Forged in Blood I

Chapter 12

Sicarius crouched on the field, a pack full of gear and a harpoon launcher strapped to his back, as he waited for Sespian to catch up with him. An owl hooted from the trees near the lake, but the dense coin-sized snowflakes dropping from the black night sky made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Somewhere behind him, the walls of the fort rose. Ahead, thousands of soldiers waited, some snoring in their tents, but many on the night shift, awake and prepared to fight off intruders. Heroncrest would know Ridgecrest would want an intelligence report.

Several inches of fresh powder blanketed the field, meaning footprints would be problematic. If Sicarius and Sespian walked straight into the camp, the roving perimeter guards would see the evidence of the incursion.

Soft crunches and squeaks of boots on snow arose behind and to the right, preceding the appearance of a dark figure in army fatigues. Sespian. Not certain his son saw him, Sicarius took a few steps in that direction. Sespian twitched in surprise, then sank into a low crouch.

“I knew you were there,” he whispered. “It just startles me seeing you in army fatigues. Given how many soldiers you’ve… It’s disturbing.”

Sicarius did not respond, though an image of Amaranthe flashed into his mind. She always seemed to like the idea of him in a uniform, lamenting that the role of assassin had been chosen for him and that he’d never had a choice in the matter. Sespian knew his past now, some of it anyway-Hollowcrest hadn’t recorded everything-but he seemed less inclined to make allowances for it. Not that Sicarius wanted any allowances. He was too old to blame his youth for the man he’d become.

Sespian plucked at his own borrowed uniform. “I suppose it doesn’t really fit me either.”

Thanks to the snow, the night was bright enough that the dark army fatigues stood out on the white field. Sicarius had debated over the appropriate attire for the infiltration, almost choosing whites and grays, but once they slipped into the camp they’d be less noticeable if they blended in with everyone else. Like Heroncrest’s soldiers, they’d tied blue bands around their arms.

“This way.” Sicarius rose slightly, staying low as he picked a path through the curtain of falling flakes.

“I can’t see anything,” Sespian whispered as wind stirred, slanting the snow sideways, the icy kisses cold against their cheeks. “How do you know we’re going in the right direction?”

Sicarius would have preferred to use Basilard’s hand signs to speak, but, though the white blanket made the night brighter than usual, there wasn’t enough light to pick out gestures. They weren’t close to the enemy perimeter, so he responded-the snow would muffle their voices to some extent.

“My sense of direction is well-honed,” Sicarius murmured.

“If I said something cocky like that, I’d end up leading us into the lake.”

Sicarius did not think the statement cocky, merely an utterance of fact. “We approach the water tower,” he said, hoping Sespian would remain silent without needing to be told. As they’d already discussed, there might be soldiers guarding the tower. Normally Fort Urgot men would be out there, but they’d retreated inside at the approach of the invasion force. There was a well within the walls, so the tower was a matter of convenience rather than necessity-water that could be diverted for indoor plumbing, rather than the fort’s only source. It may, however, have been claimed by Heroncrest’s men, so they needed to approach with care.

Sespian did indeed fall silent, though when the first crumbled stone ruin came into site, a remain of the original brick water tower, he grunted a soft, “Huh,” at this proof of Sicarius’s honed sense of direction.

Sicarius held up a hand, silently instructing him to wait in the shadow of the half wall, then skirted the ruins, seeking signs of soldiers. Or other entities. Memories of climbing the tower with Amaranthe to escape the first soul construct came to mind. He hadn’t heard any howls yet that evening and hoped the new creature had simply been passing through the night before. It was possible it had nothing to do with Heroncrest’s army.

With the snowfall making visibility so poor, Sicarius lifted his nose at times, testing the wind like a hound. It’d be easy for a couple of soldiers to be stationed in a niche in the ruins, hidden by the shadows. He sensed nothing, though, except for the rumble of ambulatory vehicles patrolling the enemy’s perimeter and the occasional plops of snow growing too heavy for its perch and falling to the ground in clumps. The water tower had been abandoned, neither side willing to risk the lives of a team to guard it.

