“They took the venom sacs out of my vault,” Sarevic said. “I think they got my acid too.”
“Your what?”
“The acid I made for dissolving metals. It works nicely, and doesn’t burn if it gets on your hands.”
Amaranthe met Sicarius’s eyes over Sarevic’s head, thinking of the submarine. Could some of this acid be stored in a small container or even under a uniform jacket and then casually dribbled onto the hull in passing? Still, if the submarine was being guarded now, someone would have a hard time getting close enough to do that. Unless one of the guards was their snitch... or working for their snitch.
“Royal water?” Sicarius asked. “President Starcrest made something similar to deal with the cubes.”
Yes, Amaranthe had seen that in action herself.
Sarevic sniffed. “My acid does not burn skin. It’s a groundbreaking discovery, I assure you. I also designed special containers and a launch device, so it wouldn’t leak or be released without a suitable impact.”
So someone could shoot it at the submarine from afar. That information would be important to deliver.
“I didn’t know the president was mechanically inclined,” Sarevic said, her expression growing less indignant and more thoughtful. “You say he has an engineering hobby?”
“It’s what he studied in school and went into the service for,” Sicarius said. “An early commanding officer steered him out of the engine room and onto the command deck.”
“I understand he’s built a number of submarines,” Amaranthe added, thinking that might further endear the man to Sarevic. Surely designing such a craft was a clear sign of mechanical know-how.
“That use Kyattese magic for a power source.” Sarevic’s lips flattened.
Er, perhaps that hadn’t been the best example.
“He is now seeking to find a mundane method of generating power for the crafts,” Sicarius said.
“He is?” Sarevic peered over her shoulder at him, acknowledging his presence for the first time. “Interesting. This project would appeal to me. If I am to be a prisoner here anyway, perhaps I could be of assistance.”
Amaranthe, recalling that their goal was to get all the information they could from Sarevic—not find her a new job—said, “I’m certain you would be useful on his team.” Well, she wasn’t that certain. “But the priority is to catch those who are conspiring against him. Are you positive you didn’t overhear them speaking about a base they were returning to or some eating house where they were meeting?”
“Nothing like that,” Sarevic said.
“Any distinctive stains on their clothing?” Sicarius asked. “Or identifying scents?”
Sarevic snorted. “They smelled better than you.”
Amaranthe gave Sicarius a twisted smile. It was a good thought, but most people weren’t as observant as he. Maybe if they went back to the workshop themselves and searched around, they could—
“Wait.” Sarevic snapped her fingers. “Now that you bring it up, I do remember that the one who bent over me to tie me up smelled like... almost like perfume. Citrusy perfume.”
“Interesting,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe raised her eyebrows. “Interesting that such a thing exists or interesting that a man would wear it?” She frowned at Sarevic. “Or was it a man?” Women could beat up and bind people too.
“It was a man,” Sarevic said. “I remember thinking it was strange, because his breath stunk of sardines and wine. As long as you’re slathering yourself in some scent to make you more attractive, wouldn’t you brush your teeth as well? And why does someone going out to steal weapons need to smell good anyway?”
Most of the history of perfumes had to do with covering up unwashed body scents, but Amaranthe agreed that it was a strange thing to don before heading out to brutalize tinkerers.
“Are you sure it was perfume?” Amaranthe asked. “Maybe it was—”
“Describe the citrus,” Sicarius said, his eyes intense as they bored into the back of Sarevic’s head. If he realized he had cut off Amaranthe, he didn’t show it. She didn’t take offense, since he seemed to have gotten more of a clue from this revelation than she had. “Lemon? Orange? Something else?” he prompted.
Sarevic shrugged. “I don’t shop at the fancy import markets. I’m not an expert.”
Not on perfumes, just on venom sacs.
Though Sicarius never moved, never unclasped his hands from behind his back, Amaranthe had the distinct impression he wanted to throttle Sarevic for a more precise answer.
“Have you smelled it since you’ve been in the hotel?” he asked.
“Here?” Sarevic twisted in her chair to look at him again. “Why would it be here?”
Sicarius met Amaranthe’s eyes instead. “The first night we were here, I smelled lemongrass incense being burned on the third floor.”
“Lemongrass?” Sarevic nodded slowly. “That might be what it was.”
“Then one of the men on that team of hooded people might be the snitch who is living and working here in the hotel?” Amaranthe asked. “You wouldn’t expect such a person to risk being seen with those doing the dirty work.”
“Incense is strong,” Sicarius said.
It took Amaranthe a moment to figure out what he meant. “So... Sardine Breath could have simply been visiting the snitch and wandered past the burning stick?”
“Or the lemongrass incense is used widely among those of this religion.”
“Such as in a religious ceremony?” Amaranthe found herself pacing—and thinking. Yes, that seemed more likely than inviting thugs into the hotel; all guests were signed in by security. But did that mean someone in the hotel had been performing ceremonies in his or her room? And to what end?
“What is she doing?” Sarevic asked.
Amaranthe realized she had stopped in front of the tinkerer’s desk and started tidying her tool collection. Sicarius ignored the question.
