Basilard could have finished him on his own, but Sicarius slashed the man’s throat and shoved him to the floor so he could leap over him and spring toward the woman.
Before he reached her, an invisible blast slammed him in the chest. The edge of it caught Basilard as well, a stiff blast of air so rigid it had the force of a battering ram, and it sent him stumbling against the wall. It hurled Sicarius a dozen feet. Despite the power of the blow, he twisted and landed on his feet, light as a cat.
Basilard crept close to the woman and tapped the shield with the tip of his dagger. It buzzed and hissed at him. Hadn’t Akstyr once said a practitioner could not attack and defend at the same time? The dual task certainly wasn’t bothering this woman. Maybe because she was using a tool to attack instead of her own mind?
Sicarius sprinted back toward Basilard and the woman. “Go by her,” he barked in Mangdorian. “Down the next ladder.”
The woman flipped a lever on her cone. Sicarius saw the attack coming and dove to his belly this time. That had to hurt without clothes on, but it worked. He skidded under the cone’s field of influence, and the wave did no more than ruffle his hair.
He jumped up, inches from the shield and jerked his arms up as if to attack, but he exaggerated the movements. Trying to startle her? To break her concentration so the shield would drop?
She watched him without flinching, then ominously reached for the lever on her weapon again. He tapped the barrier with his knife. It buzzed at him. He stalked about the shield, like a prowling tiger checking his cage for a weakness.
Basilard picked up his knife and tried to pass the woman in the corridor. The edges of the barrier extended to the walls, so he had to slither on his belly to find an unblocked spot.
A string of words came down the hall. Basilard did not understand the language, but it sounded like a question. Without taking her eyes from Sicarius, the gray-haired woman answered in the same tongue.
Basilard thumped the wall to get Sicarius’s attention, We should go.
Where to he did not know. If the navigation area was out, what else could they try?
The woman lifted the weapon at Sicarius’s chest again. Her finger tightened on the trigger, but he anticipated the attack. He leaped over the woman, barrier and all, and avoided the blast.
Sicarius joined Basilard and they ran down the corridor.
Before they reached the ladder, two bronze-skinned men with long, thin braids of black hair came into view. They wore white coats and toted small canvas bags that bulged with balls. Each carried one of the balls in his free hand, pale green globes with the icy dark depths of a glacier.
The men were on the other side of the ladder, and Basilard thought he could reach it before they did. He increased his speed, running ahead of Sicarius. Had they been guards, Basilard would have challenged them, but he wanted nothing to do with practitioners.
When he reached the ladder, he dropped down, landing in a crouch, knife ready. A pair of guards running toward the ladder almost crashed into him.
One started to lift a pistol. Basilard knocked the arm up, and the weapon went off, the noise deafening in the metal corridor. The pistol ball ricocheted off the walls, and the guard flinched. Basilard feinted toward the man’s face with his knife, drawing a block, then lowered his blade and thrust toward the unprotected gut.
The guard had fast reflexes and almost recovered quickly enough to block the attack, but Basilard was faster still. The blade plunged through flesh and organs before he pulled it free again.
He shoved the injured man at his comrade, eliciting a new blast of pain from his shoulder. He need not have bothered. As Sicarius dropped down, he hammered his black blade into the top of the man’s skull. Bone crunched, and utter shock stamped the guard’s face—his last expression ever.
“Run!” Sicarius sprinted up the corridor.
As Basilard turned to follow him, two of the pale green balls dropped down from above. Busy running, he did not see them hit the floor, but he heard cracks like breaking glass.
He hunched his shoulders, expecting an explosion. But it was a stench that assaulted him. He snorted, trying to expel any intrusive gas from his nostrils. After that, he held his breath as he raced after Sicarius. He might be fast on the Clank Race, but he had the shorter legs, and he fell a few paces behind.
