A dog barked in another part of the train yard.
“Maybe you should wait inside with us,” Maldynado said. “Station security will likely be along, banging on the doors and making sure there aren’t too many train-hopping vagrants weighing down the cars.”
Like us? Basilard signed.
“No, we’re vigilantes, not vagrants. They ought to feel lucky to have us along. I bet if highway men jump the train, the boss’ll insist we do something heroic like save the engineer’s life.”
Who would rob a train full of potatoes?
“Someone without my charisma and good looks,” Maldynado said. “In other words, poor saps who have to pay full price for groceries.”
“Get inside, you two,” Amaranthe said.
She wondered if leading these men was good practice for having children someday. If she kept herself alive long enough for that eventuality to come to pass.
Gravel crunched, someone jogging. The noise meant it wasn’t Sicarius.
Amaranthe pressed her back against the train to hide in its shadows and peered into the predawn gloom. Two figures were running her way. Before she could worry that it might be security, she recognized the familiar, long-legged gait of one. Books, and that must be Akstyr at his side.
Amaranthe stepped out of the shadows. “Here.”
Books jumped and Akstyr skidded to a stop, arms flailing for balance.
“Emperor’s bunions,” Akstyr whispered. “Don’t scare a man.”
He was out of breath. Books swiped sweat out of his eyes.
“News?” Amaranthe asked.
“News,” Books said.
“Good or bad?”
“When is it ever good?” A newspaper crinkled as Books pulled it out from his waistband and handed it to Amaranthe.
“It’s a little dark for—”
Akstyr waved a hand, and a small globe of light flared to life.
“—reading without an Akstyr around,” Amaranthe finished.
He smirked. The light did not reveal a hint of humor on Books’s flushed face. He simply pointed at the front-page headline.
ASSASSIN STRIKES: TWENTY-ONE PROMINENT ENTREPRENEURS FOUND MURDERED.
“I didn’t spend months putting that list together so your thrice-cursed assassin could kill everybody on it,” Books whispered, his voice cracking on the word kill.
Amaranthe sagged against the rail car and used the excuse of reading the story to avoid Books’s stare.
“That’s the tally as of last night when the paper was prepared.” Books started pacing back and forth, gravel crunching beneath his feet. “Only his dead ancestors know how many more he killed under the stars. Those people may all have been aligned with Forge, perhaps working toward a goal that’s at cross-purposes with ours, but you know they’re not all responsible for the threats to the city, to the empire. I’m sure some of them were just joining the coalition because they thought it was better to be with Forge than against them. Some of those names—” Books thrust a hand toward the paper, his movements stiff and jerky, “—weren’t even confirmed members. They were just people loosely associated with the organization. Dear emperor, I wasn’t sure on some of them. I put them on the list because they were suspects, people to research in more depth later. I—” Books sank into a crouch and buried his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Books,” Amaranthe said, wishing she could say something less inane. “That’s not the reason I had you collect the names. I never would have—”
“Oh, I know you’re not that callous. Or thoughtless.” Books jumped to his feet and resumed pacing, hands clenched at his sides. “He’s just declared war on Forge, that’s what he’s done. Did you read the article? They were all killed the same way, slit throats. It’s not going to take an enforcer detective to guess who was responsible. And what’s it gotten him? However many he’s slain, it’s not going to be all of them. It won’t be the ones that have the most power, the people like Larocka Myll and Arbitan Losk who could afford magical protection, and it won’t be the people who are in the Imperial Barracks, strong-arming the emperor. No, he’s out there killing journeymen and apprentices. All he’s going to do is make the higher powers angry. He may be able to dodge their wrath, but what about us?”
Akstyr stirred. Behind Amaranthe, Basilard and Maldynado came to the edge of the open freight car.
“Everybody knows we’re working with him,” Books said. “People will think... I don’t know what they’ll think. I don’t even know what he was thinking.”
Amaranthe knew exactly what Sicarius had been thinking. He’d learned that Sespian had one of those nodules in his neck, and he’d gone into a reckless place where parents went when their children were threatened.