Amaranthe stuck her hands into her pocket. “We need to ask Professor Komitopis if incense was used as a part of that religion. What was it called? Kriskrus?”
“Kriskrusian,” Sicarius said. “We should also search the rooms on the third floor.”
“We would have to get someone’s permission for that.”
Sicarius’s eyebrow twitched.
“Well, I guess we wouldn’t have to,” Amaranthe said. “It’s just that I feel like we should work on the side of the law now that we’re staunch citizens of this new republic.”
“You find the professor and ask about the religion; I’ll investigate the rooms.”
“Staunchly?”
“Yes.”
• • • • •
Maldynado plucked a turd-brown hardhat out of the bin at the edge of the construction site and placed it on his head with a sneer of distaste. If one had to don costumes, he much preferred the sort that showed off one’s finer attributes—such as chiseled muscles, a sublime facial structure, and luxurious brown locks. These workers—he picked up a shovel for further verisimilitude—needed to speak to their employer about more appealing hats and togs.
Basilard plunked a hat onto his own head without comment. Naturally he wouldn’t mind covering up that scar-filled shaven pate.
“Thanks for coming along, Bas,” Maldynado said. “I was hoping to lure Evrial out with me, but she had to go back to work.” At least that was what she had said.
Basilard signed, I am your second choice?
“Of course not. She’s simply the one I wish to...”
Impress with that hat?
“Ha ha, you’re a one-man riot. No, I want her to see that I’m serious about working for Starcrest and getting a good job here in the city. I want her to realize it would be much better for us to stay here, rather than going back to that boring rural town she’s from. What kind of job could I do out there? We’d probably have to move in with her family.” Maldynado shuddered from boots to hat.
I heard about your first impression with t
hem.
“You what? How—you weren’t even in the country when that happened.”
Basilard’s blue eyes twinkled. I was on the way.
“I’m surprised you arrived so quickly when you had that pretty little translator to wake up to in the mornings.”
Basilard’s face resumed its usual morose cast. He shook his head. She is not... we are not... not.
“It’s fascinating that the human brain can be just as ineloquent with hand gestures as with words,” Maldynado observed, not feeling bad about teasing when Basilard had started it.
Basilard took a shovel from the rack. For a moment, Maldynado thought he might be contemplating a physical response, but he merely propped it over his shoulder and shook his head.
“Do you find her attractive?” Maldynado asked.
The corners of Basilard’s lips quirked.
“I’ll take that for a yes. Have you told her you find her attractive? She seems to understand all your made up gobbledygook.” Maldynado waved at Basilard’s fingers. “You must have spent some time communicating with her.”
Yes, but she’s... she’s the chief’s daughter. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to... proposition her.
“Dear ancestors.” Maldynado lifted his eyes skyward. “It’s another Sespian. Except he’s young and as naive as a tadpole, so that’s why he’s shy. You’re older than me, Bas. And you had a wife at one point, so you can’t be that naive. Though granted, you Mangdorians sound like a wholesome bunch with your peace-loving religion and all. Are any of your people true bedroom warriors?”
Basilard’s mouth had dropped open farther and farther as Maldynado spoke. Was he being offensive? He just didn’t know why all these perfectly capable men were lacking in confidence. Sure Basilard had those scars, but he had won an event in the Imperial Games, and now he was a highfaluting diplomat. Finding a girl should not be a problem.
A one-handed, I am not shy, was Basilard’s only response.
“Do you want me to ask the little flower if she likes you?”
Basilard dropped a hand like a steel vise onto Maldynado’s forearm and shook his head firmly. He released Maldynado—though probably only because he needed his fingers for signing. Do not bother her with your crude innuendoes. She is a professional woman and, as I said, the chief’s daughter. She has traveled and studied in other nations. She is not a little flower or anyone to be... bothered with silliness.
Maldynado lifted his hands. “All right, all right, I won’t bother her, but courting isn’t silly. It’s part of being a human. One of the better parts, I should think.”
Basilard glared.
“Here’s an idea,” Maldynado said. “I’m planning a dinner party to help Sespian and Mahliki get comfortable together, seeing as she’s shyer with him than I expected from her, and he’s... waiting for a clue to fall out of a tree and hit him on the head. Why don’t you and your translator come? We’ll make sure the wine flows freely, and when her tongue loosens up, maybe she’ll lean close to you and whisper some... unprofessional words in your ear.”
Maldynado couldn’t remember seeing anyone shake his head firmly and look wistful at the same time, but Basilard managed it.
“It’ll be after all this is over.” Maldynado waved in the direction of the plant-besieged harbor. “And we’ll invite some other couples, too, so your lady won’t feel like she’s in the center ring. Just a casual dinner party. What could go wrong?”
Will you be cooking?
Maldynado grimaced, thinking of the last time he had tried to cook for someone. “I’ll arrange for it to be catered. Although if you wanted to impress her, you could play a role in the cooking. You have quite the gift for that. Perhaps you could contribute the dessert? Oh, but don’t use any of those pee-soaked weeds you’ve been known to pluck from alleys. Just because something is edible doesn’t mean it should end up on the plate.”
