Blood and Betrayal

by Lindsay Buroker

  Hands outstretched, Amaranthe groped her way farther into the pond. Fish brushed her bare skin. Remembering the snake, she hoped she didn’t run into anything more inimical. And she hoped she was swimming in a straight line. And, as long as she was hoping for all that, she added a desire to see Pike and his men run past the pond without noticing that the barefoot prints on the trail had disappeared.

  Before long, her lungs burned for air. Amaranthe doubted she’d crossed more than a third of the pond. She bumped into another obstacle, a rock this time, and circled it. On the other side, she paused. Maybe it protruded from the surface and would offer cover. She eased her way to the top, staying close enough to kiss the rock. Though her lungs ached, she kept herself from bursting above the surface and taking a great gasp. Instead, she tilted her head back, lifting only her lips above the water. She drew a couple of long, careful breaths. A lily pad floated across her face. Surprised, she inhaled water, nearly choking. She forced herself to drop back down and return to the submerged swim.

  Farther out in the pond, the deeper water made for easier going. When she reached the shallows on the other side, she parted two lilies and came up between them, letting no more than her eyes ease above the surface. She hadn’t swum in a straight line, and it took her a few seconds to find the bank she’d left.

  The clearing she’d left lay empty. Grateful to those men’s unobservant ancestors, Amaranthe lifted her head far enough to take a breath.

  Pike stepped out from behind a tree at the end of the clearing, a rifle raised.

  Amaranthe tried to dive back under, but it was too late. The gun fired, and pain blasted the side of her head.

  The blow spun her around—she was lucky it hadn’t taken her head off—and she gave up hiding in favor of sprinting. She lunged out of the water and into the undergrowth hedging the pond. Her foot caught on a root, and she sprawled to the ground. The fall might have saved her life, for another shot cracked. She didn’t hear what it hit and didn’t care. So long as it wasn’t her.

  Amaranthe crawled through the foliage, not lifting her head above the fronds. Another shot came. She didn’t know if it was Pike, taking advantage of the rifle’s repeating mechanism, or if more soldiers had joined him. She veered to the right, thinking he might expect her to flee straight away from the pond, and scrambled laterally to the bank, trying not to rustle branches, lest he see twitching leaves from across the water.

  Blood trickled down the side of her face and dripped from her chin. Pike’s shot may not have caught her full-on, but it’d been enough to add another wound to those already plaguing her.

  A snap sounded ahead of her. Amaranthe froze. Emperor’s warts, Pike must have known where she’d gone from the beginning and ordered his men to circle around the pond.

  Nestled between two leafy shrubs, she drew her feet under her. She was tempted to sprint blindly into the trees and hope for the best, but if these were indeed soldiers, they’d know what they were doing. They’d know how to spring a trap. Even now, she had a sense of a noose tightening.

  Amaranthe clenched her teeth. She was not going back to that table. She might be naked, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t take down a foe. Sicarius wouldn’t run from these men. He’d pick them off one at a time. She told herself that she could do the same.

  After a few deep breaths with which she tried to will the tension out of her muscles, Amaranthe eased toward the noise she’d heard. She parted a few fronds and found herself staring at a beach overlooking an inlet in the pond. She expected a soldier to be crouched there, or perhaps in the nearby reeds, but she didn’t see anyone. Then her eye caught movement next to a log. An alligator ambled out of the undergrowth and slipped into the muddy water. The great beast had to be more than ten feet from nose to tail. Amaranthe gulped at the realization that such creatures lived in the swamp. Did they eat people? She wasn’t sure. Either way, she was glad she hadn’t encountered one on her swim.

  A crunch sounded behind her.

  Amaranthe turned in time to spot a man’s hat above a nearby bush. He was moving slowly, using his rifle to part the reeds and search for her. She dropped to her belly and wriggled beneath a briar bush comprised of a tangle of dense vines and small white flowers that emitted a putrid scent. Nestled amongst the leaf litter, she waited for the soldier to draw near.

