Blood and Betrayal

by Buroker, Lindsay

  Amaranthe coughed, almost choking on that idea. He had to be the least libidinous teenage boy she’d met.

  “A couple of older boys, too, who are reputedly Raumesys’s illegitimate spawn. You really hadn’t heard about any of this? Where did you say you were from?” Pabov squinted at her, wearing the expression of a man starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake in confiding in her. He glanced around the facility, a facility he probably had orders not to show to unauthorized personnel.

  “I’m from Stumps,” Amaranthe said, hurrying to talk before he thought overmuch on her inquisitiveness and the way she’d wheedled information out of him. “I came down on business and made the mistake of wandering off alone and getting attacked by local boys. They took me off and… ” Amaranthe closed her eyes, as if she were too pained at the memory to go into details. It wasn’t far from the truth. “There’s a distinct lack of civility in parts down here, I noticed.”

  “Oh.” Pabov considered her bruises again, then stuck his hands into his pockets. Sheepishness replaced the suspicion on his face. “Sorry. Do you need any help or a place to stay?”

  “No, no.” Amaranthe eased toward the door as she spoke. “I shouldn’t have bothered you at all. You just seemed nice. And interesting. Your work, I mean.” She waved at the snarl of pipes and tanks.

  “Oh,” he said again, brightening at her compliment. “Thank you. If you’re in town for a while, come back and see me. I’ll take you on a tour in the UWTMV.”

  Amaranthe halted. She’d been halfway to the door, but there was an invitation that tempted. A quick trip with him and she could learn how to use the vehicle.

  “I have time now,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.

  A smile returned to Pabov’s face. “Great.” He opened a drawer—ah, there were those coveted keys. Amaranthe and Sicarius could come back for them after dark. No need for a musty rowboat.

  Pabov jangled the keys and jogged out the door, only to halt so quickly that Amaranthe almost crashed into his back. She peeped around him and groaned. Horrible timing.

  Sicarius had been walking from the beach to the warehouse. At Pabov’s appearance, he’d halted. He wore sable, brushed cotton trousers and a matching vest that complemented his deep brown eyes, and a crisp ivory shirt that drew out the warm olive tones of his skin. The clothing fit well—he must have visited numerous clotheslines—and few women would have trouble fancying him as a “handsome stranger.” He wore only one weapon, a dagger belted at his waist, and appeared far more approachable than usual. At least Amaranthe thought so. From the rigid way Pabov stood, he didn’t agree.

  “Pabov,” she said, trying to draw his eyes toward her and hoping his wariness stemmed from the fact that this was a trespasser rather than recognition on his part. “This is my friend… Hansor,” she said, plucking out a name she’d used for him before. “He helped me escape the thugs who—”

  Pabov ran around her and back into the warehouse.

  Remembering the musket, Amaranthe barked, “Pabov, don’t!” and spun to follow him.

  Sicarius sprinted past her, entering first.

  Inside, Pabov snatched the loaded musket from the wall. Sicarius sprinted across the intervening ground so quickly Amaranthe would have missed it if she’d blinked. Pabov whirled toward him, raising the weapon, but Sicarius was already there, tearing it from his hands.

  “Don’t—” Amaranthe blurted, a hand outstretched as visions of dead enforcers rampaged through her head.

  A thump sounded—a head hitting wood. Before she’d taken more than two steps, Pabov lay on the floor, unmoving.

  “—kill him,” Amaranthe finished weakly.

  “He is alive.” Sicarius searched through drawers and found a coil of rope. “But he will escape eventually if we leave him here alone.”

  His over-the-shoulder glance was unreadable, so maybe she only imagined him thinking how much easier things had been when he simply killed everyone.

  “We wouldn’t have that problem if… ” Amaranthe stopped. She couldn’t blame him for coming to look for her, especially when she hadn’t left a message to explain her absence. As usual, this was her fault. “Never mind. It was unfortunate timing. I was ten seconds away from getting a tour of an underwater craft that might let us sneak up on the secret meeting island. Did you know there’s a Marblecrest Island?”

  “No.”

