Basilard signed, Same plan?
“What plan is that?” Akstyr asked. “The one where you two pummel them while they’re looking at your underwear?”
“That’s the one.” Maldynado scooted into the shadows. “Though it’s too bad Amaranthe’s pack isn’t here. Her underwear would be a lot more likely to distract hardworking rural men who probably haven’t seen too many ladies in a while.”
Basilard and Akstyr eased away from the trapdoor to hug the shadows as well. They did not have long to wait before the two men returned, and the fellows did indeed stop to investigate the open door. Subduing them was painless, and Maldynado and Basilard were soon atop the rail car, dusting their hands off and sharing congratulatory pats for work well done.
Akstyr rolled his eyes as he climbed outside with them. After the months of training they had spent under Sicarius’s elite tutelage, subduing two common laborers and dumping them off a train wasn’t a meaningful victory. At least he’d gotten to practice a little more of his art.
Basilard signed, What now? Wait to do it again?
“Did anyone see how many men stayed on the train with the weapons?” Maldynado asked.
Basilard shook his head.
“I can figure it out,” Akstyr said.
With the freight car trembling beneath him and wind tearing through his hair, he wasn’t sure how well he could concentrate, but he liked it when he got a chance to show off how useful his skills could be. He sat cross-legged on the roof and closed his eyes.
The first Science book he had found, the one from Larocka Myll’s mansion, had been on Thermodynamics. It was a beastly hard text to understand, and it didn’t help that Akstyr had to have Books translate the language for him, but Akstyr had figured a couple of things out from it. For one, he had learned how to sense heat. At first, that hadn’t seemed very useful, until he’d realized that living things had body heat, and he could detect it at a distance. Not a great distance, but he was improving all the time, and he thought he could sense people a few cars away.
It seemed strange that he could get tired from using his brain in a big way, but Akstyr always did when he was exercising the mental sciences, and he had to wipe sweat off his forehead when he finished. That didn’t keep him from giving a triumphant smirk and saying, “Four.”
Basilard and Maldynado had flopped down on their bellies and were pointing at something in the countryside and arguing. Akstyr always lost track of time when he was practicing. Since neither man seemed to hear him, he thumped Maldynado on the boot to get his attention, then repeated himself.
“Oh, good,” Maldynado said. “As long as that was taking, I thought we might have to wait and count people as they came out for their morning bush watering.”
Akstyr scowled. Maldynado had no idea how much work went into the mental sciences. He—
Basilard patted Akstyr on the shoulder and signed, Good job.
Akstyr’s disgruntlement faded slightly. He appreciated the words—at least somebody noticed that he was useful in the group—but he shrugged and said, “Whatever.” It was important not to let people know that what they thought mattered. That gave them too much power.
“Let’s pay them a visit, shall we?” Maldynado asked.
Basilard signed, What happens when the train stops to make its delivery and nobody’s there to help unload the goods? The recipients might be suspicious.
“They’d be more suspicious if the people who did arrive said half of their team had gone missing on the ride over,” Maldynado said. “This way, they’ll think there was a mix-up in the communications phase of their plan.”
“That’s actually a good point,” Akstyr said.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Maldynado nodded toward the weapons car. “Let’s be quieter about our approach than those lard-brains were. Maybe we can take out these four before they wake up.”
Akstyr appreciated that Maldynado wasn’t so strictly warrior-caste that he insisted on challenging the enemy to a duel or fair fight or some heroic storybook thing like that. Sometimes aristocrats didn’t have a clue about the real world.
Maldynado led the way across the rail cars, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, until they reached the one just before their destination. They paused to kneel on the edge before crossing over to it.
“Anyone have a plan?” Maldynado asked.
“That doesn’t involve underwear?” Akstyr asked.
“Preferably. We didn’t bring any along.”
Basilard signed, Akstyr, do you know where in the car the four people are located?