  Moments passed. Water—or maybe that was sweat—slithered down her spine. A black boot came into sight. It stepped over a bulging root and came down lightly, toe first. The soldier must suspect his prey hid nearby. Amaranthe resisted the urge to squirm deeper under cover. She dared not shake the briar bush now.

  The boot drew even with her spot, and a second one joined it. Amaranthe pressed her palms into the moist earth, summoning what energy she could, hoping to spring as soon as the man passed.

  He stopped. Amaranthe’s heart thundered against her ribs, trying to batter them into the soil. Maybe her legs were sticking out. Maybe he’d seen her tracks. Maybe—

  The man continued past.

  Amaranthe let him draw another two paces away, then scrambled from beneath the bush, lunged to her feet, and jumped, all in one motion. She landed on his back, one arm snaking around his neck at the same time as her other darted to his waist, snatching a knife housed on his belt. The man tried to twist and smash the butt of his rifle into her head. Amaranthe whipped the blade up to his throat first. She let it bite into his flesh, so he’d know the threat to his life was serious.

  “Drop your rifle,” Amaranthe whispered in his ear.

  The soldier’s head came up, and he didn’t obey. Maybe he didn’t like taking orders from a woman. Too bad. She pressed the blade in deeper. A rivulet of blood flowed down the steel edge. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t follow through with the threat, but she didn’t see how she could hope to escape if she didn’t eliminate her pursuers. Though the practical part of her mind thought that, she couldn’t bring herself to slice the man’s throat.

  “Drop it,” Amaranthe said, trying to frost the words with iciness that would make Sicarius proud.

  This time, the man complied. He tossed his rifle into the foliage where it clattered against a branch and rattled leaves. Amaranthe growled, knowing he’d done that on purpose, hoping noise would alert his comrades. Already, she felt vulnerable with her back to the swamp and no friendly eyes to watch it.

  “What are you going to do, girl?” the man asked. “Sit there, with your legs wrapped around me all day? If you’d drop the knife, I wouldn’t mind breasts smashed into my back, but—”

  The only warning they had was a soft rustle from ahead. A split second later, the alligator reared out of the reeds, twisting its body to snap its maw around the man’s thigh. With a powerful yank, the creature tore Amaranthe’s prisoner away from her.

  She let go and scrambled backward. The soldier screamed as the alligator dragged him along the beach and into the water. It happened so quickly she couldn’t have helped him if she’d wanted to. One second, he was twisting and clawing at the ground, trying to find a way to pull himself free, and the next he disappeared beneath the surface. Water churned, then grew still, with only a few air bubbles floating to the surface to mark his passage.

  “That answers my question,” Amaranthe whispered. “Yes, alligators eat people.”

  Behind her, men thrashed through the undergrowth, pushing their way toward her location. Amaranthe grabbed the rifle and knife, and ran into the brush. Maybe she’d get lucky, and her pursuers would think the man had simply encountered the alligator without running into her. She doubted it.

  Chapter 12

  Dawn had come, though the fog shrouding the river made it seem like night still. Maldynado hoped the passengers all slept in, though he doubted that likely. Numerous people had heard that gunfight, and he expected that rumors were already flying about the steamboat. The officers had to be alerted. As he headed down to check on Akstyr, Maldynado could only hope Sespian had spoken to the captain and that the meeting
had gone well.

  On the hurricane deck outside of engineering, Maldynado slowed down, a hand going to his pistol. Someone’s legs were sticking out of the boiler room doorway.

  Footsteps sounded behind Maldynado. He spun around. A balding man with a nightshirt flapping about his ankles charged toward him, a homemade spear raised above his shoulder. Startled—and weary from being up all night—Maldynado barely managed to jump out of the way. He grabbed the spear and used his foe’s momentum to fling him in a circle. The man dropped the weapon and caught himself on the wall. Maldynado snatched the spear and used it to force the man back to the railing. Though he felt bad about attacking someone in a nightshirt, he hadn’t started the brawl. He curled his lips into a snarl and raised the spear, as if he meant to run the man through. The would-be warrior cursed and flung himself into the river of his own accord.

  Maldynado examined the “spear” more closely. It appeared to have been made from the frame of a lounge chair.

