“I guess,” Maldynado said neutrally. Nothing about Lita’s face or words seemed duplicitous, but he’d known many women with a knack for convincing fibbing.
Lita squeezed his arm and let go. “If you prove to the family that you care, that you’re willing to help out, they’d be more amenable to you. Especially your parents. I’ll be the first to admit that some of your brothers are nettlesome and perhaps not worth the effort.”
Maldynado snorted. Yes, Lita had suffered numerous dunkings in the lake at the hands of her older cousins. And they hadn’t even disliked her. They’d been worse to Maldynado, but that was the nature of older brothers, he supposed.
“All you’d have to do is talk to your father and let him know you’re interested in taking some responsibility.”
Maldynado lifted his arms skyward, bags rustling. “What is it with women? Always nattering in a man’s ear about responsibility.”
“As a warrior-caste scion, you’re expected to—”
“I know, I know.” Maldynado stretched his hand out, palm facing her. “I’m just feeling set-upon by your sex of late. The only woman who doesn’t—” He caught himself. He was supposed to be getting details, not giving them. She didn’t need to know about Amaranthe, though an uncomfortable lump formed in his throat at the thought of her. Lita was the only woman who simply accepted what he was willing to offer without making extra demands on him or bemoaning the fact that he wasn’t “responsible.” Cursed ancestors, he hated that word.
“It’s just that they had such high expectations for you, Mal,” Lita said when he didn’t continue. “Aside from Ravido, most of your brothers had respectable but not exemplary military careers, and even he, I’ve heard, used bribes and favors to ensure he eventually advanced to general. For another family, respectable sons are fine, but for Marblecrests? For a family with a history full of fleet admirals, legendary generals, and even Turgonian emperors?”
“It’s easy to get buried under that much history,” Maldynado said.
Lita sighed at him, as if they were speaking in two different languages, and she couldn’t get him to understand. “If you’d had mediocre talent, it would have been one thing, but you were so good with a blade. And, when you were younger, your grades were all above average, especially when it came to military studies. Uncle Brodis was sure—”
“I know what he was sure of.” Maldynado noticed his shoulders were hunched up to his ears. He hated talking about this stuff. He’d wanted the family’s current gossip, not a rehash of old history. His earlier suspicions that Lita had been planted in his path disappeared. She wouldn’t be nagging him if she wanted to talk him into something. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in reuniting with them.” Maldynado tipped his hat. “It was good seeing you, Lita. Give my good regards to your brothers, please.”
“Mal, wait.” Lita must have forgotten she’d been holding the ivory box, for, when she stretched out with her hands, it slipped from her grip.
Maldynado squatted and caught it before it clunked onto the cobblestones. The lid flopped open, and a small black sphere fell out. It took another quick snatch to keep it from falling to the ground and rolling down the street. Maldynado gaped at the cool, smooth object. Utterly devoid of symbols, it appeared to be made of the same material as Sicarius’s knife. And, if Sicarius was right, that’d mean it was made of the same material as that flying craft too.
Lita laughed. “What fabulous reflexes. See? That’s what I mean. You’re not mediocre at all when it comes to innate talent.”
Maldynado tore his gaze from the sphere, lest his interest strike Lita as odd. He stood and cleared his throat. “Mediocre? Me? Naturally not. The ladies have known of my innate talent for ages.” On the outside, he waggled his eyebrows and launched a speculative look at a passing woman; on the inside, his pounding heart threatened to leap out of his chest and sprint a few laps around the block. After Lita finished rolling her eyes, Maldynado asked, as casually as he could, “Say, what is this thing?”
“The box or the ball?” Lita asked.
“The ball. I’ve seen enough dust-collecting knickknack holders to not need an explanation on that thing.”
Lita laughed again. “Oh, Mal. You’re so silly. That’s an antique ivory snuff box from the Tarovic Era.”
“Yes, as I said, a dust-collecting knickknack holder. And the black doohickey?”
“I have no idea, but your sister-in-law sent me to pick it up for her. She’s collecting them, I gather.”
