors who leaves readers dangling with nasty cliffhangers. What kind of deranged minds think that’s a decent thing to do? But… as I started plotting out Book 4, I realized Books 4, 5, and 6 were going to be one complete story arc rather than three separate adventures. There wasn’t going to be a tidy place to break things off, so I chose this point, where we have some resolution with Akstyr’s story, and where I can start off Book 5 through Maldynado’s eyes. I’m already writing that part of the adventure and plan to have it out to you in a timely manner (don’t worry, early readers have already threatened me with shackles, dungeons, and denial-of-service attacks on my Internet to ensure there’s no way for me to be distracted).

If you haven’t signed up for my newsletter yet, and want to be the first to know when Book 5 is out, you can do so on the “book news” of my website. You can also follow me on Twitter or stop by my Facebook author page.

Before I head off to that dungeon, let me take a moment to thank those who recently helped out with my KickStarter campaign to raise funds for the creation of the Emperor’s Edge Audiobooks (details on where to find them—they’re free!—and how to subscribe are on my site). So, thank you Sue, Brenna, Kendra, Nelson, and the 150 other folks who chipped in. Also, let me give a shout out to backers, Roxanne and Gretchen, whom I had a chance to meet when I passed through Lockhart, Texas, last year. If there’s a short story writer in you, they’d love for you to check out their library’s “Scare the Dickens out of Us” fundraiser contest at the Dr. Eugene Clark Library site.

Also by the Author

THE EMPEROR’S EDGE UNIVERSE

NOVELS

The Emperor’s Edge, Book 1

Dark Currents, Book 2

Deadly Games, Book 3

Conspiracy, Book 4

Book 5, coming Fall 2012

Encrypted

SHORT STORIES

Ice Cracker II (and other short stories)

The Assassin’s Curse

THE FLASH GOLD CHRONICLES

Flash Gold

Hunted

Peacemaker

THE GOBLIN BROTHERS ADVENTURES

Table of Contents

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21