* * * * *
A quick check of the carriage house out back proved Larocka, or perhaps the servants, had taken off with the steam vehicles. Arakan Hill and the Imperial Barracks loomed three or four miles away. With no other alternatives, Amaranthe loped off on foot. Despite her attempt to dismiss them, the others puffed along behind her.
The smell of wood smoke hung in the crisp air, and bare branches turned the moonlight into a latticework of shadows. Last time she walked this way, enforcers had ambushed her. Tonight, no one else lurked on the long street paralleling the Ridge. The city felt oddly quiet, as if it was holding its breath.
They had gone no more than a mile when an explosion boomed into the silence. The cracks of firearms followed, and Amaranthe halted to listen, trying to pinpoint the origins.
Maldynado stopped beside her. “It sounds like it’s coming from the Midtown River.”
The rest of the men caught up.
“They’ve already got Sespian,” Amaranthe said.
Books bent over and sucked in a gulp of air. “It could...just be a...coincidence.”
More firearms bawled in the distance. Up on Arakan Hill, an alarm bell pealed.
“Want to bet on it?” Amaranthe asked.
“No,” Books said.
Running again, they turned west at the next street and raced off Mokath Ridge toward the river. She wished the trolleys were running, but it was too late at night.
Before they made it halfway there, the firing stopped, and only the alarm bell disturbed the silence. Amaranthe fought the urge to zip along faster, leaving the others behind. Her lungs were not yet burning, but she could hear the ragged wheezes of Books and Akstyr. She would probably need their help for whatever they stumbled across.
They rounded a corner, and the 52nd Street Bridge came into view. The street lamps illuminated a ghastly scene, and Amaranthe paused in the shadows.
Black smoke poured from a collision site. Two steam carriages had struck each other at the base of the bridge, one painted in imperial black and gold, the other nondescript. Another of the emperor’s vehicles had crashed through the rail of the bridge, and wobbled tenuously, the front half hanging out over the frozen river twenty feet below. The bodies of imperial soldiers—no, the emperor’s personal guard—littered the blood-smeared street.
“We’re too late,” Amaranthe whispered.
“What was the emperor doing out in the middle of the night?” Maldynado asked.
She touched the communication stone in her pocket. “I bet someone on Larocka’s payroll talked him into coming out. Let’s see if he’s...” She gulped, unable to finish the sentence. She did not want to see Sespian’s broken body on the street.
Despite the late hour, the noise had drawn a crowd from nearby tenements. A handful of enforcers struggled to establish barricades on either side of the bridge, but this had just happened and few men had arrived. Reinforcements would show up shortly, but perhaps Amaranthe could sneak close enough to investigate the crash first.
“Books, come with me, please. The rest of you, a distraction would be good.”
“What kind of distraction?” Maldynado asked.
“The kind where you do something creative to keep the enforcers from noticing us snooping.”
“Creative, eh?” Maldynado tossed a speculative look at his comrades.
Afraid to wonder, Amaranthe grabbed Books and angled toward the river. They passed between two street lamps and skidded down the snowy bank. She flailed but caught her balance on the ice. Books landed on his butt. She paused long enough to help him up, then ran and slid for the closest of the two piers anchored in the river.
Black against the starry sky, the truss bridge loomed overhead. Steam screeched, another vehicle approaching. A truck delivering more enforcers, probably.
Amaranthe clambered up the cement block, but hesitated when she looked up at the steel supports.
“Maybe you should wait down here,” she told Books.
“I’m coming,” he said.
She shrugged. One vertical and two diagonal steel beams rose from the concrete, and she took one of the diagonals. The angle made the climb doable, and she soon peered over the floor of the bridge. The tottering steam carriage wobbled to her left with the two crashed vehicles at the base to her right.
“Yo, when’s this bridge gonna be cleared?” Maldynado’s voice came from the crowd.
Feeling exposed under the starlight, Amaranthe hoped her distraction was forthcoming. She grabbed the rail and pulled herself over.
