“All of our lives depend on it,” Sicarius said.
They considered the sketch again, perhaps for the first time considering why Sicarius might need such a trap.
“Today’s good,” Mederak said at the same time as Wodic said, “We can do today.”
Chapter 17
Amaranthe alternated between yawning and nibbling on her pinkie nail while Akstyr paced around the section of floor that hid the lift. She’d lost all sense of time, but they’d been locked in the control room long enough to share some of Sicarius’s travel bars. Retta had known where to find potable water, though the secret cabinets could not, alas, supply more appealing meals. Amaranthe was too anxious to digest properly anyway.
Retta, her shoulder healed, was moving from floating map to schematic to knot of runes, portions of the three-dimensional images brightening or pulsing when she touched them. Hands clasped behind his back, Books walked behind her, watching her every finger swipe. The knocks and clunks had stopped emanating from below, but every now and then Amaranthe heard a scrape or a thump; people were moving around down there, probably with their weapons drawn as they waited for the assistant to figure out a way to let them charge inside.
“How long will it take to get the Behe—the Ortarh Ortak moving?” Amaranthe asked.
“We’re getting close,” Retta said. “Perhaps an hour now.”
“An hour?” Akstyr asked. “Hasn’t it already been four or five days?”
“Not quite that long,” Amaranthe said, though she commiserated with the sentiment.
Retta had been poking images for a long time. Even a giant boiler could be heated and a steam engine brought to readiness in less time than this was taking.
“A course must be entered into the navigation system, the engines must be brought on line, the current human population density around the lake must be calculated so we can leave the area in a way that we’re least likely to be seen, and…” Retta frowned as a blue blip on the image in front of her pulsed and a couple of runes formed in the air. “The civilization that created the Ortarh Ortak would have had an entire crew of people working in this room. That we—I—have been able to get it working at all is amazing.”
“Yes, sorry, continue on, please. We’ll keep our mouths shut.” Amaranthe wasn’t going to argue about Retta’s amazingness, not at this point, though she lifted a hand to stop Books the next time he drew near. She lowered her voice to ask, “Now that you’ve been watching her, do you think you could operate the craft if something happened?” She tilted her head toward Retta.
The South Pole plan was workable, she supposed, but she’d still feel better if this thing was forever buried somewhere that people couldn’t find it, especially Forge people. With the money that organization had, arranging an expedition to the other side of the world to continue research would be entirely feasible.
“Dear ancestors, no,” Books said. “She’d have to instruct me on the language and how to operate everything. Right now, it’s a miasma of confusion. The utter alienness of it… I’m sure it’d take months, if not years. Were I to attempt to pilot it, or even open a door, I’d be like a lizard beating its tail against levers on a control panel, hoping for the best.”
Akstyr snickered, but paused mid-laugh. “Something’s happening down below. I can feel—they’re getting ready.”
At that second, a square of the floor rose.
Books and Akstyr leaped back, landing in crouches, their daggers ready. Amaranthe jumped on top of the moving square. The ceiling was so high she could barely see it up there, and she didn’t think the lift had risen that far when it delivered her team to the room.
“Retta,” Amaranthe blurted as a rifle poked through the growing opening between the top of the lift and the rest of the floor. “Door lock’s broken!”
Amaranthe dropped to her belly and snatched the barrel of the rifle. She tried to rip it from its owner’s hands, but, though obviously surprised, the man didn’t let go. She did, however, pull it far enough out to reveal the hand holding the bottom of the barrel. She swiped at it with her dagger, drawing blood. The owner cursed and let go. This time, she succeeded in pulling the rifle away, but three more took its place.
Books and Akstyr, in far more vulnerable positions, ran to the sides of the lift, trying to use them for cover. With it being open on the front and the back, that was a challenge. Gunshots rang out.
“Cursed Mia.” Retta left her work and darted for one of the image banks that displayed internal maps. The lift halted, halfway up, but it didn’t go back down.
