“So, that’s why you follow her?” Yara asked.
“Huh?” It took Maldynado a moment to remember that he’d spoken Amaranthe’s name aloud. “Oh. Maybe.”
“Because in helping her, maybe even protecting her, you’re making up for the failure with your sister?”
“I guess. Except I’ve failed Amaranthe now too. She’s probably being tortured in that big black monstrosity. If she’s still alive at all.”
“What happened with your sister was tragic, and I’m not sure there’s anything I, or anyone else, could say that would make you stop blaming yourself for that, but Amaranthe isn’t a child. From what I’ve seen, she’s the one who gets herself into these situations. Didn’t Books say she was using a homemade slingshot to hurl blasting sticks at the other craft when she was thrown from the dirigible? There’s not much you can do to protect someone who takes risks like that.”
“I suppose not,” Maldynado said, surprised Yara was trying to make him feel better. None of her usual brusque gruffness colored her tone. “But I’m worried about her, and I can’t help but wish I’d figured out how to fly the dirigible better. Giant balloons aren’t as maneuverable as you’d hope.”
A few moments passed without comment, until Yara said, “That explains one thing anyway.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“You see Amaranthe as a little sister. I was wondering why you didn’t leer lecherously at her like you do at every other woman.”
“My leers are not lecherous,” Maldynado said, relieved to have a lighter topic, one where he could shield himself with his usual flippancy. “I’m far too handsome and charming for anyone to consider my leers offensive or unwanted.”
“Please.”
“And I don’t leer at every woman.”
“Please,” Yara said with even more disbelief. “You leer at me. And I’m… not someone people leer at.”
Something in her voice made Maldynado consider his answer before responding. “Because… you’re tall, fierce, and intimidating, so you figure that deters lecherous leerers? Or because you don’t believe you’re attractive enough to draw leers?”
“Leerer isn’t a word, you twit,” Yara snapped.
Maldynado kept himself from asking if Books had recruited her to be a fellow dictionary-enforcer. He recognized that defensive snapping as a way to avoid answering his question.
“If it’s the fierce, intimidating thing, that’s your own choice, you know,” Maldynado said. “You could be a respected enforcer even if you smiled once in a while. If it’s the other thing, well, I wasn’t positive until I saw you in the dress, but… ” He tried to find an innuendo that wouldn’t be offensive and yet wouldn’t leave room for misinterpretation either. “Any man would be happy to go spelunking in your cave.”
Yara made a choking sound. “Dear ancestors, what sort of brain could consider that a flattering comment?”
Drat, misfire. Maldynado shrugged it off. “A male brain, naturally.”
Clomps came from a stairwell outside—a lot of clomps.
“About time,” Yara whispered.
Though the top of the boiler loomed eight feet above the deck, Maldynado scooted back so his shadow wouldn’t be visible if someone coming through the door thought to look up. He missed the comfortable feel of his rapier on his waist, but the emperor had instructed them not to kill anyone anyway. They were to knock everyone out and send them to visit the reeds along the shore. Fists would do for that job. Maldynado flexed his fingers and adjusted his crouch, ready to spring.
Lights appeared through the door window—lanterns dangling from men’s arms. Maldynado counted five or six burly guards queued up and ready to enter, more than one face familiar. Yes, these were the men from the Relaxation Grotto. As before, they all carried pistols and short swords or cutlasses. Maldynado craned his neck but didn’t see Brynia. She wouldn’t have given her important tracking artifact to the security grunts, would she have? Maybe she could tell from her suite where Sicarius’s knife was located.
The exterior door opened. A gust of cold air stirred the heat inside. The first two men jumped into the boiler room, pointing their pistols, one toward the engine room and one toward the furnace area. From their position, Akstyr wouldn’t be in view yet, but if men charged down that way instead of going straight toward the knife, Maldynado and Yara would have to jump down early. Or, if anyone looked up with eyes good enough to see through the shadows…
The first two men made all-clear signs and crept inside, one heading toward the engine room and the other toward the furnace. Four more guards filed inside. Most of the group eased toward the engine room, as the team had hoped. One more headed down the aisle toward Akstyr.