“We’re the only ones on the hill,” Sicarius whispered to Sespian when he returned, his words causing another twitch of surprise since he’d approached from behind. He recalled Sespian’s interest in learning from him in regard to stealth. Presumably that included defending against being caught unaware. “Keep your back to a wall when you’re waiting, so you can’t be approached from behind. Also, when visibility is low, it’s imperative to focus more on one’s other senses. Hearing is obvious, but you might also smell another’s approach.”

Sicarius pointed toward the water tower. It was time to see if his plan worked.

“Smell?” Sespian followed him to the metal beams supporting the steel tank above.

“Many people have distinctive scents. With soldiers, you can often detect a hint of black powder or weapons cleaning oil.” Sicarius stopped in the shadow of the tank, placing a hand on one of the icy support posts. He had not yet donned gloves, not deeming the night that cold. Besides, he’d need finger dexterity for the next few moments. “Can you climb up without a rope?”

“I think so.” Sespian tightened the straps on his pack. “I’ve never noticed anyone’s scent unless they’re wearing perfume or haven’t bathed in a while. Is there some trick for more fully developing one’s sense of smell?” He sounded genuinely interested.

“It can be trained, much like skills relying on muscle and agility can be improved, by practicing identifying scents. Punishment for failures cements the lesson in the mind more firmly.” Sicarius hesitated, realizing Sespian wouldn’t likely place himself in a situation where someone stood behind him with a whip, prepared to administer a correction should he fail to identify a tree species when blindfolded. “Rewards would work, too, likely.”

Sespian opened his mouth, as if he might say something, but decided against it. He pointed at the I-shaped support beam, its rivets the only things offering handholds. “Do you want me to go first, so you can catch me if I fall?”

“You may go first.”

“No promise of catching me, eh?”

“I will strive not to allow you to become damaged tonight,” Sicarius said.

“An interesting way to put it.”

Sespian wrapped his fingers around the post up high, then jumped, his feet slipping several times before he figured out a way to grip it with his legs. Lifting one hand at a time, he picked his way up, his speed increasing as he grew more familiar with the climb. Clumps of snow fell from above as he reached the top and slid out onto the narrow ledge. Sicarius touched his harpoon launcher, ensuring it was firmly secured, then climbed to the top in a couple of seconds. A ladder led up the side of the tank, and he skimmed up that as well. Wind, more pronounced so high above the ground, swirled the snow about and threatened to tear his fur cap from his head. He stopped at an edge overlooking the white expanse below that led, he remembered in his mind’s eye, to evergreen trees edging the parade field. He couldn’t see them through the snow, but he’d observed the area with a spyglass during the day, so he knew they were there and that there were tents in front of them. The trees rose a few meters behind the front edge of the camp. The roving guards would be marching past on snowshoes perhaps twenty meters out into the field.

Sicarius prepared the harpoon for flight by attaching the thin, strong cable to it. Before they’d left, he’d wrapped it carefully so it would unspool without a hitch.

“Uhm,” Sespian said, “I can’t see anything to shoot at over there. Are you going to tell me your eyes were enhanced by training as well?”

“I have had vision training,” Sicarius said, “but I also cannot see the trees or the camp right now.”

“Are you waiting for the snow to clear to shoot then?”

“No. Our approach depends on the heavy snow to mask us.”

Sespian waved at the harpoon launcher. “How’re you going to hit your target then? Even with a clear sky, it’d be almost impossible. Those trees are what, a hundred meters away?”

“Slightly more.”

“You’ll be lucky if the harpoon even reaches that far. I hope you don’t hit anyone. This isn’t how you’re planning to get rid of Heroncrest, is it?”

“It’s unlikely he’ll be near the perimeter.”

“That was a joke.”

Sicarius tied the end of his cable to an eyelet and lifted the harpoon launcher to his shoulder. He closed his eyes, seeing the topography in his mind, conjuring up a picture of the tower, the field, and the trees. He’d been past the area often enough to be able to do so. Of late, his mind had been occasionally wandering on missions-a worrying sign of the distractions caused by this new fostering of interpersonal relationships-but he’d once been trained to notice everything, to analyze distance, patterns in nature, lifeforms, species of foliage, and every detail of the world around him as a way to remain focused and aware of his surroundings. Hollowcrest had often demanded he verbally relate those details or draw accurate to-scale representations of them.