All the doors of the tottering carriage were open, and one hung from a sole hinge. The front of the vehicle was smashed. The driver had been thrown free.
Steel clashed at the base of the bridge. Maldynado had engaged a pair of enforcers in a sword fight. Amaranthe didn’t see Basilard or Akstyr.
She knelt near the driver’s body, her hand resting on the ground. Cooling blood puddled on the sand-covered ice and dampened her fingers. That didn’t startle her, but the man’s slit throat did. The crash hadn’t killed him; a dagger had.
As she eased around him toward a second body, her fingers brushed broken glass. She plucked up several shards, some curved, some straight.
Behind her, Books lumbered onto the bridge.
“Stop them!” someone cried.
Amaranthe’s head jerked up. Someone must have spotted them.
“They’re stealing our truck!”
Steam squealed from the enforcer vehicle, and it lurched into motion. She almost laughed. She hadn’t been spotted; the enforcers were yelling at Maldynado and the others. Metal crunched, the sound rising over the shouts of the enforcers and the crowd. Whoever was driving the stolen truck had crashed it into another arriving vehicle. Cries of “idiot!” punctuated baser profanities.
“We’ll have to rescue them from jail in the morning,” Books muttered.
Amaranthe slipped the glass shards into a pocket. “Look around. We won’t have much time before someone notices us.”
She slipped down the bridge where more inert bodies sprawled. The fallen all wore imperial uniforms. There was no sign of enemy dead. In fact, there was hardly any sign of a fight at all. She checked body after body, each neatly dispatched. Despite the earlier gunfire she’d heard, these men had all been killed by blades.
It seemed inconceivable that even skilled assassins could so unequivocally dispatch Sespian’s guard, who would have been doubly alert after a crash....
Amaranthe crouched beside one of the last bodies. Moisture—blood—saturated a guard’s black uniform. A dagger stuck into the chest to the hilt.
After a moment of hesitation, Amaranthe tugged it free. Even coated in blood, even in the dim light from the street lamps, she recognized it. Sicarius’s black dagger.
“Who’s up there?” someone called.
This time, the enforcers were looking at her.
“Corporal Tennil,” Books said.
“There’s no...” Hand on the hilt of a sword, one of the enforcers stepped forward.
“Time to go,” Amaranthe whispered.
She stuck the dagger in her belt and scrambled for the side of the bridge. This time, she made Books go first, afraid he would get caught if she didn’t.
Two enforcers pounded toward them. Lamplight glinted on a steel blade.
“Hurry!” she urged.
As soon as Books’s head dipped out of view, Amaranthe slithered over the side. A sword whistled down from above but glanced off the railing.
Her foot missed the beam on her first groping stab, and she almost fell. She found a foothold on the second attempt and released her hand just before an enforcer boot crushed it.
Sliding more than climbing, she made the bottom in seconds. Books landed at the same time with a grunt.
“Next time, I’ll just wait on the—”
Crossbow quarrels clinked into the ice at their feet. She grabbed his arm, dragged him under the bridge, and raced out the other side. They clung to the
deep shadows near the bank and didn’t climb up until they were out of crossbow range.
Several blocks later, with the shouts fading behind, Amaranthe finally paused under a street lamp. She pulled out the dagger and held it beneath the light. Yes, it was definitely Sicarius’s weapon, the one she had left in Hollowcrest’s office. Someone was trying to frame him.
“I didn’t see the emperor’s body,” Books said.
“No, there’s still hope.” Amaranthe removed the shards of glass from her pocket.
“Broken vials?” Books picked up a concave piece and sniffed. “Liquid smoke.”
“What’s that?”
“I remember a science professor trying to make some once. It’s a Kendorian concoction that tears your eyes and makes it hard to breathe. They probably modified crossbows to shoot the vials. It’s extremely expensive to make, but that wouldn’t be a problem for Larocka.”
“That’s why the soldiers were dispatched so easily.”
“They must have kidnapped Sespian,” Books said.
“Yes, of course. The note said...” She stopped. Crazy times or not, she could not give away Sicarius’s secret. “The emperor was to be taken somewhere and burned alive.”