Still on her stomach, Amaranthe risked scooting close to the edge, lining the side of her body up parallel with it. Holding the rifle in one hand, her finger curled around the trigger, she lowered the barrel and angled it to shoot inside. The long weapon was heavy and awkward to wield that way, and someone grabbed the end. She fired, and whoever had it let go. Amaranthe yanked the weapon away, rolling onto her back.
“That’s not going to work,” she muttered.
More shots were fired. Two of the men climbed out of the lift and burst into view. They knew Amaranthe was on top, and one promptly turned, a rifle raised in her direction. If she’d still been on that side of the lift, she would have been an easy target, but she’d rolled to the back edge. She lowered her head over the side and fired into the guards who remained below. Yes, gentlemen, she thought grimly. Your lift is open on two sides.
Abruptly, her perch descended. Amaranthe nearly dropped the rifle.
“Get out, get out, it’s going back down!” someone inside yelled.
Gunshots continued to fire, and more than one shout of pain arose. Amaranthe didn’t think the cries came from her men, but they were outgunned, and there was nothing to hide behind in the control room. Those translucent floating images did nothing to stop bullets.
Amaranthe moved back to the front of the lift and bashed the butt of the rifle down on a man trying to climb out. At the same time, she searched for Books and Akstyr, and the two guards who’d already leaped out. One was fighting with Books, using the rifle like a club, while Books defended with his dagger. The other had his rifle raised, pointed at Akstyr’s chest.
Amaranthe jerked her own rifle back up, trying to ready another round in time to help him, but even though the firearms held more ammunition than a regular muzzle-loaded weapon, she’d run out with the random shots she’d been firing. Fearing she’d be too late, she dropped the rifle and lifted her dagger to throw. But the guard hadn’t fired. He was standing there, aiming, and nothing more.
“Are you holding him, Akstyr?” Amaranthe asked.
He didn’t have his hand outstretched in the usual manner. The rifle twitched a few times, then was pulled out of the man’s grip. It floated over to Akstyr and he caught it with a firm nod. The guard never moved.
“I’ll take that for a yes,” Amaranthe said.
A clunk sounded, a rifle hitting the floor. Books had disarmed his opponent.
The lift disappeared back into the floor and Amaranthe jogged over to join her men. “Let’s tie these two up.” She waved toward the cabinet, figuring there had to be something useful in there. At the least, they might be able to close it and shut the guards inside.
“I’ve locked it again for now,” Retta said, returning to the image she’d been manipulating before the lift rose, “but I’m sure she’ll keep trying. There are other entrances to this room too.”
“Lovely.” Books eyed the distant walls, each of which probably held a door, though who could tell on those featureless facades? “What happens when they’re better prepared and split their forces, so they can charge us on multiple fronts?”
Indeed, Amaranthe thought. That last group hadn’t been prepared. After waiting so long, they might have been caught by surprise when the lift started rising.
“We have rifles and more bullets at least,” Akstyr said.
He had opted for tying the guards up with their own trousers, then shoving them into the ca
binet. He’d relieved them of their belts and ammo pouches. A yawn stretched his lips, and black bags nestled beneath his eyes. Sweat dampened his shirt as well, a reminder that his mental science gifts didn’t come without effort. He was more efficient at them than he had been a year ago, but they taxed him nonetheless.
“Thank you, Akstyr.” Amaranthe nodded her approval toward him, then dropped her chin in her hand, mulling.
“We should all stand around Retta,” Books said, “and if they attempt to come in, we’ll shoot from there. Protecting her is the most important thing. If we don’t…” He frowned at Amaranthe. “You look like you’re scheming.”
“Do I? How can you tell?”
“You’re wearing your harbinger-of-trouble face.”
“Hm, Sicarius calls it that too.”
Books blinked. “He says harbinger of trouble?”
“No, he shortens it to trouble.” Amaranthe smiled. “He lacks your gift for verbosity.”
She said it to tease him, but Books nodded seriously. “Yes. Regrettable.”
“What’re we going to do?” Akstyr asked.