The long, twisting corridor seemed to go on forever. Ahead, someone leaned out of a hatchway, a compact crossbow poised to fire. The attacker probably thought he was safe, that he could duck back behind a barrier as soon as he made the shot, but Sicarius dodged the quarrel and surged forward with startling speed. He grasped the crossbow wielder’s wrist and yanked him out before he could duck back. Sicarius spun the man about, a hand going to his head, and broke his neck before he could so much as shout for help.
Basilard’s lungs burned from holding his breath. Sicarius stopped to grab the crossbow and pat the man down for ammunition. It must be safe to breathe.
Basilard opened his mouth to suck in a gasp of air, but couldn’t. His lungs were frozen. He tried again. And again. Nothing. It was as if he had taken a blow to the solar plexus and his system was stunned. He thumped on his chest, not sure what else to try. Panic encroached upon him. Would he die for lack of the air all about him?
Before he reached the dead body, Sicarius rose and headed down the corridor again. Basilard thumped on the wall.
Sicarius stopped and turned. For a moment, he simply stood there. Trying to ascertain what was wrong? Or thinking that, despite his earlier words, he was being given a chance to leave Basilard to die and to end the possibility of a threat?
Blackness crept into the edges of Basilard’s vision, and the weight of a thousand pounds of sand filled his legs. He stumbled and pitched toward the floor.
Hands caught him. Air that Basilard wanted so much to inhale breezed past as he was hoisted from the floor and draped over Sicarius’s shoulder. The darkness swallowed more of his vision, and his pulse throbbed in his ears. Vaguely, he was aware of the floor skimming past as Sicarius continued running down the corridor. He turned at an intersection and halted.
Another barrier to pass? Did Sicarius still have the eye? Basilard could not see, nor could he feel his limbs or move his head.
Metal squealed and they moved again, but only a few steps. Basilard felt himself being lowered to the floor. Its cool smoothness pressed against his cheek. He wondered if it would be the last thing he ever felt.
Abruptly, a massive spasm coursed through his body. His lungs surprised him by coming to life, and he gulped air in so quickly he almost threw up. He was so relieved he did not care. A temporary paralysis of the lungs, thank God.
Shots rang out nearby. Basilard rolled to his stomach and tried to get his hands and knees beneath him so he could help, but his body was too busy breathing to obey. He did manage to lift his head.
Sicarius stood beside the hatch, reloading a pistol. The crossbow leaned against his leg.
White-coated figures milled several meters down the corridor. One started forward. Sicarius sensed it somehow and leaned out, firing the crossbow. The figures did not even duck. The quarrel bounced off a shield identical to the one the gray-haired woman had used.
Sicarius slammed the hatch shut and spun a round wheel, causing a thick bolt to clang into place. Though it sounded sturdy, there was no way to lock it.
Basilard staggered to his feet. He and Sicarius were in a chamber dominated by an engine, boiler, and furnace. Giant pistons pumped, and a flywheel turned, and the place might have looked purely Turgonian, but unfamiliar tubes and sinuous pipes swept and twisted about the chamber like vines amongst trees. Domes of various sizes punctuated the dull metal at points, emitting orange and red pulses of light. Whatever burned inside the furnace emitted crimson flames instead of yellowish orange.
Welcome to the engine room, Basilard told himself.
Sicarius strode toward the engine controls, lifted a hand, but stopped a few inches shy of touching
a lever. He gazed at it for a long moment, the way Akstyr focused when he was calling upon his science. Then he shook his head once and backed away. He grabbed a wrench out of a toolbox and tossed it at the control panel. It bounced off an invisible field and zipped across the cabin. Basilard ducked as it shot over his shoulder. It clanged into the bulkhead and bounced halfway across the room again before clunking to the deck. Singe marks blackened the tip.
If Sicarius had meant to take over the engines, the possibility of succeeding was not looking good.
He tore a pipe from a wall, and steam burst forth. He shoved the pipe through the wheel on the door.
A pipe against three wizards? Basilard signed.
“Six,” Sicarius said.
What?