From his mental image of the trees, he selected an old, thick pine on the edge of the field. The softer wood would allow the harpoon to sink in deeply. The strong but fine cable he’d chosen didn’t weigh much, but he and Sespian were another matter.

When he was certain of his aim, Sicarius pulled the trigger. The harpoon sped away, the cable trailing behind it. Though he’d shown only confidence to Sespian, he waited, doubting, in the long seconds that followed. The heavy snowfall continued to hide the trees, and it was only the fact that the cable stopped speeding past that he knew the harpoon had struck something. Judging by the few meters of tail left, it had struck at the right distance. The angle suggested an elevated height too. In truth, he wouldn’t know if he’d pegged his chosen pine until he reached the harpoon.

Sicarius tested the strength of the anchor, then retied the cable, pulling it taut. He fastened a couple of screw pin shackles he’d dug out of one of the mechanic’s shops inside the fort. Lastly, he attached short ropes for handholds. He’d been listening as he worked and hadn’t heard any shouts drift across the snow to suggest someone had noticed the harpoon thunking into camp-or the cable stretching overhead. The falling flakes must be providing adequate camouflage, for the moment.

“Give me a minute to get down there and, if necessary, subdue nearby guards.” Sicarius pushed one of the screws toward the end of the cable and nodded for Sespian to grip it. “There’s no way to brake with your hands, so we’ll use our boots. Don’t let yourself get going too fast, or it’ll be difficult to slow down in time. Remember there’s a tree at the other end.”

Sespian snorted. “If it’s the pine tree you claim it is, I’ll eat my boot.”

Sicarius gazed blandly at him.

“Perhaps just the tongue.”

“One minute,” Sicarius said. “I’ll be waiting on the ground.”

Grabbing the rope grips with either hand, Sicarius pushed away from the tower. He mentally prepared himself to land in the snow on the slope of the hill if the anchor failed and the cable wilted, but it held fast, and he sped into the night. Mindful of Sespian watching, he swung his legs up, using the sole of one boot and the side of the other to cup the cable and apply friction to slow his descent. As he swept downward, closing on the camp, a steam tramper on patrol clanked past below. He sped over its mechanical back without the pilot ever seeing him. Campfires came into view next, and he made out a few silhouettes of tents, though the trees coming up dominated his attention. He braked further, the scent of scorched leather reaching his nose-he’d need new boots after this.

The familiar outline of a pine, its needles longer than those of the firs beside it, formed out of the snow. He alighted on a branch forty feet in the air. Though tempted to wait and see if Sespian needed help, Sicarius descended instead. If anyone had witnessed his approach-or heard the harpoon thunking into the tree-there could be armed soldiers poised at the bottom.

Dagger in his mouth, he half climbed and half slid the last twenty feet. When he landed, the weapon was in his hand.

But nobody waited in the snow-free hollow at the base of the pine. He peered up at the gray sky, searching for evidence of his cable. Even knowing its location, he couldn’t spot it. Good. There was no way to cut it down without the risk of someone seeing it fall, so they had to leave it intact.

Lanterns burned along paths winding between tents and past clearings filled with parked vehicles. Heroncrest’s men had settled in, prepared for the possibility of a long siege. The smoke of coal stoves hung densely around the camp, filling Sicarius’s nostrils. He’d have a hard time impressing Sespian with his olfactory skills with that pall blotting out lesser odors. Snores came from a few tents, but the susurrus of dozens of conversations filled the camp.

It would have been safer to come later, when more people were sleeping, but this way there was a chance they’d overhear plans being formulated. The boughs of the evergreens blocked some of the snowfall, and Sicarius picked out a large tent a couple dozen meters away with lanterns on either side of the door flap. Numerous people were talking inside. It was unlikely that he and Sespian would stumble upon the command tent so easily, but it was worth checking.

