Retta glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “Nobody deserves this fate.”
“So, you’ve come to unlock me? Excellent.”
Retta grimaced. “I can’t. I owe Ms. Worgavic too much. She was the one who realized I was never going to be like my sister, that I was interested in history and archaeology instead of business, and that I didn’t belong at Mildawn. She talked to my family and had me sent to Kyatt to finish my education. After that, she elicited a lot of favors so I could go to the field to study artifacts with a woman who used to be on Professor Komitopis’s team. Do you know who she is?”
Yes, thanks to Sicarius’s recent explanation. Komitopis was the one who had translated the language from the race who had crafted the Behemoth and ancestors only knew what else. If Worgavic had sent Retta off to study the ancient language, she must have been aware of this craft, and the need to learn how to work it, long ago. She must have seen in Retta not only a girl with an archaeology interest but also one with few friends, one who’d be loyal to anyone who treated her decently. Amaranthe decided not to dwell on the fact that she sometimes pursued similar tactics. What mattered now was figuring out a way to break that loyalty, or at least work around it.
“Amaranthe?” Retta pressed her eyes to the slit, peering into the blackness. “Are you still… ?”
“I am, yes.” Amaranthe groaned. Eliciting sympathy couldn’t hurt her cause. “Do you truly think the other founders would listen to Ms. Worgavic?” Playing along and sounding like she could be swayed might help too. “That they’d let me live? After what I’ve done? And who I’m… associated with?”
“They want your assassin friend dead, there’s no denying that. But if you disassociated yourself from him, and helped us to determine how much of a threat he’ll be going forward, then I don’t see why you couldn’t join Forge. They’re smart people. They know it’d be more of a coup to turn an enemy into an ally than to simply get rid of her.” The last sentence had a stilted, or maybe rehearsed, cadence. Had Ms. Worgavic had Retta memorize it?
“You think the other founders are that open-minded? Who are they anyway? Anyone I’ve heard of?”
Retta shook her head. “I’m not going to give you any free information, Lokdon. You’d have to give us a lot of information before we’d start to think you might be on our side and trustworthy.”
“Then it seems we’re at an impasse,” Amaranthe murmured.
“It’s better to be with them than against them. Trust me. I know what it’s like to be on the outside. Not only is this a chance to end your suffering, but you heard Ms. Worgavic. This is a chance to ensure you have a part in creating the future.”
“Why do you care if I join or not?” Amaranthe asked.
“Back in school, you didn’t look at me with soul-shriveling contempt. And you held the door open once when you saw that I was carrying a bunch of books. Human kindness was rare at Mildawn.” Again, the words sounded rehearsed, and they didn’t mesh with Retta’s earlier bitterness over their different school experiences. She had to be here, fishing for information, at Worgavic’s behest.
Amaranthe sighed and tried not to feel like she’d wasted her limited energy talking with the girl.
Retta leaned back from the slit. “Think about what I said. I’m sure you’d make friends easily in Forge, and it wouldn’t take long for you to go from suspicious stranger to trusted ally. Winning those people over, it’d just be a new kind of challenge for you.”
“I’ll… consider it,” Amaranthe said.
Retta nodded, apparently accepting that as a small victory. Amaranthe wished she felt like she’d won some victories.
A faint tremor pulsed through the floor.
“I have to go. It’s time to land.”
“Land? Land where?” Amaranthe hadn’t even known for certain that they’d been flying. She wondered how far they had gone. More precisely, she wondered how many miles separated her from Sicarius and the others. Escaping might only be Step 1 in reuniting with them. She sagged under the weight of the idea of a thousand-mile trek.
“The closest unpopulated area to our meeting spot.” Retta lifted a hand to close the slit to the crate.
“Wait,” Amaranthe blurted.
Retta paused, her hand hovering. “What?”
Yes, what indeed?
