Maldynado weaved past the towering piles of wreckage and debris until he found the purloined lorry. Several hours had passed since he’d left to come up with his big plan, and he wasn’t sure everyone would be around for his return, but Books, Sespian, Basilard, and Yara were all present, their heads bent in some conference. Akstyr sat against a tire at the rear of the vehicle, a book the size of an infantryman’s shield propped open in his lap. How he’d managed to keep from losing that amidst all the train explosions and dirigible crashes, Maldynado couldn’t guess, though singe marks did decorate the corners. More concerned about what the rest of the team was doing—or planning—he hustled toward them, rattling his bags for attention.
“Shopping again?” Yara scowled at him from where she sat cross-legged on the lorry’s covered engine compartment. She still wore her dirt-stained sweater and trousers, even though he’d bargained for those clean, curve-enhancing garments for her the day before. Well, if the team accepted his plan, she’d have to wear his more recent acquisition. It would enhance a lot more than curves.
“Indeed so.” Maldynado set one of the bags beside her. “I’ve come up with a plan to get us all to the docks without being shot.”
“We wondered if you’d decided to back out,” Sespian said. He was seated on a rusty beam across from Basilard, who was cutting the roots off a stack of weeds—knowing him, they were for the stew pot.
“Of course, not,” Maldynado said. “I simply needed time to refine—”
“Silk?” Yara held up a midnight blue dress. “And, and, what is this? Jewelry? Have you gone mad?”
Basilard smirked. Perhaps the garments aren’t for Sergeant Yara. They don’t seem her style.
“Who else would a dress be for?” Akstyr asked.
The emperor? Basilard’s smirk widened. That might be an effective way to disguise him.
“I’m glad you fellows have refreshed your senses of humor in my absence.” Maldynado pointed to the dress. “That garment, and the jewelry, is for my fiancée.”
“Your what?” Yara demanded.
“Fiancée?” Books mused. “Definitely not the emperor, then.”
Sespian’s eyebrows flew up. He hadn’t understood Basilard’s comments, of course. Perhaps that was for the best.
“Allow me to explain,” Maldynado said. “As I mentioned earlier, I believe I can get into Rabbit Island. Even if the guards have heard that I’m disowned, Mari should be willing to vouch for me.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to perform any favors to earn that vouching. “And I imagine it won’t surprise anyone if I have a bodyguard and a lady friend.”
“A fiancée?” Akstyr asked.
“Just so,” Maldynado said. “And I believe Basilard would be a very convincing bodyguard. As for Akstyr, Books, and the emperor, someone will have to row the boat I’ve reserved for our use.”
Books made a choking noise. “You want the emperor to row your hirsute haunches across the river?”
“He can steer if rowing is a problem,” Maldynado said.
Fortunately, Sespian responded with an amused snort.
“Once we dock,” Maldynado said, “I’ll loudly give orders for my crew to stay and keep the vessel ready for my departure. On the way to the resort, Yara, Basilard, and I will arrange to create a distraction of some sort, the type of thing a few dock guards might be dispatched to investigate. Then you three can sneak aboard the steamboat.”
“Why do I have a feeling it won’t be that easy?” Books asked.
“Amaranthe’s schemes never go as planned either,” Maldynado pointed out. “You’re smart. You can compensate.”
“Somehow that sounds more convincing when she says it,” Books said. “Sire, what do you think?”
Sespian dropped his chin on his fist—he liked to do that when he was pondering, Maldynado had noticed—and gazed at the rusty nuts and bolts scattered on the dusty ground.
“You’ll do fine if you have to subdue a few thugs, Sire,” Maldynado said. “I can attest to the fact that you’re decent at sneaking up and putting a knife to a man’s throat.” Sespian hadn’t shown any appreciation for flattery thus far, and didn’t acknowledge it now. Maldynado pressed on. “You’ll have Books and Akstyr with you too. Akstyr’s got his magics, and Books… He’s tall and spindly, but he’s gotten decent with his fists.”
“Such a magnanimous accolade,” Books murmured.