  Pabov groaned as Sicarius kneeled on him to tie his wrists behind his back.

  “Don’t break him, please,” Amaranthe said. “He’s been an amenable fellow.”

  “To you.” Sicarius finished tying and stood. “It did not work.”

  “What?”

  “The costume you recommended I obtain.” He’d been wearing black for far too many years if he considered normal clothing a costume. Perhaps he simply felt crabby without his knife collection within reach.

  “It will in town,” Amaranthe said. “He’s a soldier. I think all soldiers have your face etched in their memories.”

  Pabov, cheek mashed into the floor, glowered at Amaranthe. “Who are you?”

  If they were going to leave Pabov alive, they’d better not tell him anything that might get them in trouble later. Unless there was a chance Amaranthe could talk him into helping. She glanced at Sicarius, wondering if he would be against sharing if it might yield them an ally.

  “I know who he is,” Pabov growled.

  “Yes, I gathered that from your mad musket dash.” Amaranthe smiled sadly at Sicarius. “Perhaps you should have kept the beard.”

  “I just want to know… have I betrayed the empire?” Pabov’s gaze fell to the floor, and he mumbled, “Should have known better than to talk to some strange woman. Obviously spying. What was I thinking?”

  Amaranthe knelt beside him. “You haven’t betrayed anything. We’re working for the empire, for Sespian. He didn’t die in that train wreck. He’s still alive.”

  Sicarius stirred. Amaranthe didn’t know if he’d heard of Sespian’s reputed death yet. It better only be “reputed,” she thought. If Sicarius had gone on a killing bent when he’d learned of the implant in Sespian’s neck, his death might send him over a precipice and into a very dark, very deep canyon. And would he blame her? Because he’d chosen to come after her instead of helping Sespian?

  “No,” Pabov said, “I don’t believe you.” Despite his words, he stared into Amaranthe’s eyes, as if seeking some truth, as if he wanted to believe her.

  “The Marblecrests have been working with a nefarious business coalition to oust Sespian and put someone new on the throne. If they have their way, General Ravido Marblecrest.”

  “Who are you?” Pabov asked again.

  “Amaranthe Lokdon.”

  The pronouncement earned a blank look. Amaranthe supposed it was too much to wish that her team’s fame had spread hundreds of miles. She wasn’t certain her name would be recognized in Curi’s Bakery, much less remote lakeside towns.

  “I—” Amaranthe smiled and spread her hand across her chest, “—am the former enforcer who talked the infamous assassin, Sicarius, into changing his vile, man-slaying ways and working for the good of the empire.”

  She thought Sicarius might object, or more likely snort, but he only lifted a single eyebrow at her proclamation.

  “You’re not that charming,” Pabov grumbled.

  “Really.” Amaranthe sniffed and resisted the urge to point out that she had charmed him effectively enough. “Perhaps it’d be worth telling him the truth,” she told Sicarius. “He knows the lake, the locals, and he has that lovely underwater craft that could serve useful if we could get a ride.”

  “The truth,” Sicarius said in a flat tone. He no doubt wondered just what “truth” she had in mind.

  “I’m not helping an assassin,” Pabov said.

  “Not even the emperor’s personal assassin?” Amaranthe asked.

  “What?”

  “Sicarius worked for Emperor Raumesys his whole life,” Amaranthe s
aid, “until Raumesys’s death five years ago. You know about that, right? I thought everyone did.”

  Sicarius pinned Amaranthe with a why-are-you-telling-this-stranger-about-me look.

  He seems to be loyal to Sespian, she signed. He can help us.

  Pabov didn’t respond to her questions right away. Maybe he had heard rumors about Sicarius’s past. Mitsy, the former owner of The Maze had once told Amaranthe that everyone knew Sicarius was Hollowcrest’s man. Of course, she’d been talking about the underworld “everyone,” not soldiers.

  “I’ll believe he’s working for the emperor when I see Sespian alive and walking arm-in-arm with him,” Pabov finally said.

  That… might be possible. If Sespian was on his way down, maybe he’d arrive soon. Or already had.