Lita reached for the sphere. Maldynado stifled the urge to snap his fingers shut about it, and she plucked it from his grasp.
“It’s interesting, I’ll admit,” Lita said, “but I don’t see why one would want a collection.”
Not unless that collection included a super powerful aircraft with firepower that would make Turgonia’s best warship roll over and cower under the waves. “I have six sisters-in-law. Which one did you say is collecting?”
“Mari.”
“Ah.” Ravido’s wife again. Maldynado might have found his information for the emperor. “You know, Lita, I think you may be right. If there’s a chance to reunite with the family, I should take it. After all, one never knows how long one’s parents will be around. You don’t want to later regret missed opportunities to make amends.”
Lita blinked a few times and peered up at Maldynado’s face. Maybe he’d slathered too much icing on the cinnamon bun.
“I’m not going to rush to do as Father pleases, but maybe I’ll stop by the estate when I return to Stumps.” Maldynado gave the sphere an indifferent wave. “If you wish, I could give that to Mari in person. You were simply going to post it, I assume?” Inwardly, he shuddered at the idea of a potential weapon going through the mail.
“Actually, Mari’s on her way down,” Lita said. “I’m expecting her to arrive on the Glacial Empress in a couple of days.”
Maldynado’s fingers twitched. He wanted to get that sphere. If he could give it to the emperor along with this information, it could prove that he had good intentions. But if he seemed too desperate to snag it… The last thing he wanted was for some cousin to tell Ravido that he might be angling to thwart his plot. He had enough to worry about already.
“Is she?” Maldynado asked. “And Ravido is coming as well?”
“No, he’s busy with something in the capital. Did you hear? He was reassigned to Fort Urgot recently.”
“I had heard that. I wonder why they moved him. Wasn’t he a post commander somewhere down south?”
“The machinations of the army are beyond me.”
Maldynado had a feeling he’d gotten as much information out of Lita as he would. As it was, she’d probably relay the details of the meeting to Mari, who might mention Maldynado’s appearance to Ravido. Maybe he should have kept walking and pretended not to see his cousin after all. Still, he might be able to find out more about these black artifacts from Mari. If he was brave enough to visit her. The last time they’d been alone in a room together, she’d tried to take his pants off, no matter that her husband had been in another part of the house.
“As long as she’s going to be in town, I’ll have to stop by and visit her,” Maldynado said.
“Do you know her well?”
“Not as well as she’d like,” Maldynado muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Where’d you say she’d be staying?”
“Rabbit Island. The Glacial Empress stops there upon request, so that its warrior-caste clientele needn’t mingle with the commoners at the city docks.”
“Yes, of course.”
Maldynado exchanged a few parting words with Lita—and foisted a couple of the boutique’s business cards on her—before walking away, but he was already thinking of the ramifications of their meeting. With the luck he’d had lately, he might end up in more trouble than ever. Busy worrying over that possibility, he almost crashed into someone standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
Yara. Afte
r her dismissal, Maldynado had assumed she’d left town without him. He hoped she hadn’t been close enough to hear the conversation—he hadn’t been so oblivious to his surroundings that he wouldn’t have noticed her leaning against the wall behind Lita—but she might have caught a few words. And seen that black sphere.
“That was my cousin,” was all Maldynado said. “Ready to rejoin the others?”
Yara considered him through half-lidded eyes.
“Or—” Maldynado hefted the bags, “—did you want to try on your outfit first? It’s quite alluring. If you have curves under those bulky sweaters and unflattering enforcer uniforms, these garments will show them off.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Yes, yes, I am.” Maldynado smiled as they started walking, relieved that he seemed to have distracted her from whatever she’d been thinking about as she studied him. But they’d gone only a few dozen paces when she spoke again.
“Who’s Tia?”
Maldynado stumbled. If Yara had heard Lita mention Tia, then what else had she heard? He’d been planning to share some information with the emperor, but now he’d be forced to divulge every detail. Grandmother’s hairiest wart, his role as family snitch was assured. If they didn’t sculpt statues of men who walked behind others, he was even more certain tattletales didn’t earn them. He couldn’t keep himself from glowering at Yara.
