A hint of movement came from his left, from down the center aisle. With the blasting stick bundle still tucked under one arm, he hurled a throwing knife. He could have taken the fireman in the throat—the man had stepped around a vehicle with a pistol in hand—but the blade bit into the flesh of his hand instead. The pistol dropped to the floor, and its owner leaped back behind the lorry, cursing.
“Got it,” one of the privates yelled.
The remaining three soldiers were standing near the cab of the vehicle Sicarius intended to take. One was glancing around the front, toward his clamoring comrades, but the other two were facing the rear, right where Sicarius came out.
He sprinted at them without hesitating, watching the fingers on their rifles. When the weapons came up, aimed at his chest, Sicarius zigged to the side. Figuring one might anticipate an attempt to dodge, he leaped in the less obvious direction: toward the vehicle.
The rifles fired, but the shots didn’t come close. Sicarius ran up the side of the cargo bed three steps, jumping before his momentum broke, and launched himself at the pair. He twisted in the air and kicked out with both legs. The soldier on the right caught a booted heel in the face and flew backward. The man on the left reacted more quickly, and almost evaded the kick, but, in midair, Sicarius hooked his leg and clobbered him in the side of the head.
By then, the third was spinning toward the fight, but Sicarius landed too close for him to fire. Instead of reverting to hand-to-hand, the soldier tried to leap back so he had room to use his rifle. Sicarius caught the barrel and yanked, pulling his foe off balance. Knowing he had no time for finesse, he grabbed the back of the man’s neck and slammed his face into the front of the lorry.
The other two men were trying to rise. On his way into the cab, Sicarius stomped on one’s hand and kicked the other’s knee out from under him. He lunged inside, gripping the controls without bothering to sit. He did take a second to gently rest the remaining blasting sticks on the passenger seat, then he thrust the vehicle into forward. Startled shouts came from the front—the men he’d diverted with the blasting stick racing over to join the fight. Too late.
Sicarius barreled past them, ducking low in anticipation of shooting. It came, but not until he’d rolled past their positions. A bullet entered the cab from the side and erupted through the windshield.
Others ricocheted off the side of the lorry, but that first shot was the only one to come close. Still, the men chased after him. As soon as Sicarius cleared the vehicle house, he turned a hard right, the wheels throwing up slush, pelting the fastest soldiers. Not much of an attack, but their curses elicited a modicum of satisfaction within him.
“Throw the blasting stick,” someone yelled.
“It’s a dud.”
“No, you have to light it. Here.”
Sicarius pressed the lorry to greater speed. His diversion might backfire on him if they ending up using the stick to blow him up.
As soon as the vehicle reached the end of the Barracks, he turned a hard left to bring it parallel with the back of the building. More slush sprayed, this time striking men who were standing in an orderly queue guarding other men. The prisoners, Sicarius realized. Sespian must have ordered them brought up from the dungeon for the evacuation.
He spotted Sespian’s tidy black uniform with its gold piping, and Maldynado and Basilard at his side. Amaranthe was coming up the basement stairs, Akstyr and Books trailing.
A harsh squeal rent the air as Sicarius threw on the brakes. Dozens of surprised faces turned in his direction. Fortunately, Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr hustled toward him without hesitation, each carrying a rifle or pistol, swords, and bulging ammo pouches.
“Get in,” Sicarius barked, leaning out to check on his pursuers.
The fastest of the soldiers rounded the corner of the building. The rearmost man gripped the blasting stick in one hand and a lantern in the other, both raised, as if he meant to light the fuse at any second.
“Halt,” Sespian called, stepping forward and lifting a palm. Perhaps more influentially, Maldynado and Basilard raised rifles at the oncoming men. Two soldiers, men he must have already recruited, stepped in front of Sespian, also with firearms at the ready.
“Put down your weapons,” one of them, a man with lieutenant’s rank pins, called.
“But, sir,” one of the lorry’s pursuers protested. “That’s Sicarius. The assassin.”
While this exchange was going on, Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr piled into the cab behind Sicarius.