  “If that happens, you’ll let us borrow your craft?” Amaranthe asked.

  “If Emperor Sespian strolls in here, alive, and wants a tour, I’ll drive him around the lake myself.”

  Sicarius regarded Pabov’s back. This time there was nothing harsh about the stare. Amaranthe wondered what people would think if they knew they could soften his razor-sharp edges simply by proclaiming allegiance to Sespian.

  “I’ll accept that as a promise,” Amaranthe said. “In the meantime, we need to gather information about a meeting we believe to be taking place down here. That business coalition I mentioned? They’ve come down here to plot. Any idea about where a clandestine gathering might be held?”

  “No,” Pabov said.

  Amaranthe sensed that he’d withdrawn within himself and had no intention of providing helpful answers. She couldn’t blame him. With nothing else to go on, her claims had to seem wild to him. “Did you see or hear of any strangers walking through town? Perhaps yesterday or the day before?”

  “No.”

  “Truly?” Amaranthe asked, disappointment creeping into her tone.

  Pabov frowned up at her. With his face still mashed into the ground, he couldn’t feel that sympathetic toward her plight, but he offered an apologetic, “I don’t get into town much.”

  Amaranthe’s gaze returned to the map on the wall. She’d planned to ask after the Forge party in town, but if she could figure out which island they’d gone to, she wouldn’t need to wander around, raising people’s suspicions as she poked into everyone’s business.

  “Is there a real estate library in Markworth?” she asked. “Someplace where records are kept of who owns what land and where it lies?”

  “I think the records are in the capital,” Pabov said.

  The capital that was over a week’s travel away. Not helpful. “There must be someone local who handles real-estate transactions.”

  Pabov hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Sicarius.

  “We won’t harm the person,” Amaranthe said.

  “The Pickle Lady,” Pabov said.

  “The Pickle Lady?”

  “She breeds long-haired rabbits and knits their fur into sweaters too. I don’t think the stipend the empire pays for handling real estate is particularly large.”

  This place was even more rural than Amaranthe had realized. No wonder Forge had chosen it. Nobody who mattered in the grand political or business scene would be down here to chance upon their meeting. “Thank you,” she told Pabov. “I’m grateful for your help.”

  “Grateful enough to untie me?”

  “Do you promise not to tell anyone we were here?” Amaranthe had no idea if there was a local military garrison, but Markworth would have enforcers to ensure nothing untoward happened to those wealthy people vacationing on the lake.

  A moment passed before Pabov answered, and Amaranthe wasn’t surprised when he said, “No.”

  Sicarius pinned Amaranthe with one of those cool gazes, one she had no problem reading as, “Leaving him alive is going to cause trouble.”

  She waved her hand. They weren’t killing someone when she’d been the one trespassing on his property.

  After they walked outside, Sicarius stepped in front of Amaranthe. “You told him much.”

  “I was preparing him to eventually join our side and help us.” Amaranthe smiled. “If Sespian shows up, this fellow is ready to be his devoted guide.”

  “If Sespian shows up,” Sicarius said, a grimness to usual monotone.

  “You’ve heard what the newspapers are reporting?” Amaranthe had thought he’d been gone a long time just to furnish his wardrobe.

  “I heard.”

  “I’m sure he’s well,” Amaranthe said. “Forge knows Ravido can’t make a real move until the populace believes Sespian is gone. Since he’s not in the capital to refute the reports of his, er, death, they can print whatever they want.”

  “The Gazette is the paper that published the story,” Sicarius said, his grimness disappearing, replaced by an iciness that, even after all the time they’d spent together, still sent a chill curling through Amaranthe. She was glad Deret Mancrest was hundreds of miles away.

  “If our men are with Sespian,” she said, “they’ll keep him safe.”

  “If Sespian dies, I’ll kill Maldynado.”

  “Levity?” Amaranthe asked, though she knew it wasn’t.

  “No.”

  “I’m still not clear on how Maldynado came to be in charge.”

  Sicarius stalked away without a word. That probably meant he wasn’t sure either, but now considered his choice a mistake.