Amaranthe rifled through her thoughts, trying to think of something she could say to convince Retta to help her. Something to instill guilt? Would that work? “If I… don’t make it, and if Forge wins… whatever you do with this new future you and Worgavic are crafting, please ask yourself if you’re truly making the world better or if you’re simply replacing one group of ruling elite for another. And, if you’re the one responsible for making this aircraft accessible to Forge, please don’t let them use it to hurt people. With this much power in one’s hands, it’d be easy not to bother with governments at all and simply create dictators.”
Retta frowned, disappointment entering her eyes. Yes, she’d thought Amaranthe would give in and divulge Sicarius’s secret. She hadn’t expected a lecture, and she probably didn’t appreciate it.
The window covering slid shut, plunging Amaranthe into darkness again. She sighed. Hadn’t she been better at this once?
Chapter 7
Twilight deepened as the boat glided upriver, angling toward Rabbit Island where an ancient castle perched at the top of a tree-cloaked pinnacle, its grounds ablaze with gas lamps. Nice scenery, but Maldynado barely noticed it. He kept sneaking peeks at Yara, who sat on the bench beside him, her athletic form quite striking in the sleeveless blue velvet dress. A cape warmed her shoulders on the chilly night, but, from time to time, it drooped, revealing sleek, smooth skin, skin he’d seen for the first time when she had been changing back in the junkyard. Not that he was puerile enough to sneak behind a heaping debris pile to peep, but sometimes a man happened to be passing by on some other errand and accidentally glimpsed feminine flesh.
“When I volunteered for this duty,” Books said from behind Maldynado, where he hunched over bicycle pedals, powering the boat’s paddlewheel, “I didn’t realize this island was upstream.”
Maldynado, who lounged on the padded passenger bench, his arms draped across the backrest, said, “I assumed that your big brain had a map of the entire empire stored in there.”
“As a resort for the indolent wealthy, Rabbit Island isn’t worth a mention on many maps.”
“I think that means there are holes in his memory,” Maldynado told Basilard.
Basilard and Sespian manned the oars on either side of the boat. Akstyr sat behind Books, somehow having wrangled the non-physical position of tiller-man.
“Ssh,” Sespian whispered. “We’re getting close. There are guards up there.”
Even as he spoke, someone moved on the dock, and metal—the barrel of a rifle—glinted in the lamplight. Maldynado picked out six guards pacing near the gangway of a wood-paneled, brass-bejeweled, three-story steamboat. The Glacial Empress. Twilight’s deepening made it hard to tell, but some of that brass might have been gold.
“There are more guards on the steamboat too,” Sespian whispered.
“Guess I’d better make a bigger distraction than I’d planned.” Maldynado patted the bulging side of a satchel slung over his shoulder.
“Just don’t light the entire island on fire,” Books murmured.
The men rowed the boat into the cove with the dock. A few yachts and private water taxies shared moorage with the steamboat. Akstyr aimed their craft toward an open spot alongside the main pier.
“Ready to meet the family?” Maldynado let his arm drop from the backrest to drape around Yara’s shoulders.
“Touching,” she said, though she kept her voice low.
“Yes, I imagine we should do quite a lot of that tonight,” Maldynado whispered, “though with lips instead of hands, don’t you think? To make our relationship look realistic.”
Maldynado hadn’t had many women growl at him, at l
east not outside of the bedroom, but the noise that escaped Yara’s throat sounded like it qualified.
“Now, now, my lady,” Maldynado said, aware that the guards could probably hear by now. “You know it’s only proper to save the growling for… later.”
Two men in crimson-and-black uniforms, those of some private guard service, stepped up to Akstyr’s chosen docking spot and turned up gas lamps perched on the poles. The brighter light nicely illuminated the rifles cradled in their arms. Maldynado did a double-glance. They were repeating firearms. It seemed Forge had been busy supplying its allies with the latest models from their secret weapons manufacturing plants.
Sespian lowered his face. The beard and new clothes disguised him well, but avoiding scrutiny was a good idea. He ought to loosen those white knuckles too; he was gripping the oar like he might turn it into a cudgel at any moment. He must hate having his fate in a Marblecrest’s hands. Maldynado would show Sespian that he was trustworthy.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he drawled to the guards.