“Two were sitting across from the door, smoking.” Akstyr had sensed the bright points of heat and been tickled when he realized he’d identified cigars. “One was on the floor, so maybe sleeping. Another was by himself in the back.” He waved to indicate the end of the car farthest from them.
“Sleeping?” Maldynado asked.
“I don’t think so. He was sitting or maybe crouching. Reminded me of Sicarius off by himself cleaning his weapons.”
Maldynado grimaced. “I hope we don’t run into any Sicarius types with this crew, or we’re in trouble. Basilard, do you want to charge that fellow? He’ll have the most time to bring a gun to bear, but you’re deadly and scary, so maybe he’ll get worried when he sees your scars.”
If Maldynado had told Akstyr to charge some idiot that probably had a gun, Akstyr would have told him to stuff his fist in his mouth and gag on it. But Basilard nodded. He probably figured he was the best fighter and the logical choice. Akstyr was happy to be a mediocre fighter if it meant not being assigned deranged tasks like that.
“I’ll take the smoking men,” Maldynado said. “Akstyr, you get that fourth bloke and be ready to clean up the mess.”
Akstyr wondered if cleaning up the mess would involve healing Basilard when he got shot.
Maldynado shimmied across the coupling, then reached around and grabbed the ladder. He climbed a few rungs, careful not to clomp loudly at any point, and waved for Basilard to come next. Basilard skimmed down and over, almost as deft as Sicarius. Instead of staying on the ladder, he slid across the door, having no trouble navigating the inch-wide threshold, and perched on the other side. Akstyr couldn’t guess what tiny nubs Basilard was using for hand and footholds. With the train speeding across the flatlands and harsh winds whistling down the tracks, it seemed a tenuous position.
Akstyr clambered down and settled beneath Maldynado on the ladder. He withdrew his sword, a sturdy cutlass good for close-quarters skirmishes, and nodded that he was ready. Basilard grabbed the latch and pulled the door open with one swift motion. He and Maldynado leaped into the car as if they practiced the move all the time. They landed side-by-side and charged into the interior.
Akstyr gave them a second to get out of the way—and to make sure no bullets were flying—before jumping in after them. He landed with his sword in hand, his feet pointed in the direction he was supposed to run.
Before Akstyr had taken more than a step toward the man on the floor, an invisible force slammed into him. It knocked him backward, then smashed him to the floor. He tried to push himself up, but a weight kept him pressed flat. The memory of a similar situation, at the hands of the wizard Arbitan Losk, flashed through his mind. Against all likelihood, these thugs had a practitioner with them.
“I can’t hold them for long,” a strained voice said from the rear of the cab. “Hurry up and kill them.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Akstyr could see Maldynado and Basilard flattened to the floor as well. Two of their enemies were already down in unmoving heaps, but one remained standing. He nodded firmly at the order and yanked out a dagger.
Akstyr focused on the practitioner. Already, sweat beaded on the man’s forehead and dribbled down his cheeks to drip off his stubbled jaw. This wasn’t someone of Losk’s caliber, and Akstyr himself had grown a lot since the previous winter. Having his physical body restrained did not mean he couldn’t use his own mental powers.
He pursued the first tactic that came to mind. Using telekinetics, he unbuckled the man’s belt. The practitioner’s eyes widened, and his hand dropped in a startled jerk for his trousers.
The pressure weighing down Akstyr vanished. He lunged to one knee and hurled his cutlass. He ran in after it, not expecting the blade to do more than surprise the practitioner and keep him from reapplying his spell, but the sharp sword cut into the man’s neck. He dropped, clutching at his throat as blood gushed out between his fingers.
Akstyr grabbed his fallen cutlass and finished the man off. One couldn’t be too careful when practitioners were involved, though this fellow didn’t look much older than Akstyr himself, and he’d sounded like a Turgonian. An unfamiliar sense of remorse touched Akstyr as he watched the man’s life fade away. What if this had been someone like him? A Turgonian trying to teach himself the best he could?
