Blood and Betrayal (16 page)

It bothered her that more than once while she was wadded up in the crate, Amaranthe had wondered if protecting Sicarius’s secret was worth the continued pain. After all the people he’d killed, did he deserve such loyalty? She loved him, but he’d offered so little in return. Did he
truly
care about her? Did he think about a life together with her when this was all over? Would the suffering she was enduring matter to him? She resented herself for her doubts; more, she resented Pike for causing her to have them.

On the third night, or maybe it was the fourth—the only thing she had to judge time by was the number of torture sessions that had gone by—a soft scrape roused Amaranthe from her latest attempt at sleep. A beam of light slashed into the crate. Accustomed to the blackness inside, she groaned at the pain it elicited and turned her head away.

“Amaranthe?” came a whisper from outside. Retta.

Hope stirred behind Amaranthe’s breast. After that first day, Pike had worked the controls for the claw and the table himself, and she hadn’t seen Retta again.

Fighting pain, Amaranthe forced her face toward the light. Retta had opened a horizontal rectangle in the door. It wasn’t big enough to slip a hand through—even if Amaranthe could maneuver an arm up to it—but she could see Retta’s hazel eyes through the gap.

“I didn’t know this flat came with a view,” Amaranthe rasped. Speaking hurt. During the last session, Pike had experimented with ways to induce panic in her, perhaps believing she’d blurt out the answers he craved, and he’d alternated between choking her and pouring water down her throat.

Retta’s eyebrows drew together, creating a tiny furrow above her nose. “How can you make jokes in your situation?”

“Inappropriate jocularity is one of my hallmarks. Just ask Sicarius.” Amaranthe decided it would take too much effort to explain that it was better to make jokes to distract oneself from the gravity of one’s predicament than to dwell upon it.

Retta leaned in closer, blocking the light with her face. “Why
are
you protecting that assassin? You could be free if you simply answered our question.”

Our
. Amaranthe had wondered how closely Retta was associated with Forge, whether she was one of them or simply someone who’d been pressed into working for them. That “our” was telling.

“I could be free?” Amaranthe whispered. “Doubtful. I was responsible for Larocka Myll’s death, and my team has thwarted other Forge schemes this past year. We… ” It occurred to her pain-befuddled mind that she shouldn’t be volunteering information about what she had and hadn’t thwarted. Forge might not know all the details. “I’m sure I’m slated for execution once Pike has the information he seeks,” she finished.

“Don’t be foolish, Lokdon. Ms. Worgavic
likes
you. You would have been invited to join Forge years ago if you’d gone to work for an alumnus or started your own business. Nobody was going to approach an enforcer though. But now that you’re rogue… ” The narrow window slit didn’t offer a view of Retta’s shoulders, but clothing rustled, hinting at a shrug. “When Ms. Worgavic learned that you were leading those mercenaries and not simply tagging along with the assassin, she suggested to more than one person that you should be converted to our side instead of eliminated. As one of the six founders, she has the sway to make that happen.”

Amaranthe didn’t know what to think of Retta’s statement. She supposed it might be true, but Worgavic might have also sent Retta to try and extract information using a slyer method than Pike’s. She did tuck the tidbit about Forge having six founders away in the back of her mind. Worgavic hadn’t been on Books’s list; maybe he hadn’t discovered any of the founders yet.

“Why did you come?” Amaranthe asked. She might earn more useful information if she asked questions instead of answering them. Then she’d just have to figure out how to escape so she could put that information to good use. Retta seemed the most likely prospect to help with both goals. “The scowls you gave me that first day didn’t seem all that friendly.”

“Of course, I was scowling. You think I
like
hearing about what a boon it’d be for Forge if you could be converted? When I’m already here? I’ve been working for Ms. Worgavic for years and she barely acknowledges… ” Retta thumped a hand on the side of the crate. “They wouldn’t have any idea how to control the
Ortarh Ortak
if not for me.”

Was that the name of the craft? Amaranthe preferred her name, the
Behemoth.