“I didn’t know they taught eavesdropping tactics at the Enforcer Academy.” Maldynado straightened his bags and continued down the street toward the bridge.
“Corporal Lokdon has never eavesdropped on you?”
“She doesn’t need to. She always knows what I’m thinking whether I talk about it or not.”
“So she knows about this Tia and the details of the estrangement from your family?”
“No, she’s not as nosey as you.” Maldynado gave Yara a pointed look. In truth, Amaranthe was nosier than anyone he’d ever met, but she hadn’t dug into his history, at least not that he knew about.
“Perhaps, given your current predicament, you’d be wise to share everything you know with the emperor.”
“You think it’s within me to be wise?” Maldynado said it jokingly, but at the moment he had doubts himself.
“Less foolish might have been a better word choice.” For once, Yara’s face wasn’t hard or condemning. Maybe it was the soft light of the sunset, but she actually seemed… sympathetic.
Maldynado’s lady-wooing instincts kicked in, and he realized that he might win some sympathy from her if he shared his story. Almost as soon as she’d joined up with the team in Forkingrust, he’d been mulling over ways to get her into bed. Oh, she wasn’t the sweet, voluptuous sort he usually went for, but she was handsome enough in her own square-jawed, hard-eyed way, and challenges always enticed him, at least when it came to women. Much like taming a tiger, there was an exhilaration in winning over someone determined to ignore, or even loathe, him. He’d never used Tia’s story to win anyone over though, and he shied away from the idea. It would be disrespectful to her spirit. Besides, it wasn’t as if the story would guarantee him sympathy. His family had condemned him over it, and maybe Yara would too. He’d certainly never forgiven himself.
“I’ll keep your advice in mind,” Maldynado said.
“Was this Tia one of your lovers?” Yara asked as they continued to walk. “Was there some scandal that embarrassed the family?”
The fact that she was asking questions surprised Maldynado. So far, all she’d done was throw insults at him. Why change now? He searched her face, wishing he was as good at reading people’s thoughts as Amaranthe was. Yara seemed to be… looking for confirmation that he’d messed up his life because of some stupid affair. Maybe she’d have an easier time continuing to dismiss him that way. Why not? Most others did. He’d come to accept that, but the idea of someone thinking Tia had been some throwaway female roused his hackles.
“She was my little sister,” Maldynado said.
The base of the bridge had come into view, and he quickened his step, leaving Yara to trail behind. He’d shared as much as he cared to that day.
• • •
Amaranthe had expected a spacious cell, given the monstrous size of the aircraft—in her head, she had started calling it the Behemoth. Something stark, bleak, and black certainly, but roomy. Instead, Pike and his guards had taken her to an empty room with nothing but a surgeon’s operating table in the center and a bronze-and-iron crate on the floor, the sort of thing one might stick a dog in for traveling. A small dog.
Without anything so friendly as a, “Welcome to your new home” or “Step in please, ma’am,” the guards had forced Amaranthe into the crate, their strength and numbers defeating her attempts to fight the entombing. The inside lacked windows, grates, or even pinholes for light. What if she ran out of air? Her body tensed at the thought. In the cramped blackness, with her knees to her chest and her back, shoulders, and feet smashed against the walls, she couldn’t do anything to release that tension, that fear. Relax, she ordered herself, and inhaled deep breaths, trying to find calm. It worked—sort of—but she found a new emotion too: disgust. The scent of lye soap clinging to the interior failed to hide the underlying odor of urine and feces. Pike must not be the sort to let his captives out for latrine breaks.
With no room to turn around or switch positions, Amaranthe almost dislocated a few joints when she probed the door and seams to search for weaknesses. A few minutes convinced her that there were none. There wasn’t any noise either. If anyone remained in the room outside her crate, she couldn’t hear signs of it.