“Nice work,” Maldynado said.
The praise surprised Akstyr out of his musings. Maldynado never praised him.
Yes, Basilard signed. Good work.
“Uh, thanks,” Akstyr said.
“That move with the cutlass was smooth,” Maldynado said. “You were like a little Sicarius.”
Akstyr snorted. “Whatever.” Despite the snort, he had to wrestle with his lips to keep them from a grin. Sure, he wanted to be a practitioner, not a warrior, but being compared to an assassin was nice.
Basilard gestured to the fallen men—he and Maldynado had finished off their three—and signed, Now what do we do?
Unsecured crates of ammunition and bundles of firearms bounced with the train’s vibrations. Akstyr was lucky he hadn’t tripped over something on his way to the back. Behind the dead practitioner, the bigger artillery weapons were strapped to the wall.
“The original plan was to see where these weapons were being delivered,” Maldynado said, “and I imagine we can still do that. I’m curious myself, now that we’ve seen these people weren’t above employing magic to help things along. That’s not exactly standard imperial operating procedure.”
“I think he was a local boy keeping his skills a secret, to most of his comrades anyway.” Akstyr thought of the way the first two men they’d subdued had seemed terrified by the idea of magic, not like people who’d been exposed to it often.
Someone must have known about his skills and hired him, Basilard signed.
“If we want to find out who,” Maldynado said, “we better remove the bodies and clean up the mess. If the people receiving the delivery think someone forgot to send the help, they won’t suspect we’re around.”
“It’ll take a lot of cleaning to make it look like people didn’t die in here.” Akstyr eyed blood puddles on the floor and spatters on the crates. “Too bad Am’ranthe isn’t here. She likes cleaning.”
I doubt she’d enjoy mopping up blood, Basilard signed. That’s an unpleasant task for anyone.
“I don’t know,” Akstyr said, “she likes spending time with Sicarius, and that’s about the most unpleasant thing I can imagine.”
Chapter 4
Twilight descended upon the farm, and someone lit lanterns in the house. Amaranthe watched from behind trees lining the stream a few hundred meters away. After her failure to win a meeting with “Ma,” she and Books had retreated to the area to wait for Sicarius. Fallen leaves carpeted the banks, and old gnarled roots that had survived more than a few floods rose hip-high in places, offering cover from farmer eyes.
Under the dying light, Books sat on a fat root, squinting and scribbling notes in a journal he had been carrying everywhere for the last couple of months. It contained the information he’d been compiling on Forge and its members.
Amaranthe nodded toward his work. “Any new thoughts?”
“I think,” Books said, “that it’s wretched that one can’t acquire a fresh newspaper anywhere out here. Don’t these rural bumpkins care about what’s going on in the world?”
“We won’t stay much longer.”
“I can’t be expected to further my research under these conditions.” Books gave her a pointed look. When Amaranthe had first announced the multi-day training exercise by rail, Books had argued that his time would be better spent in the city, continuing his fact-finding mission. She’d almost relented, but she would need everyone to infiltrate the emperor’s train, and Books would more likely be a hindrance than a help if he hadn’t practiced with the team. “But,” he said, “I have been mulling over the names I’ve recorded thus far, trying to decide who might be behind the building of these weapons.”
“It’s possible this isn’t a Forge plot. If the weapons are meant to disrupt the city, it could be a scheme concocted by foreigners, especially if it was timed to coincide with the emperor’s travels.” Amaranthe tapped her finger on one of the roots. “Though, you’d think they would have chosen to move earlier, when he was out on the West Coast, if they wanted to take advantage of his absence. He’s almost home now. Maybe they meant to act sooner, but manufacturing was delayed.”
“I believe it’s too early to speculate on motivations—we don’t yet know what the weapons will be used for. I imagine, though, that setting up this enterprise required a great deal of funds, both for construction of the manufacturing facility and for crafting the weapons themselves. And let’s not forget about the preliminary research and development that would have been done. Someone well-financed must be behind this.” Books lifted his journal. “I have seventeen confirmed Forge names in here and more than thirty other suspected ones. One controls a metallurgy factory and another mills timber, so they could easily provide the raw materials. Also, a surprising number of people on my list are bankers or own shares in banking interests.”