“But where?” Books asked.
“There’s no way to...” A silvery bump on one of the shards of glass drew her eye. She squinted and rubbed it with her thumb. Molten steel that had hardened. She had seen it all over the scrapyard at the Oak Iron Smelter. She handed the piece to Books. “Looks like they prepped in a smelter. There was one on that list of businesses Larocka owns, wasn’t there?”
“Yestfer,” he said.
Amaranthe thought of the note, the threat to burn Sespian alive, and she gripped the lamppost as a vision rushed over her. Larocka dumping him in a vat of molten steel.
“That’s where they’ll be,” she said. “I have to go.”
“We have to go.”
“You have to go back to the bridge. Try to extricate the others, but most importantly tell the enforcers to get men to Yestfer. If I get killed...someone else needs to know where Sespian is.”
“They’re not going to listen to me!”
“You have to try. Hurry, Books, there’s no time to debate.”
He lifted a hand. “Very well.”
She sprinted down the street, heading for the industrial part of town.
“Be careful!” Books called after her.
The downhill grade made the run easier, but the blocks dragged past. Stars glittered in a dark sky framed by darker buildings.
She turned a corner onto a wide street heading down to the railroad and the lake. The massive chimney of the smelter came into view, black smoke pouring from its rim, blotting out stars. Someone was burning coal for the furnace. It was too early for normal work hours. A queasy lurch ran through her stomach. She was not sure whether to be elated or scared she had guessed right.
Beneath the chimney squatted a vast rectangular building with windows too high to peer through. A twenty-foot sliding door stood open two feet, and several steam carriages were parked out front. Guards surely waited to trap—or shoot—anyone who came through.
Keeping to the shadows, Amaranthe angled around the smelter. There had to be another entrance.
On the scrapyard side of the building, a roll-up door was shut. She jogged closer, but a huge lock secured it. Rounding another corner took her to railroad tracks coming up from the lake and the shipyards. The rails disappeared beneath double doors—also locked. Under them, a gap allowed the tracks to pass through with a couple inches to spare. A man would have a hard time squirming his way through the opening, but maybe she could fit.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Amaranthe flopped onto her belly in the gravel next to the tracks. She peered into the building, but saw only bins and stacks of ingots in the dim light.
She poked her head under the door, and heat washed over her face. She wriggled through the gap.
Once inside, she pushed into a crouch. A railroad car with a slag ladle blocked most of her view. A shoot perched above it, though no molten material poured down at the moment. Amaranthe listened for voices, but roaring fires and hot air pumping into furnaces drowned out lesser noises.
Catwalks overhead followed the walls, crisscrossed the interior, and met at the stories-high blast furnace dominating the building. Bins of iron ore, charcoal, and limestone cluttered the view at floor level. Larocka could be hiding a battalion of soldiers—and her prisoner—in the enormous building.
The catwalks would provide the best view of the facility. Of course, it would also make it easier for people on the ground to view her too. No help for that.
She found a ladder and climbed. A diagonal track running from ore bins to the loading platform above the furnace offered her some cover. A cart waited at the top, but nobody stood up there manning it.
Thirty feet up, Amaranthe reached the catwalk. She still couldn’t see anyone below, but the blast furnace blocked the front door area.
Heavy uniforms and shielded aprons hung on hooks, presumably to protect workers from the heat and molten detritus. Helmets and thick gloves perched on a shelf. On the chance she might need hand protection, Amaranthe grabbed a pair and stuck them in her belt.
Staying low, she crept toward the furnace. The open railings and metal grid flooring would only provide partial cover if someone started shooting.
Once she glimpsed movement below, but when she turned her head, she saw nothing. If someone dangerous and elusive was moving amongst the machinery, she hoped it was Sicarius. Dare she hope he was in the building? Only the metal splattered on the glass shard had made her think of the smelter. If it was up to her to save Sespian alone...
Daunted at the thought, she licked her lips and continued toward the blast furnace. The intensity of the heat increased. By the time she came abreast of the furnace, sweat bathed her torso and stung her eyes.