“There are six practitioners out there now. At least.”
What’s the plan?
“The plan is to come up with one.”
Basilard searched his face, wondering if that was a joke, but no hint of humor softened Sicarius’s stony expression.
* * * * *
Amaranthe tugged at the thick water-repellent material pooled around her boots, boots two inches too large. If there were such things as diving suits for women, she had not encountered them yet. Maybe it would not matter. In the water, the material ought to float, right? Or it would cause her to become hopelessly tangled in seaweed where she would be an easy-to-catch snack for a kraken.
“Less pessimism, girl,” she muttered, then raised her voice for Maldynado and Akstyr. “How are your suits fitting?”
They were gearing up around the trapdoor in Ms. Setjareth’s warehouse. Amaranthe had agreed to give the woman a discount on future work in exchange for the use of her building for a couple of hours—a deal to which Setjareth had magnanimously agreed, possibly because no shipments had been due in that morning. Fortunately, she was not around to see the pile of harpoons and hand-held launchers sitting next to her trapdoor. The tub labeled Skelith Poison was probably not a typical warehouse store either. Books promised the tar-like substance, which they had smeared on the harpoon tips, would survive the water, at least for a couple of hours.
“This thing weighs a thousand pounds.” Akstyr tugged at the collar.
“Only one-eighty, including the helmet,” Amaranthe said, “or so Books tells me.” Saying his name prompted a glance toward the door. They were waiting on him to return with another weapon to use against the kraken. He had rushed off before sharing the details, and Amaranthe had a hard time not worrying. Six months later, she still had nightmares of that printing press careening down the icy street with Maldynado riding it like a contestant in a log rolling competition. That had been one of Books’s ideas, too.
“My helmet is fabulous,” Maldynado said, “but the suit binds across the chest. Whatever runty treasure hunter commissioned this piece lacked my substantial musculature.”
“And your ego, too, I’d imagine,” Amaranthe said.
Wearing everything but the helmet, she shuffled over to a high window facing the lake. She had to clamber atop a crate to push open the shutters and peer outside.
Early morning sun glittered on the calm lake water. A few fishing boats meandered away from the docks, heading out for the day’s work. Given what was going on below, Amaranthe thought the scene should be less idyllic.
She stuck her head out, twisting her neck for the view she wanted. Dozens of docks away, the Saberfist floated in its berth. Plumes of smoke rose from its twin stacks and a thrum of excitement ran through her. Had Mancrest done it? Convinced them to send divers down to investigate? Marines bustled about on the deck, and the activity had doubled since the last time she took a look.
“Books is back,” Maldynado called. “And he didn’t bring anything useful.”
Amaranthe hopped down in time to catch the scowl Books sent Maldynado’s direction. Books was carrying a wooden keg labeled SALT into the building. Amaranthe’s earlier excitement faded. Harpoon launchers might harm a kraken, but salt? There had to be more to it than that.
“That’s your secret weapon?” she asked, joining the men. “Salt?”
“Actually, it’s empty,” Books said.
“So you brought a wooden keg?” Maldynado asked. “Genius strategy, professor.”
Amaranthe frowned, aware that this might be their only chance to retrieve Sicarius and Basilard. If the Saberfist was en route, and it found and attacked the underwater structure, the kidnappers would flee. She couldn’t imagine them sticking around once they knew they had been discovered. And who knew where they would go after that?
“Tell us,” she prompted Books, who was scowling at Maldynado.
“As it turns out,” Books said, “krakens are quite difficult to kill. There are more stories of them sinking ships than there are of people slaying them.”
“How comforting,” Maldynado said.
“My idea is to fill this keg with poison,” Books said. “I tinkered with the design, so it’ll implode when squeezed. There are also razor-sharp caltrops inside to cut the kraken’s flesh to ensure the poison enters its bloodstream.”
“How do we convince the creature to grab it?” Amaranthe asked. “And will a little poison injected at the end of a tentacle really incapacitate it? It’s quite...large.”
