“Dear ancestors,” Books said, “what a mess.”
“Me?” Amaranthe croaked.
“I believe he’s referring to the crash you instigated,” Maldynado said.
He had not set her down yet. Amaranthe, butt in the air, torso dangling down his back, twisted her head to the side to view the tangled metal carnage in the middle of the street.
“Take a good look,” Maldynado said. “I want you to remember this the next time you bother me about running over a street lamp.”
“Are you planning on destroying more street lamps?” Books asked.
“Oh, I think that’s a given as long as we work for the boss here.”
Amaranthe opened her mouth to tell him to set her down, but motion up the hill stopped her. A vehicle had turned onto the street and was rolling toward the crash. Night made it impossible to make out details, but she could guess at the occupants. “Enforcers coming. Time to go.”
“Right.” Maldynado jogged toward an alley.
Amaranthe bumped and bounced on his shoulder like a crate on a bicycle navigating cobblestones. “I can run on my own,” she said, voice vibrating with Maldynado’s every step.
“Promise you won’t sprint back inside and try to drag that body out?” Maldynado asked.
“Yes.” Unfortunately.
Maldynado lowered her gently. She scraped damp hair out of her eyes, wincing when she brushed against a knot the size of a chicken egg on the side of her head. She was surprised to find she still clutched the jacket she had pulled out of the carriage. Not exactly the chance for illumination the body would have provided, but maybe a pocket would contain a useful clue.
Several blocks away and back on the street following the waterfront, Amaranthe paused beneath a streetlight to examine it. The flame revealed heavy black material in the cut of an army fatigue jacket.
“What’s that?” Books asked, stopping beside her.
Maldynado stopped as well, though he turned his attention the way they had come, watching for pursuit.
“It was in the carriage.” Amaranthe checked the pockets and found nothing. So much for that hope. The rank pins had been removed, though the nametag was still sewn on above the breast pocket. She turned it toward the light. “Taloncrest,” she read and paused. That name seemed familiar.
“Nobody I’ve heard of,” Maldynado said.
“Nor I,” Books said. “Amaranthe?” he asked when her thoughtful silence continued.
“Colonel Taloncrest,” she murmured, an uneasy flutter vexing her stomach at the memory.
“Who’s he?” Maldynado asked.
“He was the surgeon performing medical experiments on people in the Imperial Barracks dungeon when Hollowcrest had me thrown down there.”
Memories of that miserable place flooded Amaranthe. The military could not be behind the kidnapped athletes and her missing men, could it? No, Sespian would not allow that to happen. Unless he didn’t know it was happening. He hadn’t known of the experiments in the dungeon the winter before. But he had been drugged then. The more likely scenario was that Sespian had learned of the experiments in the dungeon and ousted Taloncrest for being one of Hollowcrest’s lackeys. That would mean Taloncrest was a rogue, perhaps hirable by someone else. Such as this red-haired woman.
“You’re sure?” Books asked. “Medical experiments?”
“Dear ancestors,” Maldynado said, looking back the way they had come, toward the dead woman. “That’s disturbing.”
Amaranthe tried not to think of Taloncrest standing over Sicarius, a scalpel poised. It did not work.
CHAPTER 11
When Basilard woke, his head ached worse than it ever had after a night out carousing with Maldynado. He opened his eyes to—thankfully—dim lighting emanating from a globe hanging beside a metal door. The entire room—cubby might be a better word—was made from dark gray metal. He lay on a narrow cot, staring at riveting running along ridges traversing the walls from floor to curved ceiling. He had never been on a steam ship, but guessed that was his location. Engines somewhere rumbled, the reverberations pulsing through the floor and up his cot.
Was he being transported somewhere? Though he had never sailed, he had seen maps of the empire and knew that one could travel from the Chain Lakes down the Goldar River and all the way to the Gulf. From there, one could go...anywhere in the world. Had he been captured to be sold into slavery once again? This time someplace far away? Someplace so far away there was no chance he would ever return home again to see his daughter?