“Fifty people,” Amaranthe said.
“That we know of. I’m certain there are more.”
“So many. Is it possible...” She nibbled on her lip and gazed at the water wending its way around rocks and roots stretching into the stream.
“What?” Books asked.
“I certainly don’t approve of their methods, but if there are so many business leaders in the city vying for a change in the government... Are we sure we’re right, Books? I don’t believe it’s wrong to protect Sespian, not for a moment, but are we—is the throne—standing in the way of progress?”
“The fact that a lot of people believe in something doesn’t make it right. If they wanted to effect change, there are legal routes they could have pursued.”
“Really? This isn’t the Kyatt Islands. You can’t hold demonstrations or print whatever you want in periodicals. Those with dissenting opinions have to go underground.”
“It’s true that the empire could stand to adopt more flexibility and offer more freedoms to its citizens,” Books said, “but murdering people and loosing monsters on the city isn’t an acceptable method of protest.”
Amaranthe didn’t answer him. She was thinking of all the destruction her team had wrought, however inadvertently, in her pursuit to protect the emperor and thwart Forge. She wished she might have a chance to walk into Forge’s secret meeting room, wherever that might be, and to talk to the leaders, to see exactly how much they wanted, and to find out if there was some compromise that might suit both sides. Wouldn’t that be a better solution than ongoing plots and schemes that put the city at risk? Or was it too late for negotiations? Maybe she was crazy for thinking of dealing with such people.
“Do you have addresses for any of the members?” Amaranthe asked.
“Some, yes. Business addresses if not residential ones.”
“Keep up the research. After we’ve helped the emperor, maybe—”
A shadow appeared behind Books, and Amaranthe twitched in surprise.
“You did not get into trouble,” Sicarius said.
Books fell off the root he was sitting on and his journal tipped into the mud.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Amaranthe told Sicarius while giving Books a hand up, “but the best I could manage was to have a cranky
woman threaten to sic her dog after us.”
Books picked up his journal and brushed off the mud-spattered pages, pointedly not looking at Sicarius.
Sicarius noticed the open pages, or perhaps the list they contained. “What is that?”
“This?” Books held up the journal. “Though your training regimen leaves me little time for academic pursuits, Amaranthe has further burdened me with the task of—”
“You like the research,” Amaranthe said.
Books smiled. “Perhaps. Amaranthe has had me researching Forge as relentlessly as possible the last couple of months, and I’ve put together an extensive list of key members and sympathizers.”
“I talked to Deret Mancrest a while back,” Amaranthe said, “and he said, should the situation become desperate, he’d be willing to risk himself to print everything we have on the organization. Names, businesses, and the fact that they were behind the poisoning of the water last spring. If we can get proof of other misdeeds, he’ll include those too.” Amaranthe had actually asked Deret to print up the information if she and her team were killed, but she decided mentioning that might not be good for morale. It bolstered her though. If she left no other legacy, she could leave that, a warning to the public and information for anyone who might care enough to use it.
“I see.” As was so often the case, Sicarius’s tone was difficult to read. He tended to grow extra flinty when Amaranthe mentioned the journalist’s name. “Come,” he said, “I’ve located the secret entrance. The workers have gone to the bunkhouse for the night.”
“Any guards to worry about?” Amaranthe brushed dirt off Books’s jacket and trousers.
Sicarius hesitated—or perhaps he was simply watching her fastidious streak in action—before saying, “No.”
“Anything else to worry about?”
“Likely.”
Sicarius headed into the gloom without bothering to share details.
“I believe we’ll have some trouble yet.” Books straightened his jacket. “Thank you for the help. I think I’m clean enough until we return to the city.”