I do not pick the pee-soaked ones, Basilard signed. As for the rest... perhaps... I will consider it. If she’s interested. She finds Turgonians brutish and violent, though she’s too polite to say so. I don’t know if she would care to spend a whole evening with them.
“Mahliki isn’t Turgonian,” Maldynado pointed out. “Not really anyway. We can put her on your lady’s right—oh, and you should tell me her name at some point. It makes filling out place cards easier. Redheaded Mangdorian Woman is a bit much to write on there with calligraphy.”
Basilard hesitated, then made a motion Maldynado interpreted as a woman combing her hair.
“That’s... your gesture for her?”
She does it a lot. When she’s nervous.
If she did it a lot around Basilard, that might be a good sign. So long as he made her nervous in a he’s-cute-and-I-wonder-if-he’s-interested way rather than an I-hope-the-brute-doesn’t-kill-me-if-I-don’t-translate-well way. “Woman Who Braids Her Hair When Nervous. That’ll be even harder to put on the name cards.”
Basilard snorted. I’ll write it down for you when—
“What are you two shovel heads doing over there?” came the familiar—and grating—holler of the foreman. The barrel-chested man rolled toward them, black bags under his bloodshot eyes, the cigar clamped between his teeth more macerated than the most popular stick in a dog kennel. “Do you see how far behind we are? Quit yammering, and get your slagging butts over there and unload those I-beams.”
He snatched the shovels out of their hands and threw them into the rack. They banged against others and fell down, knocking several down with them. Already walking toward—and yelling at—the next pair of idlers, he didn’t notice.
“Guess we’re not digging today,” Maldynado said and headed in the direction the foreman had indicated. He hadn’t truly intended to do work, merely wanting to observe and investigate, but allowed that they would be less conspicuous this way.
He didn’t seem concerned that I’m not on an employee roster, Basilard signed. Or that he’s never seen me before.
“As distraught as he looked, I bet he would try to put the president himself to work if he showed up next to the shovel rack.”
For all the man’s bluster, Maldynado didn’t think the building could be that far behind schedule. Starcrest and Sespian might not have the construction site at the top of their priority list at the moment, but an impressive amount of progress had been made in the few days the crew had been working. The foundation had set, and the steel framework was already going up. The equipment operators and more experienced workers seem to be in charge of that; the “shovel heads” were dragging, pushing, and lifting materials around the site. Maldynado and Basilard joined one of those groups.
After exchanging a few meaningless comments and grunts with the natives, Maldynado asked, “Any more accidents on the site since the boiler blew up?”
Most of the people ignored him, though a beefy fellow grew loquacious enough to say, “No.”
“Any plants pop up out of the sewer line that team is excavating?”
“No.”
Maldynado shrugged at Basilard and told himself it was good that nobody else had been hurt and that no more equipment had been damaged, but he wanted to catch the culprits, and that would be easier if they were doing something... catchable.
Obeying someone else’s points and grunts, Maldynado and Basilard picked up bags of mortar mix and carried them over to a forklift next to a parked lorry loaded with pallets of bricks. Nobody had started laying bricks yet, but this was going to be the station apparently. Maldynado took the opportunity to stick his head under the lorry and the forklift to see if any of Sarevic’s timing devices had been placed under them. Best to catch a booby trap before it went off...
While he lay on his back under the lorry, wishing the cloudy afternoon sky offered more light, a pair of boots came into view on the opposite side. They didn’t look like Basilard’s footwear.
A throat cleared. A grumpy throat.
Maldynado rolled out from under the lorry as the foreman walked around
to his side of the vehicle. “I would guess you were taking a nap,” the man said, “but I don’t think you’re stupid enough to sleep under a moveable two-ton machine.” He slapped his palms together, no doubt to indicate the degree of flatness a man might experience during such a nap.
Maldynado glanced around, wondering why Basilard hadn’t warned him of the foreman’s approach. He had been dragged off to help fasten a winch cable to a beam.
“I am happy to declare that this vehicle seems to be free of booby traps,” Maldynado announced.
“Is that so? You know, you’re awfully suspicious. If I hadn’t seen you jabbering with Savarsin yesterday... who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Maldynado, of course.” Given that he was still disowned and that his family had been portrayed poorly in the newspapers that winter, he doubted sharing his surname would help him here, so he went with the addition, “Friend of emperors, presidents, and ladies everywhere.”
“Friend of the president. Right.”
“He’s the one who gave me this job.”
“If he gave you this job, you’re not his friend. This is the job he gives to convicts.” The foreman thrust a hand toward a knot of workers unloading a lorry. They weren’t in shackles and Maldynado didn’t see a guard, but they wore gray and red prison smocks, and more than one had a gang brand on the back of his hand. “To rehabilitate them.” The foreman’s smirk was anything but friendly. “Maybe he thought you needed rehabilitation.”
“I...” Maldynado hardly thought that was the case—he had asked for employment, after all—but a witty riposte didn’t come to his tongue.
The foreman gave him a shove and said, “Stop pissing around, and get back to work,” before walking off again.
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