A ladder on the catwalk led up to the charging platform, where workers could shovel ore, coke, and limestone off the skip car and into the belly of the fifty-foot beast. When Amaranthe’s sleeve brushed one of the metal rungs, the heat sprang through the cloth, and she jerked her arm away.
She inched forward and finally spotted men on the ground. A lot of men.
Between the front door and the base of the blast furnace stood at least twenty warriors. Clad in gray fatigues with no insignia, the broad, muscled men bore muskets, swords, or battle axes. A few men wore blood stains, but none appeared injured. This must be the party that slaughtered the emperor’s guards.
A couple men watched the furnace where a worker in insulated uniform, gloves, and helmet stood. Most faced the perimeter, weapons ready. They were expecting someone.
“Time grows short, Sicarius,” a muffled female voice called. Larocka?
Surprised, Amaranthe leaned through the railing. It seemed Larocka was the worker at the base of the furnace. From Amaranthe’s angle, she could not see through the helmet’s glass faceplate, but the voice had certainly come from within. That uniform would do a fine job of protecting her from a throwing knife as well as the heat.
“You tripped one of the magical alarms Arbitan set before—before...” Larocka clanked her hand against the face shield of her helmet, as if trying to wipe her eyes or nose but forgetting about the barrier. “If you think you’ll sneak up on us, you’re mistaken.”
Uh oh. Amaranthe shifted back from the railing. What if she had tripped the trap? What if Sicarius wasn’t there at all?
She had to find out. She eased farther along her perch, but when she passed a clump of piping two men came into view. They stood on the catwalk with her, stationed between her and the front door in a place they could see the entrance and also signal to Larocka. The intervening pipes and machinery had kept Amaranthe from seeing them—and thankfully them from seeing her. But all one would have to do was decide to take a walk, and her hiding place would be very open from their point of view.
Amaranthe
crept back to hunker in the shadow of the blast furnace.
“It’s time for the emperor to die,” Larocka yelled. “I thought you’d want a front row seat, but I suppose knowing you’re here is good enough.” She placed one gloved hand on a lever, and Amaranthe imagined her vengeful smile behind that glass faceplate.
Not certain what the lever controlled, Amaranthe grabbed the hot metal rail and leaned as far past the edge of the catwalk as she could.
The sight below almost made her lose her grip. Sespian lay naked and spread-eagle, wrists and ankles bound by taut chains. He was under the spout that released molten iron. If Larocka pulled that lever, the floodgate would open, and Sespian would be seared alive. Even now, he was too close to the furnace with no protective clothing. His skin was red and dry. Heat stroke. He could die from that alone, even if the molten iron never came.
Larocka turned toward the lever and started to put weight on it.
Amaranthe tried to think of something to do, anything to buy time. She opened her mouth to yell.
“Wait!”
Sicarius.
He stepped out of the shadows, palms open, arms away from his weapons. Twenty men raised swords and muskets toward him.
“Whatever for?” Larocka asked sweetly.
Indeed, what for? What could he do? What can I do?
“I need the head,” Sicarius said.
Sespian’s head lolled to the side, dark eyes focusing on Sicarius, but only briefly before his chin slumped. He did not look good.
Amaranthe pulled herself back onto the catwalk. Sicarius was buying time. She needed to do something useful with it.
“What?” Larocka asked after a stunned moment.
“The head,” Sicarius said. “My employer requires it as proof of an assignment completed.”
Amaranthe groaned as she crawled toward the ladder leading to the top of the furnace. Of all the ways Sicarius could have bought time...surely that was the most condemning. Even if they made it out of this, Sicarius would be suspect in Sespian’s eyes.
When she reached the ladder, she stuffed her hands into the gloves. They were far too large, and her fingers swam in them, but they let her grip the scorching rungs.
“You’d have me believe you’re here to ensure the emperor is killed?” Larocka asked. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
Amaranthe climbed, hoping the new position would not let the guards on the catwalk see her. Her boots protected her feet from the rungs, and she made it to the charging platform.