The daughter you could have already gone to see if you weren’t such a coward, he told himself.
Basilard sat up, and the pounding in his head intensified so much he groaned and grabbed his temples. Toughen up, he told himself. Sicarius would not bellyache so.
He sneered at himself. Why was he holding Sicarius up as a model to emulate?
When the throbbing calmed enough to handle, he swung his legs over the edge of the cot and found the floor—the deck? Was that what ship people called it? The cold metal numbed his bare feet. With a twitch of surprise, he realized everything was bare. He patted himself down, checking for...he did not know what, but one couldn’t trust people who kidnapped one and stole one’s clothing.
Soft, rhythmic clangs sounded beyond the door. Footsteps.
A scratch and thud echoed through the door. Basilard slipped off the cot and dropped into a defensive crouch. One that could easily turn offensive, if the situation permitted it. Though he should perhaps figure out where he was before attacking people. Who knew how long he had been unconscious?
Another thud sounded, then a clank. Multiple locks being thrown? If so, they had secured him well.
The thick, metal door squeaked open.
A woman stood there, her long red hair pinned into a swirling dervish atop her head. Two men framed her. They wore the black fatigues of army soldiers, though no rank pins adorned their collars. One appeared to be “the muscle.” He crowded the hallway with broad shoulders and tree-trunk arms that even Maldynado would have dubbed substantial. He aimed a pistol at Basilard, though the challenging sneer curling his lips said he would be happy to battle barehanded or perhaps with the sword sheathed at his waist. The surname stitched on his jacket read, LEV. The second man had neatly trimmed gray hair and wielded a clipboard instead of a gun. His tag read, TALONCREST. A warrior-caste officer involved in this scheme? Surprising.
The woman stepped inside first with no apparent fear of Basilard. The men followed after, one at a time, ducking and stepping over the raised frame of the door to enter.
“Greetings,” the woman said. “I have questions for you.”
Though Basilard would not have been in a rush to answer their questions under any circumstances, he doubted it was a possibility here. The soldiers would not understand his sign language, and he did not think the woman was Mangdorian. Though fair-skinned, she was not as pale as his people, and he thought she might be Kendorian or perhaps from one of the island nations between Turgonia and Nuria.
He touched the scar tissue at his throat and shrugged. Maybe they would not think to ask if he could read, though Arbitan had insisted Basilard learn that skill before he took over as head of security for the wizard.
“You can’t speak?” the woman asked, eyes narrowed.
Basilard shook his head and signed, Who are you? more out of habit than because he wanted a response. In reflection, maybe he should not have done that. Maybe it was better if they believed he could not answer their questions at all. Or would that mean they had no use for him?
The gray-haired officer’s eyebrows rose. “The Mangdorian hunting code?”
Basilard nodded.
“That answers your question, Litya.” Taloncrest scribbled something on his notepad.
“Yes, but race matters little for my experiments,” the woman said in a lilting, almost musical accent Basilard did not recognize. “I prefer Turgonian stock, given the goals of my clients, but your people have such
muddied bloodlines that no one will be the wiser as long as we breed the foreigners with darker skinned specimens.”
Breed? Basilard caught his mouth dangling open, and he snapped it shut.
“If you don’t need him,” Taloncrest said, eyeing Basilard as he tapped his pen on his clipboard, “I’m sure I could use him.”
“You can have them all for your cuttings after I’ve taken my samples.”
“Excellent,” Taloncrest said.
“I can move ahead with him as soon as my sister returns with the anesthesia ingredients.”
Cuts were nothing new to Basilard, but Taloncrest’s smile and the enthusiastic way he scribbled notes on his clipboard made Basilard uneasy. As did the talk of “samples” and “anesthesia.”
“Your speed in the race,” the woman—Litya—said, “is that typical for you, or do you believe it was a fluke performance? Your agility must have impressed our boy, because he’d had another pegged as our last acquisition. I have no data on you however.”