  “You still have a problem,” came Akstyr’s strained voice from the doorway. He stood on the threshold, straddling the downed figure while thrusting one of his hands in the direction of a lifeboat.

  A second man crouched there, this one wearing more clothing and carrying a better weapon—a pistol. The muzzle pointed in Maldynado’s direction. He gulped, glad that Akstyr was somehow holding the man in place.

  “Take care of it, would you?” Akstyr asked. “I’m tired and not as good at this as usual.”

  “Right.” Maldynado eased out of the line of fire before angling toward the frozen figure. He’d gotten used to Akstyr’s abilities—sort of—but it was creepy seeing a person stuck in tableau like that, and who knew if the man might throw off whatever shackles held him for long enough to get off a shot?

  Gingerly, Maldynado plucked the pistol out of the frozen hand. He tossed it overboard, then hoisted the man after. “Let him go so he can swim.”

  Akstyr already had. The man sputtered and splashed before the fog swallowed him from view.

  “Been having an eventful time on stoker duty?” Maldynado asked.

  “You got that right,” Akstyr growled. Together they tossed the unconscious man overboard too. He woke when he hit the water, sending a stream of curses across the river. “Two security men came running down to protect the engine room on account of passels of highwaymen over-running the steamboat. Supposedly they’re led by an impostor impersonating the emperor and shooting up the passengers because they mean to rob everyone.” Akstyr crossed his arms. “You know anything about that?”

  “Less than you’d think.” Maldynado eyed the nearest stairwell, as if angry hordes of passengers might charge down it at any second. “I guess the emperor’s chat with the captain didn’t go well.”

  “No kidding.”

  “The captain probably assumed the real emperor wouldn’t sneak onto his boat in the middle of the night or have only one out-of-uniform enforcer sergeant for his personal guard. We… probably should have foreseen that.”

  “Whatever. I’m off stoker duty now, right? You’ll need me to fight.”

  Leave it to Akstyr to worry about himself first. Then again, Maldynado couldn’t imagine many tasks less appealing than shoveling coal. “Yes, let’s find the others before the masses get organized.”

  “Are you really robbing people?” Akstyr sounded hopeful, as if Amaranthe’s usual plans were a touch altruistic for his tastes.

  Maldynado thought of the tracking device in his pocket. “Not… exactly. But we did have a shootout in a suite upstairs.”

  “Nice,” Akstyr purred.

  Maldynado, concerned that there’d be more shootouts before the day ended, couldn’t muster as much enthusiasm.

  • • •

  Maldynado and Akstyr were jogging up the stairs to the deck where the officers were housed when a body flew over the railing above them. A captain’s blue hat fell off, revealing tousled gray hair. Bed-head was the least of the man’s problems. He flailed and cursed before disappearing into the foggy blanket covering the river where a splash announced his final fate.

  On the deck above, pistols fired and swords clashed.

  “Looks like they started without us,” Akstyr said.

  “Our team’s latest hallmark,” Maldynado said. “Hurling people from steamboats.”

  He and Akstyr reached the top deck and almost crashed into the back of a mob gathered around the entrance to the officers’ quarters. The attackers wore everything from full uniforms to hand-tailored clothing to nightshirts to, er, that fellow was nude. The group claimed such varied weapons as swords, ceremonial muskets, and kitchen cutlery—no rolling pins, thank the emperor. Two old women on the outskirts were dismantling lounge chairs and throwing cushions. At the center of the throng, Sespian, Yara, Basilard, and Books fought to keep the crowd at bay. Though better armed, it soon became clear from their defensive strokes, that they didn’t want to kill anyone, and the mob, perhaps sensing this, was forcing them into a tight knot.

  “Thieves!” one of the old women cried as she hurled a chair cushion. “Highwaymen!”

  Maldynado would have laughed—especially when the cushion beaned someone on her own side—but there were far deadlier weapons in the mix. Even as he watched, someone in the back jumped onto a chair and pointed an old flintlock pistol over the heads of the crowd. Maldynado charged, grabbed the man by the sides, and lifted him overhead. He took five great steps and hurled his burden over the railing. He whirled back, expecting people at the rear to notice him and attack, but they were so intent on the targets in front that they hadn’t seen Maldynado or Akstyr.