“My opinion of you is irrelevant,” Sicarius said. “If you kill him with lava, it’ll sear his features to the point of being indistinguishable. It matters little to me if yours is the hand to slay him, but perhaps we can negotiate an alternative method.”
“He’s your son!” Larocka blurted.
Amaranthe leaned over the platform to judge Sespian’s reaction. She was even higher now and could barely see him over the swell of the furnace. His face was too far down for her to read. The heat stroke had to be addling his mind. Maybe he was past understanding any of this.
The men watching weren’t, and this was apparently new information for them. They looked about at each other, though their weapons never ceased aiming at Sicarius.
“Because the enforcer bitch believes that story doesn’t make it so,” Sicarius said coolly. “Even if it were, a contract is a contract.”
Amaranthe studied the scant offerings of the charging platform. A shovel and the ore cart, which was about halfway unloaded.
“You should have kept the ‘enforcer bitch’ and her allies,” Larocka said. “At least they weren’t stupid enough to walk into a trap without backup.”
Amaranthe snorted as she rummaged through the ore bin. Most of the pieces were only a couple inches diameter, not large enough to make devastating projectiles.
“But my spies saw you walk away from the house alone,” Larocka said, “angry that your secret was out. You killed Arbitan, you bastard. Now you’ll watch me kill your son.”
“Arbitan was a traitor,” Sicarius said. “A Nurian spy who used you to infiltrate Forge.”
Amaranthe dug out a large piece of ore that must have weighed twelve or fifteen pounds. It would have to do.
“Nurian, yes,” Larocka said, “but not a spy. He defected. He—”
“He talked you into assassinating the emperor, didn’t he?” Sicarius said.
“No! I... You’re lying. You’re stalling, and—stay back!”
Amaranthe leaned over the rail. Sicarius had been advancing as he spoke, a fact Larocka had not missed. He was still too far away to do anything, and the team of hulking men stood between him and Sespian.
“Now you watch him die,” she snarled and turned, putting both hands on the lever.
Amaranthe aimed.
Sicarius surged forward, but the men were expecting it, and they blocked him.
Amaranthe dropped the rock.
She held her breath. Its fall seemed so slow. The lever started downward in its track.
The rock struck the top of Larocka’s helmet. Her hands flew up and she was hurled to her back. She flopped once and lay unmoving. The lever clunked back to its original position, and Amaranthe let out her breath.
Twenty sets of eyes looked up at her. A musket cracked, and a ball clanged off the metal railing.
Sicarius never paused. While everyone else was distracted, he drew a dagger and slashed the throats of the two men restraining him. He plunged through the rest and thrust the blade into Larocka’s chest, taking no chances of her coming after him again.
By then the guards had recovered, and they surged around him.
The sound of boots on metal wrenched Amaranthe’s attention from the scene below. She was about to have her own guards to deal with. The two men on the catwalk thundered toward her.
She should have felt terror, or at least a healthy dose of fear, but instead exhilaration thrummed through her. She ought to run, but she had time to get in a few more blows.
Amaranthe grabbed the shovel and threw ore over the side, taking care to aim away from Sicarius. The blond head was overwhelmed by the number of black and brown heads, but he did not try to escape. How could he? Sespian was still tied up and in danger from any of the men near the lever.
She hurled more ore. Any distraction she could provide to tilt the odds toward Sicarius she would. From this height, even the smaller pieces had to hurt when they hit flesh.
“Arwk!” came a cry from below the staging platform.
Amaranthe’s lips flattened in a grim smile. One of the guards must have tried to grab the metal ladder with his bare hands.
Boots striking the rungs told her the men were coming up despite the discomfort. She abandoned the ore cart and took up a position at the top of the ladder, shovel raised over her shoulder.
One hand grabbed the top of the platform. She stomped on it with her heel. The man howled and let go but did not fall off the ladder. She swung the shovel. The metal head struck him in the nose. That time he let go.