Pine needles fluttered down, dusting Sicarius’s shoulders. He took that to mean Sespian had arrived. He hadn’t heard a telltale thump-or grunt of pain that would suggest a clumsy landing. Good.

A few seconds later, Sespian dropped to the ground beside him. He, too, had pulled out a knife. A lantern burning outside the closest tent provided just enough light for Sicarius to see the huge grin of exhilaration splitting his son’s face. He must have enjoyed the airborne ride. The grin pleased Sicarius, an unusual feeling for him. Perhaps it had something to do with why Amaranthe was always trying to get him to smile.

After glancing about, Sespian pointed to the large tent and signed, That way?

Sicarius nodded and, fur cap pulled down to hide his blond hair, led the way. Instead of skulking amongst the shadows, he strode across the snow-dusted forest floor, as if he were a soldier sent scurrying off on some mission from a superior. It’d take forever to search the camp if they stuck to stealth, and with the uniforms for disguises, he deemed the tradeoff for speed worth the risk of being stopped. If necessary, they could tie up anyone who confronted them.

Sespian followed suit, and they soon arrived at the large tent. It was only a chow hall. From the sounds of the conversations within, the soldiers had long since finished their meals and were using the tent as a common area for games of Tiles and Bones.

Scrapes and clanks came from an attached kitchen on the backside where a few lowly privates scrubbed at pots. Sicarius paused and grabbed a couple of empty water jugs, gesturing for Sespian to do the same. They’d be less likely to be stopped by a sergeant or officer if they appeared to be on some mission already.

So laden, they continued on, ostensibly in search of a lorry hauling the potable water tank, but Sicarius took in every detail of the camp as they walked. Other soldiers were about, but most had their heads down as they hustled from one tent to the next, in no mood to linger outside as the temperature dropped. Still, he was careful to avoid getting too close. As one would expect this close to an enemy outpost, everyone carried his rifle and ammo belt. It didn’t matter that “the enemy” was a part of the same army. The weapons were standard army issue-muzzle-loading rifles that required reloading after each shot-rather than the more advanced Forge firearms.

A large clearing held a pair of mechanics’ tents and numerous lorries, rough-terrain trampers and armored steamers. Sicarius halted, his back to a tree, to eye a large conical shape on the back of a flatbed.

“Any idea where the command tent is?” Sespian whispered, stopping beside him. He was glancing all around, but hadn’t noticed the object of Sicarius’s interest yet. “We’ve passed three water tanks. If anybody’s watching us… What are you looking at?”

“Unless I am mistaken, that’s a replacement drill head for a tunnel-boring machine.”

Sespian took a longer look at the vehicle yard. “I guess they’re not going to be content to wait for us to run out of food and water, eh?” He brushed snow out of his eyelashes and squinted at the huge drill head in consideration. “If they’re down there tunneling, that’d be a lot of effort to get into Fort Urgot, wouldn’t it? There’s nothing that strategic about it except for the troops housed within. Granted, they’ll be more likely to surrender-something imperial men are notoriously bad about doing-if the fort is compromised from within, but…”

“It may be a practice run for taking the Imperial Barracks.”

“Oh. Good point. The Barracks are on a rocky hilltop, so the borer makes even more sense. Too bad we can’t just shoo Heroncrest along and send him straight to harass Ravido.”

Sicarius pointed at a conglomeration of tents on the other side of the vehicle clearing, all well lit. “That may be the command area we seek.”

“It’s busy.” Sespian waved toward the soldiers coming and going. “I see a lot of pins with officer rank too. People who’ll recognize you even if you’re wearing a uniform and carrying a water jug.”

“You’re worried about them recognizing me? My face isn’t on the currency.”

A hair-raising howl floated across the fields, cutting off whatever Sespian’s reply might have been. Sicarius’s humor evaporated; there was no mistaking that eerie cry for anything except the otherworldly. It sounded as if the source were miles away, but with the muffling effect of the snow, it could be much closer.

“We should hurry,” he said. “This way.”

Sespian didn’t object. He followed closely and didn’t ask questions when Sicarius diverted into the vehicle area. Guards stood at the corners of the clearing, but the towering lorries and trampers provided cover.