  Amaranthe followed Sicarius back to the beach where she’d originally intended to wait for him. He moved aside something bright and picked up a stack of folded garments on a log half-hidden by ferns. Wordlessly, he handed her the clothing and a practical pair of canvas boots. She shook out an ankle-length walking dress, a high-necked blouse, and a long muslin apron. Though Maldynado would perhaps fault the sedate colors, Amaranthe thought Sicarius had a surprising knack for picking out clothing that matched and, more importantly, fit. More than that, the outfit would hide a multitude of bruises. She was on the verge of complimenting and thanking Sicarius when he dropped a woven hat into her arms. The pastel greens, blues, pinks, and yellows crisscrossed each other in a pattern that could only have been imagined by a woman deep in the applejack bottle.

  “This has to be levity,” Amaranthe said.

  “Yes,” Sicarius said, though no spark of humor glinted in his eyes. He walked away to give her the privacy to change.

  He was too worried about Sespian to find amusement in anything at the moment, Amaranthe supposed, but couldn’t help but call after him, “I don’t know why you’d want to kill Maldynado, when it’s clear you’d make fabulous hat-shopping buddies.”

  Chapter 17

  A couple of days had passed since capturing Brynia, and Maldynado was headed down to engineering. Basilard had mentioned that Books hadn’t been sleeping or eating. Why this was Maldynado’s business, he didn’t know, but he supposed he should make sure Books hadn’t fallen into a funk and started drinking again. Though they were getting by as satisfactorily as could be expected given how many plans had gone awry, the team did lack structure without Amaranthe and Sicarius there to demand everyone rise at dawn for training. At least Maldynado had finally caught up on his sleep and recovered from most of his wounds.

  He strode into the engine room and almost tripped over a stack of books in front of the door. Books, his chin sporting several days’ worth of salt-and-pepper beard growth, was sitting on the floor next to a towering flywheel. Its revolutions ruffled the pages of journals and reference books spread out around him like spokes on a wheel. He must have pillaged the steamboat’s library. A few dishes loaded with untouched food sat near the wall. Books held a book open with one hand while he scrawled across the blank page of a journal with the other. His pen, one of several around him, zipped along, creating lines of text faster than a printing press. At least the straightness of those lines suggested he wasn’t drunk.

  “What are you doing?” Maldynado asked over the clamor of the pumping machinery.

  The pen didn’t
slow, and Books didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Researching more Forge stuff?” Maldynado asked.

  “This facility lacks a desk,” Books said without looking up or slowing his scrawling.

  Maldynado propped his hip against a railing. “It’s good to see that you’re alert and ready to jump to a specific piece of machinery, should a call come down from the wheelhouse, demanding quick action.”

  Books finished his page of writing, blew on the ink to dry it, and promptly started on the next page.

  Maldynado wondered if someone shouting a warning of an impending pirate attack would make that pen pause. He stepped closer until Books couldn’t possibly miss seeing his boots alarmingly close to his papers and said, “Booksie, Basilard said you’ve been skipping meals.”

  When Books finally lifted his head, he seemed surprised to see Maldynado there.

  “What?”

  “Is that Forge stuff?” Maldynado waved at the mess.

  “No.”

  “Economics stuff the emperor asked for?”

  “Also no, and perhaps you can find a more descriptive noun than ‘stuff’.”

  “Would you prefer if I called it junk?” Maldynado asked, knowing it would irk Books.

  Books’s lips flattened. Yup, pure irk.

  “What are you working on?”

  Books looked at something out the door. “That’s not the emperor out there, is it?”

  “No, Akstyr. It’s his turn shoveling. The emperor… I haven’t seen much of him. He avoids me, despite the fact that I’ve been trying my best to be useful.”

  “I believe he’s still struggling to disassociate you from your family,” Books said. “It doesn’t help that you came off as a fop the first night he met you.”

  “Fop? I was fighting to defend him on the train.”

  “You were telling him how great you’d look as a statue in the Imperial Gardens,” Books said.

  “In between assaults on the locomotive cab, during which I bravely helped protect him.”

  “I’m working, Maldynado.” Books bent over his papers again. “Go away.”