Basilard clasped his hands behind his back. These people had nothing good planned for him, so he saw no reason to assist them.
“Taloncrest,” Litya said, “can you understand his hand codes? Can you make him speak?”
Basilard raised his chin. They could try to make him speak.
The young soldier stepped forward at this, an eager smile tightening his lips.
“I don’t know enough of the signs,” Taloncrest said.
“Maybe he’s learned to write Turgonian?” Litya asked. “Or does anybody here read Mangdorian? They’re vaguely literate, aren’t they?”
Basilard thought about waving for a pen, if only so he could attempt to stab the woman in the belly with it before the men stopped him, but it was probably better to pretend he could not write and did not understand much of what they were saying.
“When Metya gets back, we’ll question him under the influence of pok-tah,” the woman said. “If he knows anything, he’ll be eager to share it with us then, one way or another.”
“It didn’t work on Sicarius,” Taloncrest muttered, head down, scrawling notes again.
Had Basilard thought about it, he would have assumed Sicarius was here somewhere, too, but hearing the name startled him. He covered his surprise quickly and hoped nobody noticed.
He waited, hoping they would say something that would indicate whether Sicarius was alive or if they had already...disposed of him, but nobody spoke again. After Taloncrest finished scribbling his notes, he nodded to the woman, and the trio left.
The door clanged shut, and the locks thunked into place.
Basilard could only guess at what these people were up to, but he knew he wanted to be no part of it. If he was on a ship, steaming away from the city, he could not count on Amaranthe and the others finding him and rescuing him. He would have to escape.
He eyed the solid metal walls and the sparse confines of the cabin. It would not be easy.
* * * * *
Amaranthe swept dust and food crumbs off the top of the lookout car. Despite the busy night, she had slept poorly when she, Maldynado, and Books returned to their camp in the boneyard. She had woken at dawn, the lump on her head throbbing, and frequent yawns had been tearing her gritty eyes ever since. Morning sun beat against her back, making the night’s rain a faint memory, but the warmth failed to cheer her. Akstyr had not returned, and she was beginning to fear he had been captured, too. Or worse.
She could not stop picturing Fasha’s dead body in her mind. Though the girl had never officially hired her team, or asked for protection, Amaranthe knew she had failed her. She should have kept better tabs on the girl, or at least warned her not to go hunting for clues on her own.
She swept more vigorously.
“Amaranthe?” Books called. “Are you up there?”
She swept a walnut shell off the edge, sending it clanging against the rail car on the far side of their camp.
“Must be a yes,” Books muttered as he climbed up. He frowned over the top of the ladder at her. “I can see cleaning the cars we’re dwelling in, but the tops of them? Is that necessary?”
Books held a napkin full of food, and Amaranthe stopped sweeping. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that many hours had passed since her last meal.
“Someone ate walnuts up here and left shells everywhere,” she said.
“Yes, but is it necessary to clean that?”
“No, it’s not necessary, Books, but this is what I do when—” She broke off, not wanting to start ranting over nothing. He was not the one upsetting her; it was the cursed situation and the fact that she was losing men every time she turned around. “This is what I do.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I just thought...you should get more rest.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah.” Books cleared his throat, glanced down, and seemed to remember he held food. “Breakfast?” He offered her a couple of hard-boiled eggs and a slab of ham.
Amaranthe drew her kerchief from her pocket, found it soot-stained, and sighed. She set it aside to wash later and grabbed the food barehanded. “Thank you.”
“It’s an all-protein breakfast,” Books said. “I believe Sicarius would approve.”
She tried to smile. “He’d add seeds and raw vegetables to counteract the saltiness of the ham. Or maybe they’re to keep morning movements regular. I think I’ve finally got his diet down, but I can’t remember all the reasons for all the rules.”
“I just know we’re lucky to have food at all with Basilard gone. What are we going to do next to find them?”