“Shouldn’t my vote matter here?” Yara asked. “You haven’t explained why you need a fiancée. I’d, quite frankly, rather play the role of oarsman.”
“My lady, you wound me with your distain.” Maldynado started to lay a hand on his chest, but remembered Books poking fun at his tendency to do that and offered Yara puppy-dog eyes instead. She glared, and he switched tactics. “To answer your question, I plan to get information by pretending I wish to return to the warrior-caste lifestyle and by agreeing to do whatever’s necessary to get back into my father’s good graces.” His stomach turned at the thought. A pretense only, he told it. “Given my previous disinterest in being in anyone’s good graces, I thought my turnaround would be more believable if it were because I’d found the woman of my dreams and decided to marry her.”
Yara’s lips reared back from her teeth like those of a trained attacked dog ready to crush a man’s jewels.
Maldynado continued speaking, though he knew his next words might truly endanger those jewels. “And if she’s expecting, my change of heart will be even more believable. What kind of warrior-caste father would want his child growing up as a commoner?”
“Child!” Yara blurted.
Books rubbed the back of his head. “This is starting to sound like an Amaranthe plan.”
Maldynado stood straighter. “Do you think so? Would she be proud?”
“I’d like to say she’d be appalled by your entire last forty-eight hours, which included crashing a dirigible and blowing up a steam lorry, but… I can’t.”
“Nope.” Maldynado smiled. “Crashes and explosions have become her hallmarks of late.”
Basilard signed, She’ll be proud if your antics get the emperor the information he needs.
“Ah, yes, always back to business. What do you think, Yara? Will you play the part of adoring fiancée if it’ll help the emperor?”
“Adoring?”
“That part isn’t required. You just have to make it believable.”
Yara sighed and dropped her arms. “Will there be touching?”
“No,” Sespian said with a warning look to Maldynado.
“Wait a moment,” Maldynado said, “it wouldn’t be convincing if we kept a distance. Mari knows me, after all.”
Sespian and Yara glared at him.
“You don’t have to go,” Sespian told her. “You can be on the boat crew.”
“No, no, Sire, I have to take her. My sister-in-law will find it suspicious if I have a change of heart for no obvious reason. Yara and a pretend-baby-on-the-way make a good reason.” And, he had to admit, he wanted to see her in that dress, but he’d best not admit that aloud, not if he didn’t want her to throw a knife at him. “Besides, I’m hoping her presence will keep Mari from wanting to be entertained.”
That drew a round of blank looks from everyone.
“By me,” Maldynado clarified.
The blank looks did not turn into expressions of enlightenment. Would he have to draw pictures?
“By my man parts,” Maldynado said.
More than one set of eyebrows lifted.
Yara’s lip curled again—it was good at that. “That’s disgusting.”
“Oh, no, they’re quite fine.” Maldynado waved to his lower regions. “You’re welcome to see them anytime if you don’t believe me. Perhaps it’d even be wise, in case someone questions you about my manhood while we’re perpetrating this ruse. You wouldn’t want to say anything in err, would you?”
Yara’s lip curled up further until it was in danger of swallowing her nose. “I meant that it’s disgusting that your sis
ter-in-law would proposition you!”
“Oh, yes,” Maldynado said. “She’s done so during more than one family gathering. For whatever reason—well, we all know the reason—she finds me quite irresistible.”
“Maldynado… ” Books managed a pronounced sigh as he said the name.
“Have you ever returned her… ardor?” Sespian asked.
“Of course not. With my brother’s wife? I have some scruples, you know.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve slept with someone’s wife,” Books said. “Isn’t Lady Buckingcrest married?”
Maldynado folded his arms across his chest. “Not to any of my brothers.”
Yes, come now, Basilard signed to Books. Maldynado has standards.
Of course, Books signed back. What was I thinking?
“I wish I understood that hand language,” Yara said.
“They’re mocking me,” Maldynado said.
“Then I really wish I understood it.” Yara’s eyes glinted.