“Ah, but we won’t target the tentacle. Squids, and presumably krakens, travel by sucking water into their mantel cavity, then streaming it out behind them in a jet, much like a fireman’s hose. Perhaps if we could propel this keg toward its mantle, the creature would inhale it, so to speak, and it’d be like getting pepper up your nose.”
“Couldn’t we just use pepper?” Maldynado asked.
“Do you want it to sneeze or to die?” Books asked.
“Maybe if it sneezed hard enough, it’d go flying into the air, land on the Saberfist, and the marines could hack it to pieces with their swords.”
Books threw Amaranthe an exasperated look. “Is it necessary to have these louts present during planning?”
“This mantle cavity,” she said, trying to imagine Books’s scenario, “is up under all the tentacles? I can’t imagine anyone being able to get close without getting killed.”
“We could send in someone expendable,” Books said, eyeing Maldynado.
“Oh, no,” Maldynado said. “When I get my statue, I don’t want it to be an image of me going up a squid’s butt.”
“All right, gentlemen.” Amaranthe lifted her hands, struggling not to snap at them for being silly. It must be the lack of sleep stealing some of her patience. “We’ll go down with the keg and harpoons. With luck, the marines will figure out a way to kill the kraken through attrition, and we won’t need to implement any of this.”
“When have we ever had that kind of luck?” Books asked.
“I don’t remember any,” Amaranthe said, “but we ought to be due, eh?”
The men traded skeptical looks. She forced a smile. Someone had to be optimistic after all.
* * * * *
Basilard waited with a rag pressed to the back of his shoulder, watching as Sicarius shoved equipment against the hatch. Soon everything that could be moved, or torn free, blocked the only entrance. Like the pipe in the lock wheel, it did not seem enough against wizards, but maybe they wouldn’t want to risk destroying their own engine room.
Basilard dropped his hands so he could sign, What now?
“Back up plan,” Sicarius said over the grinding and chugging of the engine. “If we can’t steer to the surface, we may be able to float there.”
Float? Basilard stared at him. He could not imagine this sprawling maze of tunnels and chambers moving at all, much less bobbing about at the surface of the lake.
“The air you’re breathing would typically make us buoyant,” Sicarius said, “so this craft must have ballast tanks.”
Basilard occasionally found Books too verbose for his tastes, but he wouldn’t have minded more of an explanation just then. Sicarius turned his back to study symbols on panels—writing
presumably, but not in Mangdorian or Turgonian, the only two languages Basilard could read.
He walked about, in part to see if he could find some way to help and in part to distract himself from the metal ball grinding against his shoulder blade.
He found a storage locker holding a pair of flintlock muskets that appeared only a model or two up from the old matchlocks. More weapons that would prove useless against practitioners who could generate shields. There were a couple of axes, too, and he suspected this was a supply the engineer and his mate were supposed to use to defend their station.
Which raised a question: where was the engineer?
Had he fled the room at the sound of the alarm? It still throbbed in the corridors outside, along with a few bangs and scrapes. The practitioners up to something, no doubt.
Basilard took one of the axes—they had a satisfying heft, and he imagined smashing some of the machinery with it. If Sicarius could not find these ballast tanks, perhaps they could convince the structure to rise to the surface by destroying the engines. At the least, they could make sure this vessel never navigated into imperial waters again to harass its citizens.
That thought made him freeze mid-step. When had he come to care about the empire and its citizens? This place had done little enough for him, and the old emperor had been responsible for the ruthless assassination of Mangdoria’s rulers.
But Amaranthe, Maldynado, and Books were Turgonians and they were the first friends—the first family—he had been allowed to have in years. He wished he could see his daughter again someday, but, coward that he was, he feared her reaction. She would see his scars, know the violence he had been involved in, and would condemn him. She had to. That was his people’s way. It pained him to think that he might have more in common with these warmongering Turgonians these days than his own kin.