“We’re ready,” Amaranthe urged.
Sicarius waited, though, wanting to make certain his son had everything under control. With the prisoners nearby and men who’d been working for Ravido not fifteen minutes before now supposedly on his side, the situation could quickly devolve into chaos.
“Where’s Ravido?” Sicarius asked. “Being kept with the general prisoners?”
“No,” Books said. “Someone—” he gave Amaranthe a long look, “—decided he should be involved in the search for more incendiary devices.”
Akstyr snickered, as if unaware of the tension outside. “Yara is bossing him around the way she does Maldynado. He’ll probably end up stepping on a mine just to get away from her nagging.”
“I am aware of that,” Sespian said, responding to the man with the blasting stick. “The others are outlaws. I’m giving them a chance to redeem themselves by defeating the makarovi.”
“But we were going to chase after the makarovi. Sir. Sire. Uhm.” The confused soldiers looked at each other. The one holding the blasting stick and lantern lowered the items.
“There is a situation here that requires attention. Fill them in, Lieutenant.” Sespian didn’t take his eyes from the men, but he did wave at the lorry. Get out of here, that gesture said. Do your mission. I’m fine.
Yes, Sicarius decided, it seemed he could. Pleased that his son had brought the situation under control, he nudged the lorry forward. With so many people now gathered behind the Barracks, he steered through the courtyard at a less frenetic pace, but as soon as they passed through the gates—someone had instructed the soldiers to open them—he pushed the vehicle to a greater speed. In the city, fires burned up and down the hills sloping down toward the lake; there was more trouble about than the makarovi could account for.
• • •
Amaranthe gripped the back of the seat beside Sicarius and stared out at the dark, slushy streets. They’d already started passing mauled bodies. Not many—the collars had sent the makarovi on a mission, after all, and they were taking the most direct path toward it—but enough. Shouts came from the rooftops of buildings, and lights burned behind shuttered windows and locked doors. The entire city seemed to be awake.
Aside from the bodies, the streets were empty, at least around the base of Arakan Hill. Torches moved in the distance, down by the waterfront. Her chest tightened, and a slight tremble shook her belly, one that had nothing to do with the vibrations of the lorry. She hadn’t wanted to be right about Suan and the makarovi, but Ravido had confirmed it. How much time had passed since those first creatures had left the tunnel? Hours, she feared. Even if they’d paused to… hunt along the way, they were sure to have reached the factory by now. Amaranthe had barely gotten to know Tikaya and Mahliki, but she nonetheless dreaded the thought of losing them.
“Since nobody else is asking,” Akstyr said from his spot behind Sicarius, “why are there blasting sticks in the other seat?”
Sicarius, his face intent as he concentrated on the slippery roads—and perhaps he was watching those torches, too, thinking similar thoughts as Amaranthe—did not reply.
“I assumed that Sicarius, aware of Amaranthe’s tendency for causing explosions, thought to facilitate her ability to induce them by giving those as… a gift,” Books said. “Blasting sticks get more reliable and, ah, speedier results than setting up catastrophic boiler failures in steam vehicles.”
Books was standing in the middle, gripping the ceiling to
keep from flying out when they turned corners. Nobody had dared pick up those sticks and slide into the seat next to Sicarius.
“Aw,” Amaranthe said, “did you bring these along for me, Sicarius? That is quite thoughtful.” She almost added a comment about appreciating them as much as her pastry from Curi’s, but didn’t know if he’d want her letting others know he’d done something so domestic as bringing her sweets. Besides, the shock might cause Books to lose his grip on that ceiling bar and fall out of lorry.
Sicarius’s cool sidelong glance convinced her that the thought had been correct. He wasn’t in the mood to be playful. Understandable, since they’d left Sespian with a mess and were heading into another one.
“Look at that fire.” Akstyr thrust a finger toward a two-story brick building on a corner ahead. Flames leapt from the broken front windows, shards of glass gleaming orange on the cleared sidewalk below. The door had been busted in as well.