“This is a private island, comrades,” one man said. “Unless you have an invitation, you won’t be permitted to get out of your boat.”
“I’m here on family business.” Maldynado waved toward the castle-turned-resort. From this lowly angle, trees blocked the view of most of the structure, but a couple of lit towers stood out against the night sky. A wide, well-lit cobblestone road wound its way up the hillside. “My sister-in-law, Mari Marblecrest, was supposed to arrive today. Did she make it safely? I would be remiss if I didn’t come to see her.”
The guards exchanged looks. One fingered the trigger of his rifle.
Maldynado stood, so he could take action if he needed to, but also so they could see his fine garments and the arrogant chin tilt he assumed. He hoped they’d believe him warrior-caste based on looks alone. By law, commoners who weren’t soldiers or enforcers with orders to do so were forbidden from lifting a hand, even in defense, against aristocrats.
“What’s your name? My lord.” The guard tacked the latter on, no doubt covering himself should it prove to be true.
“Maldynado Montichelu Marblecrest,” he said in his most pompous tone, then removed his hat and offered a slight bow, not the deep one a man might issue to a colleague or a lady, but the type that was considered a gesture of respect when given to commoners.
“Aren’t you disowned? My lord?” the man in charge of talking said after another exchange of looks with his colleague.
“He runs with mercenaries and outlaws, doesn’t he?” the other one whispered and eyed the rest of the “boat crew.”
Ugh, not good. “Ah, you’ve heard about my exploits down in the capital? I hadn’t realized that my tales had traveled this far downriver. I’m done with that life though.” Maldynado waved toward Yara, hoping to get the guards looking at her, and that oh-so-lovely bosom, instead of at the men. “I’ve been told that my father has invited me to rejoin the family and that Mari has the details. Do be a good lad and run along to let her know I’ve come, won’t you? My fiancée is eager to meet her.” He kept his hand extended toward Yara, and the guards’ eyes were indeed lingering on her, and not her face either. Fortunately Yara’s growl was too low for them to hear.
After another shared glance—Maldynado was beginning to think those two might share a brain as well—one of the guards said, “Go check,” and the other scampered off the dock.
Maldynado took this as an invitation to climb out of the boat. This drew a frown from the remaining guard, especially since Maldynado stood a half a foot taller than the man, but he stepped back without a word. Still trying to figure out if Maldynado deserved warrior-caste respect perhaps. Or maybe he knew that other guards stood at the base of the pier and would have plenty of time to shoot if anyone tried something. And then there were those additional men on the steamboat.
“My lady?” Maldynado offered a hand, inviting Yara to join him on the dock.
She stood, frowned at the hand, and proceeded to climb out herself. She tried to, anyway. The brass-tipped slippers Maldynado had chosen to match the dress lacked the sturdy soles of enforcer boots, and one of her feet slipped in a damp spot on the dock. Though she probably would have recovered her balance before she pitched sideways and fell into the river, Maldynado caught her about the waist and kept her upright. He needn’t have pulled her against his chest to achieve that goal, but opportunities to have a woman feel one’s pectoral muscles couldn’t be ignored.
Alas, Yara shoved him away before she had a chance to feel much of anything. “Men,” she said in a tone that made it clear it was a curse. “Not only do they buy you clothes designed for the benefit of their eyes, but they consider it a coup if those clothes also make it more likely that you’ll need their help.” She glared at the guard, as if he had colluded with Maldynado to bring about the moment.
The guard skittered back, apparently more alarmed at risking her ire than that of Maldynado, warrior caste or not. He decided it wasn’t bad walking beside a woman who could quell men with a glare. If she’d just stop sending that glare his way so often…
“It’s a nice dress, ma’am,” the guard finally managed.
“Do you like it?” Maldynado withdrew the stacks of business cards the shopkeepers had pressed onto him. “Save up and visit Madame Mimi’s Fashion Boutique. I’m sure you’ll find something nice for your lady.”
The guard gaped at the card in his hand, a perplexed wrinkle to his nose. So long as the man didn’t find them suspicious.