He bounced off the railing and missed the catwalk, falling forty feet into the melee below. Three guards went down under him.
“What?” a voice protested in shock.
Amaranthe peered over the edge at the second man, who clung to the ladder, using his sleeves as protection from the hot metal rungs. He was still gawking at his comrade’s rapid descent.
Amaranthe hefted the shovel. “Didn’t your commander ever lecture you on the follies of assaulting a soldier with the high ground?”
The man refocused on her and threw a knife. Amaranthe jumped back, swinging up the shovel as a defense. The blade clanged off her tool, but the distraction gave the guard the time to climb to the top and lunge onto the platform with her.
Though she still had the shovel, it felt inadequate when the man yanked a double-headed axe off his back. The ringing of more boots on metal meant reinforcements were coming.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you men go to w
ar while women mind the store?” The guard sneered and spun his axe.
Amaranthe retreated until her back bumped into the ore cart. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you there’s no point in fighting a war when your employer is dead?”
“We’ve already been paid, and we’ll collect twice when we ‘save’ the emperor and bring in Sicarius’s head.” He took a step forward.
Amaranthe glanced over the railing. “Looks like your friends are losing that fight.”
Actually, the brief look below told her little about who was wining. She did not even glimpse Sicarius, and only the seething chaos suggested he was still alive and fighting. Her words got the guard to look over the edge though.
She swung at the back of his head with the shovel.
His axe spun up and sliced through the wooden haft. The shovel head clattered onto the platform, leaving Amaranthe with a broken stick.
The guard lunged at her, axe raised for another swipe. She threw the haft at him and jumped into the ore cart. Her weight tipped it over the edge of the platform. She plunged down the steep track.
Too fast! was the only thought she had time for. Then she ran out of track.
The cart crashed into a solid bin, and she flew out. She bounced off a second bin, then smacked into the concrete floor. Her breath whooshed out, and black dots spun through her vision.
Disoriented, Amaranthe fumbled about and managed to rise to hands and knees. That’s when movement from the front door caught her eye. She squinted and struggled to focus.
Soldiers wearing the emperor’s black and gold were pouring inside. Her first reaction was to slump with relief, but then she went rigid. She and Sicarius had as much to worry about from soldiers as Larocka’s guards did. Maybe more.
She lunged to her feet and raced toward the blast furnace. She dodged track, pipes, and bins and darted into the open area she had seen from above. The first body almost tripped her. Downed men littered the floor amongst pools of blood. Where was...
The lone standing figure amongst the carnage, Sicarius grabbed an axe. Black shirt ravaged, blood spattering him from hair to boots, he looked like—he was—the harbinger of death. He stepped to Sespian’s side and lifted the dripping blade overhead to hack at the chains.
“Soldiers,” Amaranthe barked. “We have to get out of—”
The first of the men plunged into the opening. They almost tripped over the bodies, too, but that did not keep them from seeing Sespian.
“Sire!” one blurted.
“Stop!” another shouted to Sicarius. “Don’t hurt him!”
Arms raised, Sicarius hesitated. Less, Amaranthe guessed, because of the soldier’s command and more because he was wondering if Sespian was safe now.
“They’ll help him,” she said, wincing at Sicarius’s condemning pose. “We have to go.”
A musketeer shouldered his way forward, weapon rising to take aim.
Sicarius threw the axe at the approaching men, though awkwardly, not with the intent to kill. They ducked the flying blade, and the musketeer dropped his weapon.
Amaranthe waved for Sicarius to follow and led him to the back door.
“Get them!” someone yelled.
Sicarius passed Amaranthe and kicked open the locked door. With night’s darkness for cover, they raced through the scrapyard into the snow-draped city.
When Sicarius matched her pace instead of taking off on his own, she eyed him with hope. Was she forgiven? With the blood staining his blond hair and eyebrows, smearing his neck, and dripping from his chin, he appeared even grimmer than usual, but he met her questioning gaze. As the shouts faded behind them, he nodded and patted her on the back.
The Emperor's Edge (a high fantasy mystery in an era of steam) Page 50