“That’s Curi’s,” Amaranthe blurted, reflexively stepping toward the exit, an image of leaping out and running for buckets of water flashing through her mind. But… Curi was allied with Forge, or had been. No matter how tasty her pastries were, maybe she deserved this end. Besides, with the way those flames were jumping, taming the chaos would take the Imperial Fire Brigade, not a couple of people with buckets.
“Looting,” Books said with disgust. “Hoodlums.”
As the lorry neared the intersection, two youths in oversized clothing slouched out of the shop, carrying bulging bags of stolen goods. One held a display platter full of sweets tucked under one arm. Again, Amaranthe was tempted to order Sicarius to stop, so they could jump out and deal with the thieves. Even if Curi deserved a bad turn for her alliance to Forge, criminals shouldn’t get away with pillaging and vandalism. The team couldn’t delay though, not when they were already hours behind those monsters.
Akstyr shrank away from the side of the cab. The pastries stuffed into the youths’ mouths didn’t hinder their ability to make crude gestures. Amaranthe couldn’t tell if they were aimed at the lorry in general or at Akstyr. The backs of those hands were branded, though she couldn’t tell with which marks.
Sicarius turned the corner, and the gang members disappeared from view. More buildings burned on either side of the wide street ahead, though there were fewer people out than she would have expected. Looting could grow widespread quickly. Where were the enforcers? Chasing makarovi?
The canal and a bridge came into view. Not much farther to the waterfront. Ah, there were the enforcers—a steam wagon rolled over the bridge at the same time as Sicarius crossed from the other side. Both vehicles scooted to the far sides, allowing room for the other to pass.
An enforcer leaned out of the back of the wagon with a megaphone. “Makarovi are loose in the city. Return to your homes. Do not take up arms. We will handle it.” It sounded like a litany he had repeated many times that night.
“How do they propose to handle it while they’re driving in the other direction?” Books asked.
“I’m sure there are numerous vehicles patrolling and looking for them. Or maybe enough are already at the factory to handle things.”
As they drove closer to the waterfront, they passed army vehicles as well with men on the roofs manning search lights, probing the alleys on either side of the streets.
“This way,” Amaranthe wanted to yell, “we know where they are.”
In truth, she didn’t know that. The makarovi might have already dealt with Suan and moved on to harassing the city at large.
Sicarius took them down the final long hill that led to Waterfront Street. More bodies littered the route, some on the sides, some out in the middle. More than once, he had to steer the lorry around one to avoid crushing it.
A block up from the waterfront, Sicarius turned onto the street that held the factory, but he had to brake immediately. A barricade had been erected from sidewalk to sidewalk, and two parked enforcer wagons further blocked access.
At first, Amaranthe thought that help must have arrived in time and maybe the law had been able to thwart the makarovi, but the silence of the street instilled a sense of eeriness. Wind gusted through, and clothing flapped somewhere. Amaranthe leaned out of the cab to see around the wagon—and wished she hadn’t. Two enforcers lay on their backs in slush turned red with their blood. One’s uniform jacket had been torn half off of him, and it flapped forlornly, as if it could fly away and escape the fate its owner had suffered.
Amaranthe listened for the roars of the makarovi, figuring that if they remained in the area it would imply they still sought their prey, but that flapping jacket was all she heard.
“We’ll try Waterfront Street,” Sicarius said. “If that’s blocked, we’ll proceed on foot.”
Amaranthe nodded. It was only three blocks to the factory—they would walk from here—but she remembered the effectiveness of that tunnel borer and was reluctant to leave the lorry behind. Even if it didn’t possess a giant drill bit, it might be able to pin beasts against the walls so the men could attack them.
Waterfront Street had been similarly blocked. If barricades alone had spanned the route, Amaranthe would have urged Sicarius to drive through them, but she doubted he’d be able to roll over the enforcer wagons once again parked inside the barrier.
“Should we try circling all the way around?” Amaranthe asked.
“We can come back for the lorry if we need it.” Sicarius parked the vehicle.