“I was thinking that a small sortie out of the control room might be advisable,” Amaranthe said.
“A sortie?” Books asked. “There’re only three of us. Doesn’t a sortie require more people?”
“You and I will go, and Akstyr will stay here to guard Retta.”
“That’s fewer people, not more,” Books said.
“Yes, thank you for confirming the math for me.” Amaranthe hated to disturb Retta while her fingers were flying about in preparations, but risked asking, “Is there a way to see where your assistant is located?”
“She’ll be three floors up in the auxiliary control room.” Retta sidled over to the image displaying the interior map, where blue dots floated between lines. People and walls, Amaranthe realized. At the moment, the view was focused on the knot of guards in the lift, but Retta manipulated the picture, and it enlarged, showing more of the corridors around the control room along with levels above and below it. An orange dot came into view, along with two blue ones. “That’ll be her and two guards.”
“If we can kidnap her, there’d be nobody else on board who can operate the craft, right?” Amaranthe studied the map, trying to find a route to the auxiliary room that didn’t require going past the guards in the lift. “Did you say there were other exits out of here?”
“Here and here.” Retta pointed at two perforated lines. One had a cluster of blue dots in front of it, but the other door appeared unblocked.
“I think I’ve got the route memorized,” Amaranthe said after a moment, then lifted her eyebrows to ask if Books had done the same, in case they were separated.
He sighed and muttered, “Sortie,” but nodded.
“Akstyr, you’re in charge of defenses here.” Amaranthe clapped him on the back. “If you see any blue dots wandering onto this route—” she traced the path she and Books would take, “—we’d appreciate it if you tormented them a little. Trousers around the ankles would be fine.” She guessed that took less effort than some of his other tricks.
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Akstyr brushed his fingers through hair damp with sweat, pausing to frown anew at the shortness of his locks.
“With luck, nobody will cross paths with us,” Amaranthe said. “If you get bored, you could also keep those people in the lift uncomfortable, so they’re less prepared to attack if a door opens. I imagine they’re wearing a wide variety of undergarments that they’d like to model for each other.”
“I can’t believe you’re encouraging that behavior,” Books murmured as they checked their rifles, stuffed cartridges into their pockets, and headed for the secret door the map had indicated.
“You don’t approve?” Amaranthe asked. “It’s better than killing, isn’t it?”
“You won’t be laughing if he decides to try the gag on you someday.”
“Those are the risks you must accept when you step into the role of leadership.”
• • •
By the time noon approached, the pieces of Sicarius’s trap were laid out on the flat bank above the dock. If not for a clock inside the shop, it would have been difficult to guess the hour. Snow was falling again, more inches accumulating on the fields beyond the camp, and the sun had not been seen all day. The temperature had dropped as well, and the ice edging the lake seemed to expand outward with every hour. Sicarius was watching it, knowing his plan hinged on immersing the trap in the water, not under a frozen sheet.
Steam hissed as the arm of a crane lifted and moved one of the heavy walls of the incipient box. The other two machinists operated welding tools powered by the engine of a second vehicle. Sicarius had been directing the placement of the beams and sheets, but he paused to gaze out at the field. It was one of many scans he’d been making of the area. He hadn’t sensed anything otherworldly, such as he might feel if the soul construct approached, but something kept plucking at his senses, a discordant twang on a harp.
The camp was being watched. He was certain of it.
The area had long ago been logged, so the white fields should have left few hiding places, but there were always dips and rises in seemingly flat land, and the falling snow limited visibility to a quarter mile or so. Further, someone might approach along the waterline, using the clumps of brown vegetation thrusting out of the drifts for camouflage.
“I think we’ll make it by dusk, Mr. Sicarius,” Wodic said, his voice muffled by the welding helmet he wore. The glass faceplate didn’t hide his eyes—and the concern in them as he glanced up from his work. “What is it you think’ll come?”