Maldynado touched Yara’s arm and pointed across her, hoping she understood that he wanted her to help Akstyr. He meant to go with the original plan, assisting the others with the men in the engine room, but, before he jumped down, Mari’s buckskin-wearing shaman stepped into view outside the door. He stood, hands spread at his sides, eyes half-lidded.
Before Maldynado had decided what to do, those eyes flew open. The shaman opened his mouth, about to yell some warning.
Maldynado jumped from his perch, landed on the exterior door’s threshold, and leaped through it. The first syllable of a yell escaped the shaman’s lips, but Maldynado silenced him, catching him about the mid-section and bowling him to the ground.
They rolled across the deck, limbs entangled, their momentum slamming them into the railing. The dark water of the river rushed past a few feet below.
Remembering that practitioners had a hard time hurling magic about when they were distracted, Maldynado reared onto his knees, grabbed the man by his buckskin shirt, and punched him in the belly. His knuckles should have sunk into pliable flesh, but they smacked against something as hard as brick instead. His joints cracked, and pain sprang up his arm.
“What the—”
An invisible force rammed into Maldynado’s chest with the force of a sledgehammer wielded by a deflowered woman’s father. If his fingers hadn’t been wrapped in the shaman’s shirt, he might have flown all the way back into the boiler room. As it was, his body took to the air, dragging the shaman with him. Maldynado landed on his back, with his opponent on top of him. Bulging gray eyes stared into his; apparently, the shaman hadn’t been expecting a ride.
Taking advantage of the man’s surprise, Maldynado gripped his foe’s arms and whipped him to the side. Lacking the brawn of a fighter, the shaman flew through the air with satisfying ease, and his head clunked against the deck. Before he could recover, Maldynado hauled him to his feet and lunged for the railing. He heaved the shaman overboard.
“See how your magic-flinging butt likes that,” Maldynado growled and shook his hands. His knuckles smarted from whatever chest armor he’d struck. “I hate dealing with—”
Something gripped Maldynado’s head on either side, applying crushing force to his temples. He swatted at the air, searching for his attacker, but nobody stood near him. The force intensified, as if someone had clamped a giant vise around his head and was tightening the screws. Maldynado sucked in short, pained breaths and tried to think of a way to free himself, to fight back, but how could he attack a man he’d thrown overboard? His knees buckled, and he dropped to the deck, curling onto his side. He imagined the shaman, floating on his back, laughing as he assaulted Maldynado from a distance.
Akstyr. He had to get Akstyr. Surely he could do something.
Not caring that he was gasping and whimpering, Maldynado crawled toward the doorway to the boiler room. He couldn’t hear the scuffles or smacks of a fight. He hoped that meant his comrades had already finished off the guards. Not the other way around.
Something touched Maldynado’s head, and it was all he could do not to scream. He did gasp and pull away.
“Don’t move, Mal,” came Akstyr’s voice. “I’m trying to break the… ”
Blackness descended upon Maldynado’s vision. He exp
ected to pass out, but the light returned in a flash. The pain disappeared so quickly that the cessation made him swoon. He almost threw up.
A pair of shoes came into focus inches away from his nose. Maldynado was looking at the deck, and he sure hoped that was Akstyr standing in front of him and not some guard. He rolled onto his back for a better look. Yes, Akstyr, Basilard, and Books surrounded him, all frowning down at him. Sespian stood in the doorway behind Books, eyeing something farther down the deck.
Yara was kneeling beside Maldynado, a hand on his chest. He thought she might be about to express sympathy, but she stuck to business. “Did you search the shaman for that tracking device before throwing him overboard?”
“Uhm. Oops.” Fearing a rebuke, Maldynado rushed to change the subject. “Thanks for helping me with him, Akstyr.”
Hands stuffed into his pockets, Akstyr merely shrugged. “I didn’t do much, just planted the idea in the shaman’s mind that some of those moat alligators might wander out to the river now and then.”
“You’re developing a subtle streak,” Books told Akstyr. “That’s good.”