  In fact, Akstyr had returned to the stairs where he crouched a few steps down. Hiding?

  Maldynado frowned. Akstyr was rarely the first to jump into a fray, but he didn’t usually hide.

  Akstyr lifted a hand and beckoned him over. “I have an idea. Watch my back for a few minutes.”

  “Magics?”

  “The Science,” Akstyr said.

  “Yes, yes, do your thing. We can discuss titles later.”

  Akstyr let his head droop, his eyes closing. Maldynado danced from foot to foot, alternately watching the mob and the steps to the lower deck. Though he wanted to join in the fray, and help the others, Amaranthe would give him a hard time if he let Akstyr be run through by someone with a makeshift spear. A few shouted questions of “What’s going on up there?” convinced him more people would be charging up those stairs soon anyway. He braced himself to defend Akstyr’s back.

  A scream possessing the vocal power of a cannon—it came from one of the cushion-flinging ladies—threatened to rupture his eardrums. More screams and shouts burst from the crowd. Maldynado spun about in time to see two huge, bulky creatures with shaggy black fur shambling down the deck. The fog and the wan lighting couldn’t hide the claws like daggers, the fangs like swords, and the naked hunger in their fierce predatory eyes.

  “Makarovi!” someone yelled.

  Several men leaped over the railing without looking twice. Others gripped weapons and braced themselves as the towering creatures lumbered closer.

  “That’s impressive, Akstyr,” Maldynado whispered, then added, “That is your doing, right?” After all, they’d been near a river the other time they encountered makarovi—real makarovi—too.

  Akstyr, eyes clenched shut, didn’t respond.

  A few worldly passengers squinted with suspicion, perhaps suspecting magic. It didn’t matter. The distraction gave Sespian, Books, and the others an advantage. With nobody paying attention to them any more, they grabbed people as fast as they could, pushing them toward the railing. Books and Yara worked together. Sespian, though the slightest of the group—even Yara had wider shoulders than he—did an impressive job of wrestling people overboard on his own. Though short, Basilard was built like a steam dozer, and he simply lifted people over his head, as if they weighed no more than sacks of potatoes, hurling them over the railing with several feet of clearance.


  The pair of “makarovi” stopped a few feet from the edge of the mob. Maldynado had suspected them illusory and hadn’t thought Akstyr would let the monsters reach the crowd, where people would realize they could simply swipe their fingers through the images, but he wasn’t prepared for what actually happened. The massive, fanged creatures reared on their hind legs and grabbed each other about the waists. Before Maldynado’s gawking eyes, they started dancing.

  He couldn’t help himself. He broke out in guffaws.

  “They’re illusions, you idiots,” someone in the dwindling crowd shouted. “Don’t let the—”

  Books’s fist silenced the man.

  Maldynado tapped Akstyr. “Come on.”

  He was done guarding backs. It was time to help the team finish swabbing the deck.

  It didn’t take long. Though a number of the warrior-caste passengers must have been military officers at one time, they were all older men, and most of them were strangers, not people who had spent months training together and learning to work as a team. The only time Maldynado faltered was when one of those old ladies raced up to him wearing a red dress, a ruby necklace, and numerous complementary rings. She snarled and raised a hand, displaying fingernails painted to match her jewelry.

  “My lady.” Maldynado lifted placating hands of his own. “I don’t want to throw you overboard.” She had to be close to eighty. “Why don’t you just wait over—”

  The fingernails flashed. A trained warrior such as Maldynado should have moved out of the way more quickly, but he’d underestimated their potential as a weapon. The nails cut through the fabric of his shirt and drew blood.

  “On second thought… ” Maldynado dodged a second attack, hoisted the woman, strode to the railing, and dropped her over the side.

  Basilard, Yara, and Sespian were handling the remaining attackers, and Maldynado had time to probe his wound. The crazy woman had torn through the shoulder of his shirt, leaving his upper arm and left pectoral muscle exposed. The fabric flap waved in the breeze.