Books’s pacing ended and he pressed his palms against the rail car. “Amaranthe, I put that list together,” he whispered. “I abetted a murderer.”
“If it helps,” Maldynado said, “we’ve decided we’re vigilantes, not murderers.”
Books launched a glare so fierce that Amaranthe thought he might leap into the train and pummel Maldynado. She put a hand on Books’s arm, lest he be tempted. He rammed his other hand against the wall of the rail car, but, after that, he let her guide him away from the others.
“I won’t say I know how you feel,” Amaranthe said quietly, “but...”
“You do. I know.” Books’s shoulders slumped, and the rage seemed to bleed out of him, though perhaps not the disappointment in himself. “I remember talking to you that night outside of the cannery. I don’t know how you could ever forgive him for killing your enforcer colleagues.”
“I... realized I’d chosen to work with him, knowing what he was, so the responsibility was mine. That doesn’t make it easier, I know.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“But I’d also be dead by now, a dozen times dead, if not for him,” Amaranthe said.
“Though I’m glad you are still among the living, does one saved life make up for countless others taken?”
“I don’t know.” Amaranthe liked to think that what she was doing for Sespian, and for the empire, put her life above that of business people trying to strong-arm the government, but she was undoubtedly biased when it came to her own subsistence. And the Strat Tiles had yet to all be played, so she didn’t know how history would see her in the end. As a hero? Or some fool who’d tried to fight on the wrong side and had done more harm than good? Or maybe it wouldn’t remember her at all. Depressing thought, that.
“Amaranthe.” Books gripped her arm and lowered his voice. Akstyr had joined the others in the car, so they’d lost their light, but Amaranthe had little trouble reading the earnestness on Books’s face and in his voice. “I make this request, not as your colleague or team member, but as your friend, as someone who cares about your soul. Get rid of him. Please. I know he means something to you, and he has skills that are valuable, but those aren’t good enough reasons to keep a murderer around, especially not if he’s going to turn into an Akstyr, someone who runs around doing random things that can have consequences without thinking about the welfare of the group.”
“Books...” Amaranthe wanted to tell him that Sicarius’s actions weren’t random, that she could predict them, indeed had predicted this, but she couldn’t, not without betraying secrets that she had sworn never to voice to anyone.
“Just think about it.” Books released her arm, took a deep breath, and straightened his spine. “I’ll collect Akstyr, and we’ll do our part to help the emperor.”
“Thank you, Books. Maybe helping Sespian here... maybe this can be the beginning of the end.” Amaranthe added, “In a good way,” when she realized the former might have negative connotations.
“Let’s hope.”
A steam whistle screeched.
“We have to go.” Amaranthe stuck her head inside the car. “Akstyr, Books is waiting for you.”
“Be careful out there,” Books said before he and Akstyr departed. “I’ve come to think of y
ou all as family, albeit some members are more irritating than others—” he glanced toward the door where Maldynado leaned, mouth open for a noisy yawn, “—and I should be most disgruntled if you did not return from this mission.”
“Me too,” Akstyr said, the comment surprising Amaranthe. He might have surprised himself, too, because he was quick to add, “Being left alone with only Books to talk to would lick donkey balls.”
“If Sicarius doesn’t show up in the next minute or two, you may be left with him too,” Amaranthe said.
That comment inspired much grousing between Books and Akstyr as they walked away. The whistle screamed again, and the wheels of the train started rolling.
Amaranthe swung up into the rail car, though she didn’t shut the door. She waited, gazing at the stationary cars across from them, and then peering up and down the long gravel aisle. The train inched forward, gradually increasing speed.
She resigned herself to Sicarius not making it, and the team having to undertake the kidnapping without him. Then, as they were rolling out of the yard, he jogged out of the dim light beside the fence, his soft boots not making a sound on the gravel as he ran. He caught up to the train and leaped into the car beside Amaranthe. Without a word, he passed her and disappeared into the shadows on the opposite end from where Maldynado and Basilard were sitting.