Something in his word choice made Amaranthe think they wouldn’t, that they were already too late.
Sicarius rose from the seat and grabbed the shovel in the rear. “I’ll stoke the firebox so it’s ready.”
Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr climbed out. There weren’t any boats out on the lake tonight. The ice that had been forming earlier in the week had receded, though it still edged the shoreline and cupped the pilings of docks. She listened again, hoping to hear the sounds of the makarovi, or at least of living beings, but it was as if the city’s entire population of one million had disappeared. Except for the looters. Fires continued to burn on the inland hills.
Amaranthe and the others did quick checks of their gear—weapons, yes, ammunition, yes, but would there be an opportunity to use them? She cringed at the idea of finding Starcrest and his family slaughtered in their blankets.
Sicarius hopped down from the cab, and the team squeezed past the barrier and strode up the street. He was carrying the blasting sticks under one arm.
When he noticed her eyeing them, he said, “You forgot your gift.”
“Ah, silly me. It’s kind of you to tote it along for me.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Those sticks look… volatile. I suppose it’d be impolite of me to ask you to walk on the other side of the street while you carry my gift.”
“Yes.”
Books lifted a finger. “What if I make the request?”
The look Sicarius gave him lacked amusement.
As they strode through the next two blocks, they passed more enforcer bodies. Even at night, nobody had to stop for a close look to see how they’d died; the gouges left by the long makarovi claws were distinct.
They rounded a corner, and Sicarius pointed. At the intersection next to the factory, a massive furry heap lay in the street. Two more human bodies had fallen in the vicinity, but at least one makarovi had been killed. Amaranthe tried to guess how many remained. Six? Seven?
A shot rang out to the southeast—a block up and a block inland. That ought to be the factory.
“Someone’s still alive.” She surged forward, but Sicarius caught her by the elbow, his grip implacable.
She expected an order to stay behind, lest her scent drive all of the makarovi toward her, but he merely pointed to the rooftop of the nearest warehouse. “The shot was fired from an elevated position. We may find greater safety in a similar approach.”
That warehouse took up the whole block and, standing on opposing corners from the factory, wou
ld let them have a view of most of the area. “Let’s do it,” Amaranthe said.
Sicarius led the way, choosing a sturdy drainpipe. He shimmied up, using his boots and one hand to grip it, since he still held the blasting sticks in the other. Amaranthe couldn’t imagine a scenario where they’d lob explosives at the factory—especially if they believed people were still alive in there—but so long as he continued to carry her gift instead of asking the chore of her, she didn’t care. One-handed drainpipe climbing wasn’t in her repertoire of skills yet.
“Never have I wished more for his safety,” Books said, watching Sicarius climb, or perhaps watching the cylinder of sticks under his arm.
“Yes,” Amaranthe said. “I wouldn’t care to have him drop those, given our positions directly under him.”
She waited until Sicarius reached the roof, then hustled up after him. Books and Akstyr followed, though Akstyr whispered, “Blasted drainpipes. I looked this factory over when I was standing watch on the roof over there, and I distinctly remember a fire escape around the corner.”
“If makarovi can climb fire escapes, that’ll be the first thing I target with my gift.” Amaranthe reached the top and scrambled onto the roof. It was a flat one with low walls around the top. A small water tower perched in the center next to a couple of chimneys. A lone door allowed access to the interior.
Not surprisingly, Sicarius was checking the shadows for danger rather than rushing to the corner for a look at the factory. Amaranthe took that job for herself.
Almost sprinting, she bounded across the rooftop, reaching the corner in a few seconds. This building was taller than the factory, so she had to look down to spot the… what was that?
She’d stood a guard watch or two on that roof, too, so she knew what was and what wasn’t up there. Aside from the smokestacks there wasn’t a lot. Usually. Now some towering rectangular assembly of bars—or were those pipes?—had arisen. Lanterns dotted the rooftop, so she could see the stocky silver-haired man kneeling at one of the corners with a wrench. She didn’t know what he was doing, but seeing him filled her with relief.