Maldynado thought to scowl at her, but he’d best not do anything to squash improvements in her mood, slight though they may be.
“Enough of this foolishness,” Yara said. “Let’s visit your lecherous relative and get this information as swiftly as possible.”
“Does that mean you’re agreeing to become my fiancée?” Maldynado went down on a knee and opened his arms, inviting her to run into his embrace.
“Let’s just say that I believe your family would be highly skeptical that you’d agree to settle down and take on responsibility unless you’d been suitably whipped into submission by a woman.” A thoughtful expression came over Yara’s face. “Yes, actually, a good overbearing woman who bosses you around and takes none of your frivolity is just what you need. I do believe I can play that role.”
If Yara meant that to concern him, she’d be disappointed. Maldynado offered his best lazy smile. “Whatever you say, dear, so long as you do the whipping while wearing that dress.”
A perplexed wrinkle furrowed Sespian’s brow. “It’s hard to imagine you’re the group’s charm specialist.”
“Actually, that’s Amaranthe,” Maldynado said. “I just get all the women.”
“Not all of them,” Yara said.
Maldynado kept his response, one of we’ll see, to himself.
• • •
Pike’s salve hadn’t healed Amaranthe entirely, only “enough so you won’t die overnight.” Locked back in the crate, she hunkered in a ball, face buried in her knees, the walls pressing in from all sides and denying a change of position. Moving wouldn’t have been wise anyway. Any time she so much as twitched, a scab opened up and fresh blood or pus dripped down her arm or leg and splashed onto the waste-stained floor.
Early on, Amaranthe had wished to swab the crate with a mop, sterilizing it—and herself—with copious amounts of alcohol. She’d grown too weary to think of such things now. She longed for sleep—oblivion—but it rarely came. Chances to escape were even rarer. The one time she’d tried to sprint for the exit as soon as her crate door opened, the claw had swept down from the ceiling, plucking her into the air before she’d gone more than three steps. Pike had punished her attempt with an extra hour of “work,” as he called it, before starting in on question-asking. She’d tried lying to him, hoping to end the torment, but he had, with a knack that reminded her far too much of the one Sicarius possessed, seen through her attempts at mendacity. However many years had passed, Pike had known Sicarius well at one time and must have a good idea of what would and what wouldn’t motivate him to protect someone.
It bothered her that more than once while she was wadded up in the crate, Amaranthe had wondered if protecting Sicarius’s secret was worth the continued pain. After all the people he’d killed, did he deserve such loyalty? She loved him, but he’d offered so little in return. Did he truly care about her? Did he think about a life together with her when this was all over? Would the suffering she was enduring matter to him? She resented herself for her doubts; more, she resented Pike for causing her to have them.
On the third night, or maybe it was the fourth—the only thing she had to judge time by was the number of torture sessions that had gone by—a soft scrape roused Amaranthe from her latest attempt at sleep. A beam of light slashed into the crate. Accustomed to the blackness inside, she groaned at the pain it elicited and turned her head away.
“Amaranthe?” came a whisper from outside. Retta.
Hope stirred behind Amaranthe’s breast. After that first day, Pike had worked the controls for the claw and the table himself, and she hadn’t seen Retta again.
Fighting pain, Amaranthe forced her face toward the light. Retta had opened a horizontal rectangle in the door. It wasn’t big enough to slip a hand through—even if Amaranthe could maneuver an arm up to it—but she could see Retta’s hazel eyes through the gap.
“I didn’t know this flat came with a view,” Amaranthe rasped. Speaking hurt. During the last session, Pike had experimented with ways to induce panic in her, perhaps believing she’d blurt out the answers he craved, and he’d alternated between choking her and pouring water down her throat.
Retta’s eyebrows drew together, creating a tiny furrow above her nose. “How can you make jokes in your situation?”
“Inappropriate jocularity is one of my hallmarks. Just ask Sicarius.” Amaranthe decided it would take too much effort to explain that it was better to make jokes to distract oneself from the gravity of one’s predicament than to dwell upon it.