The flap of one of the mechanics’ tents stirred, and two soldiers walked out. Their route would take them straight toward Sicarius and Sespian. For a moment, Sicarius thought about testing their disguises, but the soldiers might wonder why someone was hunting for water amongst the vehicles. He chose a different option.

After tapping Sespian’s arm to ensure he was paying attention, Sicarius set the water jug in the shadow of a tire, then slithered under a lorry. Sespian joined him, and they remained silent as the two sets of boots crunched through the snow two feet away. Instead of continuing to some destination, the pair of soldiers stopped at the front of the lorry. A soft rasp sounded, then the scent of burning tobacco reached Sicarius’s nose. They’d be there a while. He tapped Sespian again, then crawled toward the opposite end of the lorry. Instead of rising, he chose a route that continued beneath the vehicles, using them for cover as he drew closer to the command area.

Perhaps fifteen feet away from the largest tent, he had to stop. The row of lorries had ended, and he was looking at the gangly legs of a steam tramper; two of the towering vehicles were parked side by side. Sicarius eased into a crouch, intending to slip between those legs and head straight for the tent. But, as Sespian had pointed out, there were numerous soldiers coming and going. In addition, the trampers were in full view of a guard at the corner of the vehicle area.

Sicarius eyed the boxy metal bodies above the pillar-like legs. Cannons stuck out of raised portholes on the side, not dissimilarly to an imperial warship on the high seas. The top of the body would be flat, aside from a gunner’s turret.

“This way,” he breathed to Sespian.

When the guard had his head turned, Sicarius darted to the closest leg. He climbed up it, his sensitive fingers finding handholds on the icy metal. Cold snow waited on the top. He slid his fingers beneath it to grasp the edge, so he could swing his legs up. He dropped to his belly and gripped Sespian’s arm as soon as it was close enough. Sicarius pulled him over the edge. Staying low, he crossed to the opposite side. Again waiting for the guard’s head to be turned, he leaped the five-foot gap between the two trampers, landing lightly in the snow on the opposite one. Sespian followed, landing almost as easily.

“Good,” Sicarius whispered. Though speaking wasn’t wise, it seemed important to let Sespian know that he approved of his efforts.

They dropped to their bellies on the top of the tramper, the cold snow pressing against their parkas. They squirmed to the edge closest to the large tent. Two flags were thrust into the ground on either side of the entrance. From across the vehicle clearing, Sicarius hadn’t been able to make out the patterns on the material, but he could see them now: the crossed swords on a blue background-the empire’s flag-and a gold pick crossed over a musket and powder horn-the Damark Satrapy’s flag. Lord Heroncrest did indeed govern that northern region.

Sicarius slipped out his black dagger. He would listen for what intelligence might be had, but he intended to eliminate Heroncrest that night, cutting out this thorn before it embedded itself more deeply and festered. He thought of sending Sespian away, making some pretense of going back to check on something, but he doubted that’d spare any harsh feelings. No, he’d simply do what he intended, no lies, no excuses.

“That’s the command tent, right?” Sespian whispered.

He scooted closer to the edge, shoulder to shoulder with Sicarius. Touching. It was the first time Sicarius could remember Sespian coming that close of his own volition. He rubbed his thumb against the side of his dagger. Killing Heroncrest… It’d put distance between him and his son again.

Regrettable, but Sespian would be better served by a quick resolution to the succession.

A captain trailed by a private carrying a notebook hustled for the command tent. He ducked inside without a word, but voices started up soon after.

“News, Captain Bearovic?” It was an older man’s voice, General Heroncrest, Sicarius guessed, though he’d never heard the man speak and couldn’t be positive.

“Yes, sir. Our intelligence men have reported back. Ravido Marblecrest is still in the Imperial Barracks and has approximately two thousand troops within the walls there and another fifteen thousand maintaining the peace in the city. So far, they’re not openly attacking your men, and nobody’s that concerned about Flintcrest’s forces on the other side of the lake, but there have been isolated incidents between factions. There have also been a few altercations with civilians, university students mostly, who liked Emperor Sespian’s progressive policies. They’re causing trouble, demanding to know what really happened to him. They’re pointing out that nobody’s seen his body.”