A soft clatter arose from the direction of the road. None of the guards reacted, and, a moment later, a bronze-and-wood sphere on a tiny cart rolled out of the darkness and onto the dock. The knee-high contraption hissed and spat smoke from a tiny vent pipe on the top. Maldynado’s hand drifted to his rapier hilt. He’d suffered enough at the hands of magical devices of late.
In the back of the boat, Akstyr’s head perked in interest for the first time. When Maldynado met his eyes, he used Basilard’s hand code to sign, Magic.
Lovely complication.
The guards didn’t blink at the sphere’s appearance. Given how scarce—and utterly forbidden—magic was in the empire, that must mean they thought it some steam-powered automata.
The closest guard bent, opened a door in the sphere, and pulled out a scroll tied with silk. Maldynado tried not to be obvious about peeking over his shoulder as the man read. Most of the writing was too small to make out, but he spotted Mari’s flowing signature.
“You can go up,” the guard said, “my lord.”
Huh.
“Naturally.” Maldynado snapped his fingers at Basilard. “Gather our bags, boy.”
Basilard’s eyes widened, and his hands moved together, as if to sign a few choice imprecations, but Sespian cleared his throat softly. After a quick glare at Maldynado, Basilard fetched a trunk. Maldynado had found it in the junkyard and done his best to refurbish it, figuring Mari and her cronies would think it odd if he arrived without any luggage, especially when he was traveling with a woman.
Basilard plopped the trunk onto the dock, nearly catching Maldynado’s toe beneath the corner. Maldynado moved his foot in time.
I thought I was going to be the bodyguard, Basilard signed.
Bodyguard, lackey, it’s all the same to someone in the warrior caste, Maldynado signed back when the guard wasn’t paying attention.
One wonders how hard bodyguards try to save their clients from harm.
“You boys, tie the boat up and mind these security fellows. We’ll be back later tonight or in the morning.” Maldynado flipped the emperor a coin, hoping Sespian wasn’t the type to order public floggings for impudence.
Sespian kept his head down, but he caught the coin with a quick snatch and pocketed it. “Yes, my lord.”
“He’s the best actor among us,” Maldynado muttered to himself, then raised his voice for the guard’s benefit. “Do we have to walk up? Or are there carriages?” He waved at the message-delive
ry sphere still hissing where it idled. “It seems there’s some technology on this remote rock.”
“Sorry, my lord,” the guard said. “No steam carriages, but there are porters available if your lady is disinclined toward walking.”
“The lady can walk just fine.” Yara strode off the dock at a brisk pace, wobbling only slightly in the slippers.
“Come, boy,” Maldynado said and hurried to catch up to her.
Had Basilard the ability to mutter under his breath, he surely would have been doing so. But, in silence, he hefted the trunk over his shoulder and followed after Maldynado and Yara.
As soon as Maldynado passed the trio of guards waiting on the road, he pretended to trip on the cobblestones.
“Blast, this is a rough road,” he said. “Poorly lit too. Torches would be brighter than these twenty-year-old gas lamps.” Two of the guards carried lanterns, and, without asking, Maldynado plucked one from the hands of a fellow who didn’t appear particularly alert. “I’ll see this is returned to you, lad.”
“What? I—”
One of his comrades elbowed him. “Yes, my lord.”
Maldynado jogged and caught up to Yara. She said nothing about his delay. The woman wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
Bumps and clanks followed them up the hill. At first, Maldynado thought it was something in the trunk, but Basilard wasn’t the one making the noise. The message-delivery device, trembling and hissing from the strain of rolling up the bumpy road, had decided to trail after them. That could prove problematic, as Maldynado had planned to create his distraction as soon as they rounded a bend and trees hid them from sight.
“You two see Akstyr’s warning?” Maldynado asked, keeping his voice low in case the device could somehow report their goings on to its master. He wagered it did more than deliver messages. When Yara gave him a blank look, Maldynado remembered she wouldn’t have understood the sign if she’d seen it. He tilted his head backward. “We seem to have picked up a spy.”