* * * * *
Akstyr had never liked bicycling, and he liked it even less with a crate of blasting sticks fastened to the rack behind him. Books had been the one who refused to drive around in the stolen pumpkin lorry, and who had pointed out that people carrying explosives wouldn’t be welcome on the city trolleys, but somehow he wasn’t toting the volatile load. Worse, it was a long bicycle trip. Apparently flying machines took up a lot of space and weren’t stored in the city proper.
They spent the hour after sunrise peddling through frost-slick streets, past Barlovoc Stadium and the sporting fields at the south end of the city, and finally turning down a lane hedged by substantial fences. A couple of the barriers were made with wrought-iron bars, revealing warehouses and steam-equipment manufacturing plants, but stone and brick hid most of the large lots from sight.
Books lifted a hand and pointed to a cement wall with tangles of razor wire running along the top. Akstyr saw such security measures as a challenge and could have found a way over in a minute, but the front gate stood open beside a brass plaque that read Experimental Aeronautics.
A woman wearing a mink cap and a white leopard fur coat waved them inside. She could have been a successful businesswoman, but the haughty tilt to her pretty face made Akstyr think she was one of Maldynado’s warrior-caste cohorts.
“Lady Buckingcrest?” Books asked after he swung off his bicycle.
“Yes.” The woman peered down the street the way Books and Akstyr had come.
“Maldynado’s not coming, my lady.” Books bowed when the woman looked his way. “He said he’d let you know we were to pick up your... conveyance.”
Akstyr was glad Books was doing the talking, as he didn’t have it in him to “my lady” anyone. Warrior-caste people weren’t any better than him. All their titles meant was that they’d had an easier time of life.
“Yes, of course.” Buckingcrest pulled off her cap, and wavy black locks tumbled about her shoulders, a contrast to the white fur of her coat.
She smiled at them, and Akstyr gulped. He didn’t think he’d ever used the word voluptuous, but it popped into his head as he stared at her lips. When her gaze skimmed across him, he reconsidered his ability to spout honorifics. At that moment, he figured he could spout anything, especially if it meant she might take him off alone for a private meeting. He bowed low so she wouldn’t see that her regard, however brief, flustered him.
“I thought your comrade, the assassin, might be along,” Buckingcrest said.
“He’s busy.” Books’s voice was grim as a funeral pyre.
“Ah, but you’ll be meeting him, yes? Will he return with you on my vessel?” She was no longer looking at Akstyr or Books, and a wistful tone crept into her voice. “I did so wish to meet him.”
Akstyr fisted his hands and jammed them into his pockets. He could understand Maldynado capturing some girl’s fancy, but it was disgusting to see women mooning over Sicarius. He didn’t even acknowledge them. If he knew how to smile at a girl—or anyone at all—Akstyr had never seen evidence of it.
“I can add you to the list in my journal if you want a private meeting with him,” Books muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, my lady,” Books said. “Akstyr, do you want to unload our cargo? Lady Buckingcrest, we’re on a tight schedule. Would you show us to the conveyance Maldynado... bargained for?”
“Bargained?” Buckingcrest chuckled. “Is that what he calls it?”
Akstyr leaned his bicycle against the fence and removed his rucksack and the box of blasting sticks, careful to keep the canvas cover tied tightly over the contents. Amaranthe had also given them a few smoke grenades. Akstyr couldn’t imagine needing them to blow up some rocks, but one never knew.
Lady Buckingcrest and Books headed through a short courtyard and walked into an alley between the fence and a massive building that dominated the large lot. Akstyr hurried to catch up. So nice of Books not to offer to help carry things.
As they walked alongside the building, Akstyr tried to get a view of the inside, but the windows they passed were too high to see through. Midway down, a door was propped open, and he glimpsed strange rotary devices and huge engines in various stages of construction. Buckingcrest continued to a vast open square on the back half of the lot.