Retta leaned in closer, blocking the light with her face. “Why are you protecting that assassin? You could be free if you simply answered our question.”
Our. Amaranthe had wondered how closely Retta was associated with Forge, whether she was one of them or simply someone who’d been pressed into working for them. That “our” was telling.
“I could be free?” Amaranthe whispered. “Doubtful. I was responsible for Larocka Myll’s death, and my team has thwarted other Forge schemes this past year. We… ” It occurred to her pain-befuddled mind that she shouldn’t be volunteering information about what she had and hadn’t thwarted. Forge might not know all the details. “I’m sure I’m slated for execution once Pike has the information he seeks,” she finished.
“Don’t be foolish, Lokdon. Ms. Worgavic likes you. You would have been invited to join Forge years ago if you’d gone to work for an alumnus or started your own business. Nobody was going to approach an enforcer though. But now that you’re rogue… ” The narrow window slit didn’t offer a view of Retta’s shoulders, but clothing rustled, hinting at a shrug. “When Ms. Worgavic learned that you were leading those mercenaries and not simply tagging along with the assassin, she suggested to more than one person that you should be converted to our side instead of eliminated. As one of the six founders, she has the sway to make that happen.”
Amaranthe didn’t know what to think of Retta’s statement. She supposed it might be true, but Worgavic might have also sent Retta to try and extract information using a slyer method than Pike’s. She did tuck the tidbit about Forge having six founders away in the back of her mind. Worgavic hadn’t been on Books’s list; maybe he hadn’t discovered any of the founders yet.
“Why did you come?” Amaranthe asked. She might earn more useful information if she asked questions instead of answering them. Then she’d just have to figure out how to escape so she could put that information to good use. Retta seemed the most likely prospect to help with both goals. “The scowls you gave me that first day didn’t seem all that friendly.”
“Of course, I was scowling. You think I like hearing about what a boon it’d be for Forge if you could be converted? When I’m already here? I’ve been working for Ms. Worgavic for years and she barely acknowledges… ” Retta thumped a hand on the side of the crate. “They wouldn’t have any idea how to control the Ortarh Ortak if not for me.”
Was that the name of the craft? Amaranthe preferred her name, the Behemoth.
> “I’ve been instrumental to their success of late,” Retta continued. “You’ve been a pest gnawing at their toes.”
How flattering. Amaranthe kept the thought to herself and grunted encouragingly instead. This was her chance. If she could keep Retta talking and establish a rapport…
“You were one of Ms. Worgavic’s favorite students, did you know that?” Retta asked. “All the teachers liked you. And our peers too. It wasn’t fair. You weren’t warrior-caste, and you weren’t even from a good family. Isn’t your father some dirty logger, or something?”
“He was a coal miner,” Amaranthe said.
“Oh.” A note of apology came with that oh. Retta seemed to realize she’d been more insulting than she intended.
“I apologize because I don’t remember, but did I ever… wrong you?” Amaranthe asked.
“No, you never wronged anyone. That’s why everyone liked you. It was cursed annoying.”
Despite her discomfort, Amaranthe laughed. A short laugh, and the pain in her abdomen immediately made her regret it, but maybe it was worth it, for Retta’s blinked in surprise. Amusement was not the reaction she’d expected apparently.
“As I recall,” Amaranthe said, “you spent every free moment in the library, and, even in class, kept your face buried in those archaeology books. The teachers might have appreciated you more if you’d paid attention, or at least raised your hand to ask a question once in a while. People like to know others are listening when they talk. Teachers and students too.” Amaranthe kept her tone amiable, trying not to make her comments sound like a lecture, but she hoped to show Retta that whatever differences there might have been between them, they weren’t Amaranthe’s fault. No need to hold a grudge now…
“They were archaeology books. How’d you… I mean, I didn’t think you even knew who I was.”
Amaranthe decided not to mention that the fact had only stuck out for its oddness. All the other girls had carried their textbooks or, if they enjoyed reading, the latest romance or adventure stories. “While I don’t mind chatting, you haven’t answered my original question. Why are you here?”
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