Sespian’s head lifted. “I have supporters?” he whispered, a speculative note to his tone. Perhaps he was thinking he could make an appearance at the University and try to find men to back him there. But the young academic pups would be slaughtered if they tried to cross swords with soldiers.

“Because his body was incinerated in a train wreck,” Heroncrest snapped.

“Are we certain about that, sir?” the captain asked. “We only have Marblecrest’s word, right? And he’s apparently being fed information by that gaggle of women.”

Sespian leaned closer to Sicarius to whisper, “It’s good that Ravido’s colleagues don’t seem to respect him or his alliance. We just have to prove that I’m the better option.”

“And eliminate the Forge threat,” Sicarius responded. “As powerful as that coalition is, it won’t matter if anyone else supports Ravido or not.”

“True, I hope Amaranthe’s plan works.”

“As do I,” Sicarius said, though he cared more about her surviving the scheme than taking down Forge. He should be with her, not skulking around here. What would Heroncrest or Ridgecrest matter if Amaranthe was right and Forge had brought the Behemoth here, intending to use its weapons?

“If Forge says he’s dead, he’s dead,” Heroncrest said. “Or he will be soon. Even in my northern satrapy, my family has had interactions with the leader of that organization in the last couple of years. They have an inconceivable amount of money at their disposal, and they have… other inconceivable powers too.”

“Magic?”

“I’m not sure exactly what it is. But I’ve seen an impressive demonstration of power.”

Sicarius wondered what else Forge might command aside from the flying vessel. He doubted they’d shown that to Ravido Marblecrest’s rivals. Maybe they’d sought to cow Heroncrest, though, to warn him away from making a bid for the throne. He thought of the incineration cubes, imagining some aide of Heroncrest’s burned alive before his eyes.

“My intelligence team has been following the newspapers,” the captain said, “and there have been several horribly mutilated bodies found in the last few days. Similar to some slayings that occurred in the city last winter. Some have suggested the makarovi have been brought over from Mangdorian territory. Others say some magical beast.”

“Forge’s power… what was demonstrated for me, isn’t anything like that. It’s very… tidy.”

“The cubes?” Sespian whispered.

“Possibly,” Sicarius replied.

“Some people are suggesting the Nurians might be behind the slayings,” the captain said.

“Of course they’d want to control the Turgonian throne too,” Heroncrest said. “This is a massive once-in-countless-generations prize that’s available. It’s hard to believe they could have gotten people over here so quickly though. Unless they had advance warning.”

“Or were planning an attack anyway.”

Heroncrest grunted.

“Regardless,” the captain continued, “tensions are thick in the city, and my reports suggest we can expect an escalation. It could get very bloody very soon. Also, word is getting out that we’re camped out here too, though neither Flintcrest nor Marblecrest has started marshaling forces. It’s possible they plan to let Ridgecrest deal with us on his own. If he can.”

The wind shifted, refreshing the scent of cigarette smoke in the air. Sicarius lifted his head. No, the wind hadn’t shifted. Someone who was smoking was coming closer. The guard in sight hadn’t lit anything-Sicarius had been keeping an eye on him as well as the rest of the area while the officers spoke. He turned an ear toward the core of the vehicle lot, suspecting the pair of soldiers they’d pass earlier. Yes, the crunch of boots on frozen leaf litter came from that direction.

“…over here,” one of the soldiers said.

A couple of young mechanics shouldn’t have business in the command tent, but they were heading down the aisle in that direction. They’d pass beneath Sicarius and Sespian’s tramper.

Sicarius touched Sespian’s shoulder and wriggled back so his head wouldn’t be visible if someone walked below them. When Sespian pushed away from the side to follow, a few clumps of snow were brushed over the edge. Sicarius hoped nobody was close enough to see or pay attention to the fresh lumps on the ground.

“…need it tonight?” one man asked.

“Sarge’ll be mad if I don’t have it at morning formation.”

“Who is that?” called the guard at the corner of the clearing.

“Privates Tuller and Wardivk. Left my ammo belt in the tramper.”