Akstyr stopped to gape at the size of the craft waiting for them. A rectangular metal cabin with numerous windows—portholes?—hugged the bottom of a dozens-of-meters-long oblong balloon, filled and ready to float away. Only ropes anchoring the cabin to the ground seemed to keep the craft from pulling away.
“Oh, a dirigible,” Books said. “Excellent. Craft supported by lighter-than-air gases have been around for over a hundred years. When Maldynado spoke of a prototype, I was imagining some crazy ornithopter bouncing and bobbing through the air, ready to crash at a moment’s notice.”
Buckingcrest raised an eyebrow. “We do have other types of flying machines, but Maldynado stressed that the interior should be opulent and comfortable. A strange request for mercenaries, I thought.”
Akstyr snorted. Maldynado had a big mouth.
“Er, yes,” Books said. “Maldynado enjoys his comforts.”
“Yes, that is true.” Buckingcrest’s smile was a little too knowing.
Akstyr lifted a finger. “If these have been around for a hundred years, how come I’ve never seen one?”
“I suspect the military has laws against people flying over the imperial capital and the local army fort,” Books said.
“Yes, though that may change someday,” Buckingcrest said. “There are a number of wealthy civilians who have expressed interest in our work. Some buy private trains, but they must share the railways and work around station schedules. With a dirigible... there’s nothing to stop you from going anywhere you might please.”
Books stirred, and his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.
“I’m surprised the army doesn’t want some for themselves,” Akstyr said. “You could fly to Kendor or Nuria or anywhere and sneak your troops in at night.” If he had something like that, he could fly himself to the Kyatt Islands without worrying about stowing aboard trains or steamships. He would have to pay attention to how to fly it. Just in case.
“I imagine,” Books said, “the fact that dirigibles are filled with hydrogen, a flammable gas, limits their usefulness in wartime applications.”
“You mean they’re easy to crash?” Akstyr asked.
Buckingcrest’s smile thinned. “I assure you, my crafts are sturdy and quite safe.”
“Hm,” was all Books said.
“Come, you’re in a hurry,” Buckingcrest said. “L
et me introduce you to your pilot.”
“We’re getting a pilot?” Akstyr asked. “Did Maldynado say something about that?”
Books didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look pleased either.
“Yes, I told Maldynado,” Buckingcrest said. “If he thought I’d let a pair of sword-swinging mercenaries handle one of my darlings, he was being more delusional than usual.”
As the woman turned her back to lead them to the craft, Books used Basilard’s hand code to sign, I’ll find the technical manual, and then we’ll stuff the pilot in a closet for the remainder of the trip.
Akstyr wasn’t sure the idea of having Books drive the thing was reassuring, but he smirked at the idea of their stuffy, proper professor manhandling someone into a closet.
Buckingcrest led them up a loading ramp and into the rearmost section of the craft, a cargo area. A tattooed man with a beard on a quest to swallow his face leaned against the wall, a cigar dangling from his lips.
“Is smoking wise when you’re standing beneath all that hydrogen?” Books pointed to the ceiling.
The man curled his lip at him. He had arms as thick as Akstyr’s legs. If he was the pilot, he wouldn’t be easy to stuff into a closet.
“The living quarters are in the middle here and include two private suites,” Buckingcrest called from a central corridor leading out of the storage area. “There’s even a conference room. Do you want to see the navigation area up front?”
“Yes, please,” Books said.
Akstyr started to follow, but he halted before he’d gone more than two steps into the corridor. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted, and a familiar tingle ran through him. They were in the presence of something Made, an artifact or construct crafted with the mental sciences. He hadn’t had that feeling since the team invaded that underwater laboratory in the lake a couple of months earlier. That place had been a beehive of Made activity. What he felt now... It was just one item, he decided, but that it was there at all was strange. Or maybe not. He wasn’t sure how hydrogen worked exactly, but if all it did was poof up the balloon, then this vessel would need some source of energy for propulsion. He hadn’t noticed a smokestack outside for steam-engine exhaust.
Conspiracy Page 17