Though Sicarius knew his own face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, the men must have noticed his frequent surveys of the surrounding land. Normally, he wouldn’t have shared anything with the workers—he required them to complete this task, nothing more—but because they had a loose relationship with Amaranthe, he felt more disposed toward them than he would in other circumstances.
“General Flintcrest has brought a Nurian wizard with him to support his bid for the throne,” Sicarius said.
“That ore-stealing traitor,” Wodic growled. “That’s his camp out there, isn’t it? We’ve known about it, but the soldiers haven’t bothered us yet, so we’ve been staying out of their way. Mederak went to town yesterday, though, and he said Fort Urgot is surrounded. Is that Flintcrest?”
“Heroncrest.” Sicarius directed the crane operator to pick up another beam to reinforce the tee weld Wodic was finishing.
“Them officers are all over the place with their troops,” Wodic grumbled. “Can’t even go into town for a swig of applejack without them stopping to question you, like you’re some foreign mongrel, not a loyal imperial subject who’s lived here his whole life.”
“Continue welding,” Sicarius said. “We must finish this as quickly as possible. The wizard has summoned a creature that is hunting the nights.” He thought about mentioning Sespian, but did not know if these men cared one way or another who was on the throne. “It is hunting loyal imperial subjects.” They ought to be concerned about their own lives if nothing else.
Sicarius thought the workers might be skeptical about wizards and magical creatures, but Wodic must have seen enough to believe in such things, for he only said, “We’ve heard it out hunting the last few nights. We stayed locked up tight in the cabin with the thickest walls. I don’t care how much I had to water the bushes, I wasn’t going outside before morning.”
A flash of movement drew Sicarius’s eye, and he spun toward the source, his black dagger finding its way into his hand. He didn’t see anything except snow falling about one of the cabins on the edge of the camp. A clump of powder dropped from the roof, plopping into a drift below. In other places as well, clumps fell from the roofs as more snow accumulated above the eaves. It might have been what had drawn his attention. Sicarius didn’t sheathe the dagger.
“What is it?” Wodic lifted the faceplate of
his helmet.
“Continue working,” Sicarius said, then jogged toward the cabin.
He veered around it, approaching the corner where he’d seen that movement from the opposite side. He slowed his steps, compressing the snow underfoot as softly as possible, making no sound as he drew near. Before he poked his head around the corner, he stopped to listen and sniff the breeze. He also touched his fingers to the chinked log wall, trusting he’d feel it if someone bumped against the cabin on the other side. The smoke from the steam crane tainted the air, making it difficult to pick up lesser scents, and its clanking and hissing also may have smothered lesser sounds, but Sicarius felt something. A faint scrape that traveled through the logs.
Without sheathing the dagger, he pulled out a throwing knife from the trio sheathed on his right forearm. He could throw with equal accuracy with both hands, and he was prepared to loose the blade with his left as he peeked around the corner. Nobody was there.
Sicarius immediately looked up—roofs were a viable place from which to launch an attack. There wasn’t anybody up there either, but a few trickles of powder whispered down from the edge. Using the eaves for cover in case an attack came from above, he eased toward the other corner, eyeing the ground as he approached. Footprints marked the snow, two sets of footprints. Their owners had come from the direction of the southern shoreline. The prints indicated soft shoes with soles that curved up at the edges, hand-made moccasins rather than the more common boots of the Turgonian people. Kendorians or Nurians had such footwear, and the latter was more likely given the situation.
The footprints showed that the people—men he guessed from the depth of the marks, each around his weight—had stopped at the wall, then jumped up. His first guess had been correct.
Something plucked at his senses again. This time, it did have an otherworldly taint to it. The wizard? The signature was faint. People using Made tools, perhaps. He thought of the man with the scimitar who’d been speaking to the practitioner.
Sicarius sheathed the black dagger and, keeping the throwing knife in hand, jumped and caught the gutter. Snow pattered against his face, but he ignored it, pulling his eyes over the edge. He was prepared to release the grip and drop down in an instant, but the roof was empty of everything except snow. And footprints.