Sicarius pulled farther back from the edge and knelt. He probed the snow and found the hinges of the roof hatch. Careful to keep his head out of the guard’s line of sight, he maneuvered about so he’d be behind those hinges, should the lid lift. If the soldiers entered this particular tramper to retrieve the missing belt, they shouldn’t have any reason to stick their heads up there, but one had to be prepared.

He caught Sespian watching him and noting the knife in his hand. He’d drawn it to deal with Heroncrest-the officers were still talking in the tent-but felt the need to justify himself under that solemn gaze. An odd feeling. He’d rarely worried about justifications before. Under Hollowcrest and Raumesys, killing had been the norm not the anomaly.

The hinges of the belly hatch whined as they opened. Sicarius couldn’t have said anything to Sespian if he’d wished it, not with the soldiers scant feet below.

“Better oil that in the morning,” one said.

“The hinges are just cold. So am I. Whose blighted idea was it to lay siege to a fort in the winter?”

“Ssh, the general’s tent is right over there, you dolt.”

Thunks and clanks sounded as one of the men unfolded the drop-down ladder and climbed inside the tramper. Sicarius’s hearing told him the other remained below-he was the one smoking. The smell of burning tobacco mingled with the pervasive coal scent in the air.

Sespian pointed at the roof hatch and spread his arms, palms up, silently asking what the plan was if the soldier opened it. He pointed to Sicarius’s dagger and shook his head once, emphatically.

Out of habit, Sicarius signed, I won’t kill him, though there wasn’t enough ambient light for Sespian to read the gestures. So long as he got the gist.

A clunk sounded right below them, followed by a string of curses. “Need a lantern,” the muffled voice said from within.

Still poised to attack if needed, Sicarius waited while the soldier searched for his missing item inside and kept an eye-and ear-on the rest of the camp. Sespian returned his attention to the tent, no doubt trying to pick out more information for Ridgecrest. Aside from the discovery of the tunnel-boring equipment, they hadn’t learned much that they hadn’t already known or guessed.

It wasn’t words, however, that reached Sicarius’s ear, causing him to jerk his head up. A distant shout of surprise came from the rear of the camp. It wasn’t from the direction where they’d left the cable, so it couldn’t be related to that.

The surprised shout turned to a shriek of pain. Cries of, “Get back!” conflicted with orders to, “Help him!”

Nearby tent flaps were thrust back, and soldiers streamed out buckling ammo belts as they balanced rifles and lanterns in their arms.

Sicarius gripped Sespian’s arm. “We need to get back to the fort.”

Sespian turned wide eyes toward him. “The soul construct?”

Another cry of pain sounded, this one closer and on a direct path inward from the first cries.

“It’s coming for you,” Sicarius said.

• • •

Amaranthe didn’t think she’d let any of her alarm over the announcement that Ms. Worgavic was on the way show on her face, but Books stepped forward and nudged her arm.

“You said this wouldn’t take long and that I’d be allowed to begin my research of the current socio-political climate in the capital for the paper I’m writing. These times of upheaval must be documented. Yet-” Books tilted his head toward the women, “-it’s been delay after delay. First we had to endure the blockade and the questioning from the soldiers, now this. Perhaps we could return to the boarding house and come back tomorrow, when the process can be expedited.”

He was trying to give her a way to walk away from the yacht club before Ms. Worgavic showed up, but Amaranthe didn’t want to leave. That would mean abandoning their plan entirely. What she needed was a ride down before Worgavic returned. She supposed it was too much to hope that her old teacher would get her shoe caught in a sewer drain, trip and fall, and be run over by a trolley.

“You’re staying at a boarding house?” the middle-aged Forge woman asked. “When your parents’ home is only a few miles up the hill?”

Alarm flashed in Books’s eyes. He’d said the wrong thing, and he knew it.

“I’ll be visiting them most certainly,” Amaranthe said smoothly, “but the last I’d heard, Mother had turned my old room into a study. After being absent for so long, I wouldn’t wish to intrude upon them. I doubt Retta is staying with them either.”

Retta blanched and touched her eyepatch. “No.”