Books complimenting Akstyr? That was new. Akstyr only shrugged again, though that might have been a smile tugging at his lips.
“We have a problem.” Sespian pointed at something up the deck. “Your cries of pain seem to have drawn attention.”
Maldynado rolled to his knees. Two young boys crouched on the stairs leading to the middle deck, their heads tilted toward each other as they shared whispers and pointed. When they noticed the group of adults staring at them, they scampered back up the stairs.
“I hope you’re not going to command me to run after those kids and pummel them into silence,” Maldynado said as he climbed to his feet, accepting Basilard’s hand for support. “The way I feel right now, I don’t think I could manage more than a fast hobble.”
“I wasn’t planning to pummel children,” Sespian said, his tone cool.
Before Maldynado could say that he’d been joking—why didn’t anyone understand his sense of humor lately?—Sespian spoke again.
“I was merely pointing out that we’ll be unable to remain hidden here. Between them and the now-missing engineer, not to mention all of your sister-in-law’s minions… ” Sespian waved toward the engine room. A man’s legs were sticking through the door. “Our presence here can’t go unnoticed past morning.”
“Or past midnight, I should think,” Books rubbed his head as if he’d been struck.
“So, what’re we going to do?” Maldynado asked.
“What else can we do?” Sespian was holding Sicarius’s knife again, and he gave it a stern frown. “Take over the ship.”
“Our small team against the crew of the entire steamboat?” Books asked.
“I thought I’d just tell the captain we’re commandeering the steamboat and that he’s bound by imperial law to obey me,” Sespian said.
Akstyr’s nose crinkled. “Does that work?”
“If the captain isn’t loyal to Forge and Ravido, it might,” Books said.
“I don’t know,” Maldynado said. “Nothing’s ever that easy for us.”
We’ve never had an emperor along before, Basilard pointed out.
The small shrug Sespian made implied he wasn’t certain it would be “that easy” either. Not exactly confidence inspiring.
A groan came from the engine room.
Akstyr jerked a thumb toward the door. “Are we going to tie those uglies up? Or throw them overboard like the others?”
“The captain may be more willing to consider my requests—my orders—if we haven’t decimated his crew. On the other hand, Books is correct. It’s possible the officers are on Forge’s payroll, and that’s why Mari chose the Glacial Empress, in which case, it may behoove us to remove some of his support staff before approaching him.” Sespian considered the shoreline where the scattered lights of farmhouses dotted the night. “We haven’t moved into the wilderness yet, so they’ll be able to swim to shore and find a way back to town.”
“That was a yes, chuck those uglies overboard?” Akstyr asked.
“Sire,” Books whispered.
Akstyr rolled his eyes. “Sire, uglies overboard?”
“Yes,” Sespian said.
He, Akstyr, Basilard, and Yara went inside to tend to the task. Maldynado touched his back, probing the beginnings of another bruise, and decided he better go in to help, too, lest Yara accuse him of loafing.
Books was standing outside the door, eyeing him.
“What?” Maldynado asked.
“Spelunking in her cave?” Books asked. “And you accuse me of saying stupid things to women?”
Maldynado winced. How much of his soul-baring conversation with Yara had Books overheard? Hadn’t the others had their heads stuffed behind those pistons? So much for his private conversation. He sighed. This week wasn’t going well, not well at all.
Chapter 11
When the pins retracted, leaving Amaranthe’s arms and legs free, she melted in relief. Many minutes had passed since Retta left, and Amaranthe had begun to fear that, in addition to failing to keep Sicarius’s secret, she would remain at Pike’s mercy. She wanted to spring away from the table and sprint for the door, but coercing her body into movement took a lot of effort. The holes left by the pins oozed blood. She scraped some of the salve away from less damaged areas of her body and smeared it into the wounds. Touching them sent a wave of blackness over her, and she groaned, gripping the edge of the table.
“No, we are not going to be given freedom, only to pass out on the table,” she whispered.