“I’m not sure.” Which meant she had no idea. “They know we’re looking for them now. I wish we had some soldier friends at Fort Urgot, so we could ask if anyone knew what Taloncrest was last working on.” Amaranthe took a bigger bite of ham than normal, tearing it off with a savage chomp.
“Yes, soldiers have that tedious tendency to try and capture us when we get close. Or shoot us on sight.”
“We were this close....” She held up her thumb and forefinger, a millimeter between them. “I don’t know if that was their hideout or simply a transfer station, but the fire surely destroyed any evidence left behind. They must have realized there were witnesses to Basilard’s kidnapping. Or maybe they intended him to be the last person they stole, and they didn’t need the fire brigade building any more.”
“I know it seems bleak now,” Books said, “but we can’t give up.”
“Of course not. We’re just...” Amaranthe touched the lump on her head, eliciting a stab of pain. “Recovering for a few hours.”
“Anyone home?” a familiar voice called.
Akstyr. Amaranthe rose to her feet and stepped to the edge of the car roof. He slouched into camp, his spiky hair drooping, and dark circles beneath his eyes. He appeared uninjured.
Amaranthe knew it was uncharitable, but she wished it were Sicarius striding into camp instead. Akstyr might have information though. She waved for him to come up.
“Busy night?” she asked.
“Boring night,” Akstyr said.
That didn’t sound promising. “Did you learn anything?”
“Enh.”
She circled her hand in the air, implying he could explain further.
“I spotted the woman and the man running out of the smoke and into an alley,” Akstyr said.
“Woman and man? From inside the carriage?” Amaranthe asked. “What did they look like?”
“The woman had red hair and she was nice and curvy. The man was older. Short, gray hair. Looked like a soldier, but he was just wearing a black shirt, so it was hard to tell.”
That sounded like Taloncrest and the woman the young thieves had described. Amaranthe nodded. “Go on.”
“I followed them, figured you’d want to know where they went.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you. And?” Sometimes she appreciated that Maldynado launched into the whole story at the tiniest prompting. Surely soldiers could get information out of
prisoners of war more easily than she could dig it out of Akstyr at times.
“Stayed back in the shadows so they wouldn’t see me. Almost lost them a couple of times, but I found ‘em again on the docks. They went out on Pier Thirteen to a warehouse at the end.”
Amaranthe frowned at Books. “That’s the Bolidot’s Imports warehouse, isn’t it? She has a huge business with a big turnover, and cargo ships go in and out of there every day. Kidnappers needing to maintain a low profile couldn’t use such a busy place.”
“Agreed,” Books said.
“They never came out,” Akstyr said.
“That seems unlikely,” Books said.
Akstyr stepped toward him, chest puffed out. “You thinking I’m blind? Or lying? While you were sleeping, I was sitting there watching and waiting for them to come back down the dock and they never did. I stayed until workers showed up and went inside. What’d you do? Come back here and snore all night?”
“Four hours, perhaps,” Books murmured.
Amaranthe rested a hand on Akstyr’s arm, drawing his attention to her. “Is it possible they slipped away in a boat?”
“Don’t think so,” he said. “I thought of that and checked how many boats were around. Didn’t see any disappear.”
“I guess we can take a look,” Amaranthe told Books.
Akstyr yawned. “You two do that. I’m going to make it thunderous in the sleeping car.” He emulated a noisy snore, then jumped to the ground.
“Akstyr,” Amaranthe called. She stifled a twinge of annoyance that he had dismissed himself without asking if she needed anything else. He had to be tired after staying up all night, and he was surly even on a perky day. “We need you to come.”
“What?” he called up in a whiny voice a five year old could not have bested.
“I’ll bet you ten ranmyas Taloncrest and his foreign lady aren’t working out of that warehouse.”
“So?”
“So, if you didn’t see them leave by mundane means, isn’t it possible they used the mental sciences?”