Amaranthe patted Books’s arm. “I understand your concerns, but we needn’t rush. As I’ve told you, you’ll have a firsthand view of the changing of emperors and the rise of a new power if you simply remain with me. My colleagues are spearheading the movement.”

Books was searching her eyes, probably trying to figure out if she wanted him to continue arguing so she could pretend to eventually give in or if she truly wanted him to drop it.

“I’m hungry,” Akstyr said. “Do we really have to wait for this pomak?”

That was one of the Kendorian words Books had taught Amaranthe-a derogatory term that translated to scavenger fish. She hadn’t realized Akstyr had been paying attention. Books didn’t seem as surprised-he gave Akstyr an amused and almost fond look.

“That had better mean venerable and wise gentlewoman,” one of the Forge people said.

“Something of that nature,” Books said.

“I can pilot them out if they want to go now,” Retta said. “It won’t take that long, then I can come back for Ms. Worgavic and the rest of you. I’m quite eager to show my sister around the… ship.” The steady gaze she gave Amaranthe as she spoke suggested she was more interested in throttling her for details of her scheme rather than offering tours. “As some of you know, I’ve been wanting to show her the work I’ve been doing as well.” Bitterness laced the statement, a true one, Amaranthe sensed. Retta wanted to show her sister that, though she’d always been in her shadow when they’d been children, she was now reading the language of, and manipulating tools from, an advanced and utterly foreign race, something few people in the world could claim.

Amaranthe kept her face neutral. She didn’t know how the real Suan would respond or how much she knew about the Behemoth, if anything.

“Ms. Worgavic won’t appreciate a delay if she returns and our little tug isn’t here,” one of the younger women said, lips pursing.

Tug? More like a submarine-it had to be.

“You can blame me. I don’t mind.” Amaranthe waved her hand airily. “We’ve known each other for years.”

“Yes, I understand you were one of her students back when she taught math.”

“Actually, she taught economics,” Amaranthe said, not certain if this was another test or if the woman simply didn’t remember. “But, yes, I was a student at Mildawn.”

“Ah, economics, of course.” The woman nodded and pointed two fingers at Retta. “Fine, take her out.”

Good. Amaranthe gave the women a curtsey and a “Thank you,” and turned for the door. She didn’t want to delay, not when Worgavic might come in at any moment.

“Not them,” the woman said as Books and Akstyr started to follow.

Amaranthe froze. “Pardon?”

“Our new… yacht is not for outsiders. They can wait for you at the boarding house.”

Amaranthe took a moment to make sure none of the panic clutching at her heart reflected on her face, then turned toward the table again. “These aren’t outsiders. They’re my advisers and my allies. I’ve known them for a long time, and we’ve been through a great deal together.”

“Perhaps they can be invited dow-out at a later time, but not now. You’ll understand when you see the yacht. Tell her, Retta.”

Amaranthe met Retta’s eyes, hoping for some support.

Retta licked her lips, glanced at the others, then nodded. “We can’t let strangers down. For our safety and theirs. They might not be ready for… the truth.”

Books snorted. Akstyr looked intrigued. They were both interested in seeing the inside of that craft, if for different reasons. Their curiosity aside, Amaranthe had reasons of her own for wanting them. Not only would they be necessary for coming up with a plan on how to take over or break the Behemoth somehow, but she’d need them to help her sneak or fight her way to the engine or navigation room, or whatever the craft had, the place of power and control. More than that, she needed… them. There at her back. Helping her and lending support in case… in case… cursed ancestors, she couldn’t face that place alone. Not again.

“I’m sure they can handle it,” Amaranthe said, shocked that her words came out calmly without terrified squeaks punctuating the words. “For Turgonians, they’re quite ecumenical.”

“No,” the middle-aged woman said.

Retta shook her head once, minutely, a silent message in the gesture: Give up this fight. You won’t win.

“The guards will escort them out,” one of the younger women said. “You can meet up with them again in the city tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Amaranthe said and struggled to keep a lid on the pot of desperation trying to boil over inside of her. She’d never hyperventilated in her life. She wasn’t going to start now. She hoped.