Her first thought as a free woman was that she should find a way to destroy the Behemoth on her way out. Her second thought, which came as she was attempting to slide off the table, was that she’d be lucky if she could even stand up. As much as her mind wanted to rebel, to deal Forge a huge destructive blow in exchange for the pain and indignity she’d suffered, her body lacked the strength. Even if she could hobble around and avoid recapture long enough to locate an engine room, or the vessel’s equivalent, she’d have no idea how to make trouble. Somehow she doubted this ancient craft used something as understandable as steam for power.
When her bare feet hit the floor, Amaranthe flinched. Pike had flayed the skin off the bottoms once. Maybe twice. The hours of torture had blended and grown fuzzy. Unfortunately not in a way that suggested she’d ever forget the experience. Thanks to the healing effects of the salve, she could walk, but each step hurt, like traveling barefoot through a gravel quarry full of particularly prickly pebbles.
“Two days to the nearest town?” she murmured. Against her wishes, her mind tried to calculate how many steps that might be. “It’ll hurt less after your muscles warm up,” she told herself.
Amaranthe peered about for something she could use as a cane, but the table and her crate—oh, how she’d like to give that thing a vigorous kick—were the only pieces of furniture in the room. After a short eternity, she reached the exit. The tall, narrow door loomed higher than two people and lacked a handle or hinges. Before she could debate overmuch on how to open it, it slid into the wall. Retta must have arranged for locks to be released.
A brighter light illuminated the corridor outside. Amaranthe paused in the doorway to let her eyes adjust and to listen. She didn’t hear anything, not even the hum of machinery or reverberations of a distant engine. But then she’d never noticed anything like that, even when the Behemoth had been in flight.
Picturing Retta’s map in her head, Amaranthe took a right into the corridor. She used the wall for support. Her steps were so slow that she was certain she’d never make it to the next turn, much less get off the ship, before someone came to check on her. Gritting her teeth, she willed her legs to move faster. Fortunately, as she turned right, then left, then, at a five-way intersection, chose the middle route, the corridors remained empty. There didn’t seem to be anyone around to hear her stumbles and grunts of pain. Because Retta had arranged to
have the way cleared?
“Don’t question luck,” Amaranthe muttered. “It might get offended by your lack of appreciation and leave you behind.”
After turning left and right at least ten more times, not to mention swirling down a ramp she vaguely remembered from the way in, she reached what might have been a cargo bay. The ceiling disappeared into darkness far overhead, and she marveled again at the size of the ship. A pair of crimson lights glowed on the far wall. Retta’s map had marked the exit with a couple of red dots. Maybe this was the spot.
Amaranthe left the support of the wall to cross the bay. If the creases or hinges of a door existed in the solid black wall, they were too well camouflaged to detect. She slid her fingers along the wall beside the thumb-sized lights, but didn’t find anything like a switch or latch.
Fearing she had the wrong spot, Amaranthe stepped back. “All right, Retta. If this is the door, how do I open it?”
A few seconds passed, and Amaranthe started to move on to check other spots, but a tall, broad rectangle in the wall grew opaque and, a blink later, transparent. Amazed by the technology, she stumbled backward a few steps before pausing, then finding the courage to approach again.
A swamp full of frond-filled trees and lush foliage spread out beneath the feeble light of dawn, or perhaps twilight. A dense green canopy blotted out the sun and the sky. Amaranthe couldn’t smell the foliage, feel a breeze, or hear any insects; it was as if she were looking at a painting, an impossibly lifelike painting. A vibrantly colored bird with a six-foot wingspan flapped past.
“Not a painting after all,” Amaranthe whispered, alarmed at how different the climate was from that of her home. Her hope that Sicarius might be out there, waiting to help her, dwindled even further.
She edged closer to the… doorway? Window? Scene of the outside? She didn’t know what it was, but she stuck a finger out to test it.
The hard, smooth material that comprised the wall had changed into something with give. It was like touching gelatin. Amaranthe pressed harder and her finger broke through. She jumped back, yanking the digit with her. She performed a quick examination of her finger. It appeared normal, though damp on the tip. Upon closer inspection, she noticed plops of water striking the swamp outside. Rain.