After exploring her prison, there was little to do but sit and think. Especially about what would happen on that operating table. To distract herself, Amaranthe made a list of things she wanted to ask Pike. Perhaps it was overly optimistic, but she figured as long as she was in the enemy stronghold, she ought to gather what intelligence she could. And keep the conversation away from Sicarius.
The idea of betraying him worried her as much as thoughts of Pike and that table. It had happened before, when that shaman, Tarok, had used the Science to delve into her mind. She’d been powerless to stop him. Sicarius had killed Tarok before he could spread any secrets, but Sicarius wasn’t here. If the information escaped through her lips, there’d be no one to silence Pike.
She dropped her chin onto her chest. In the first few months she’d known Sicarius, before they’d developed a… friendship—yes, she felt confident in calling it that—Amaranthe had wondered if he might ponder the benefits of her death. With his dearest secret in her head, she represented a threat to him. Anyone who learned that Sespian was his son could use Sespian to strike at him. After a lifetime as an assassin, Sicarius had a long list of enemies who’d like to do just that. Amaranthe also represented a threat to the stability of the empire, or at least Sespian’s right to rule. Sicarius had to have thought of that from time to time, that if he got rid of her, this very scenario could never play out. But he hadn’t, and here she was. She could not betray him.
When hours passed and nobody came to question her, Amaranthe drifted back to less useful thoughts, like what would happen on that table. Logically, she knew she had to keep her mind busy lest self-pity, defeat, and fear start to gnaw at her, and she knew also that being stuffed in that tiny crate was meant as some marinade to tenderize the meat before roasting it. But the discomfort of growing thirst, hunger, and muscle cramps from being unable to shift positions intruded upon her thoughts, making it difficult to send her mind elsewhere. Most of all, she noticed the silence, the utter lack of anyone with whom to talk. Sicarius would probably find the solitude restful, but Amaranthe liked being around people. A few days with no one to talk to and she’d be in the right state of mind to babble every secret to Pike.
“Easy, girl,” Amaranthe whispered. “Don’t let him break you before he’s so much as plucked an arm hair out.”
A soft clank sounded, the first noise to penetrate the metal walls of her
crate. Someone had entered the room. Amaranthe wished she could maneuver her feet beneath her, to prepare to spring out and attack—or flee—if she saw the opportunity, but the tight space denied that much movement. Several moments passed, and nobody opened her door. Ear pressed to the wall of her prison, she listened for voices or footfalls. Maybe there were people out there, but the crate possessed a sound-dampening quality that kept her from hearing them.
When the door swung open, Amaranthe spilled out. Light blinded her, and she squinted her eyes shut. Her legs were numb after being locked in one position for so long, and she couldn’t feel her feet, much less get them beneath her. Several hands grabbed her and hoisted her from the floor. No, not hands. Something harder, colder.
Amaranthe forced her eyes open and urged them to adjust to light as harsh and as brilliant as the sun. It emanated from all directions, the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor, though there were no lanterns or obvious sources.
Whatever held her was moving her through the air. It halted with a jolt.
“No, not that one, that one. Yes.” Odd. It was a woman’s voice.
Amaranthe’s eyes finally adjusted to the light. She hung horizontally in the air, face toward the ceiling. The first things she made out were six black bars, or maybe arms, around her. They articulated and had six-pronged pincers at the ends, pincers that gripped her as effectively as human hands. She tried to squirm out of their grasp and decided they were more effective than human hands. The arms were attached to a vertical bar that attached to a blocky device—some machine, she supposed—mounted on the ceiling. The claw-like device carried her away from the crate and swung her toward the operating table. It appeared depressingly secure with a sturdy metal body and legs somehow sunken into the floor.
The gripping machine slid her onto the table, almost. She wasn’t high enough, and her head clunked against the edge.
“Oops,” came the woman’s voice again, followed by a few words in another language. Curses, Amaranthe would guess. She tried to see the speaker, but the claw blocked her view. It bumped her against the table again before rising a couple of inches and laying her flat on her back.
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