“
I’ve
been instrumental to their success of late,” Retta continued. “
You’ve
been a pest gnawing at their toes.”

How flattering. Amaranthe kept the thought to herself and grunted encouragingly instead. This was her chance. If she could keep Retta talking and establish a rapport…

“You were one of Ms. Worgavic’s favorite students, did you know that?” Retta asked. “
All
the teachers liked you. And our peers too. It wasn’t fair. You weren’t warrior-caste, and you weren’t even from a good family. Isn’t your father some dirty logger, or something?”

“He
was
a coal miner,” Amaranthe said.

“Oh.” A note of apology came with that
oh
. Retta seemed to realize she’d been more insulting than she intended.

“I apologize because I don’t remember, but did I ever… wrong you?” Amaranthe asked.

“No, you never wronged anyone. That’s why everyone liked you. It was cursed annoying.”

Despite her discomfort, Amaranthe laughed. A short laugh, and the pain in her abdomen immediately made her regret it, but maybe it was worth it, for Retta’s blinked in surprise. Amusement was not the reaction she’d expected apparently.

“As I recall,” Amaranthe said, “you spent every free moment in the library, and, even in class, kept your face buried in those archaeology books. The teachers might have appreciated you more if you’d paid attention, or at least raised your hand to ask a question once in a while. People like to know others are listening when they talk. Teachers and students too.” Amaranthe kept her tone amiable, trying not to make her comments sound like a lecture, but she hoped to show Retta that whatever differences there might have been between them, they weren’t Amaranthe’s fault. No need to hold a grudge now…

“They
were
archaeology books. How’d you… I mean, I didn’t think you even knew who I was.”

Amaranthe decided not to mention that the fact had only stuck out for its oddness. All the other girls had carried their textbooks or, if they enjoyed reading, the latest romance or adventure stories. “While I don’t mind chatting, you haven’t answered my original question. Why are you here?”

Retta glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “Nobody deserves this fate.”

“So, you’ve come to unlock me? Excellent.”

Retta grimaced. “I can’t. I owe Ms. Worgavic too much. She was the one who realized I was never going to be like my sister, that I was interested in history and archaeology instead of business, and that I didn’t belong at Mildawn. She talked to my family and had me sent to Kyatt to finish my education. After that, she elicited a lot of favors so I could go to the field to study artifacts with a woman who used to be on Professor Komitopis’s team. Do you know who she is?”

Yes, thanks to Sicarius’s recent explanation. Komitopis was the one who had translated the language from the race who had crafted the
Behemoth
and ancestors only knew what else. If Worgavic had sent Retta off to study the ancient language, she must have been aware of this craft, and the need to learn how to work it, long ago. She must have seen in Retta not only a girl with an archaeology interest but also one with few friends, one who’d be loyal to anyone who treated her decently. Amaranthe decided not to dwell on the fact that she sometimes pursued similar tactics. What mattered now was figuring out a way to break that loyalty, or at least work around it.

“Amaranthe?” Retta pressed her eyes to the slit, peering into the blackness. “Are you still… ?”

“I am, yes.” Amaranthe groaned. Eliciting sympathy couldn’t hurt her cause. “Do you truly think the other founders would listen to Ms. Worgavic?” Playing along and sounding like she could be swayed might help too. “That they’d let me live? After what I’ve done? And who I’m… associated with?”

“They want your assassin friend dead, there’s no denying that. But if you disassociated yourself from him, and helped us to determine how much of a threat he’ll be going forward, then I don’t see why you couldn’t join Forge. They’re smart people. They know it’d be more of a coup to turn an enemy into an ally than to simply get rid of her.” The last sentence had a stilted, or maybe rehearsed, cadence. Had Ms. Worgavic had Retta memorize it?

“You think the other founders are that open-minded? Who are they anyway? Anyone I’ve heard of?”

Retta shook her head. “I’m not going to give you any free information, Lokdon. You’d have to give
us
a lot of information before we’d start to think you might be on our side and trustworthy.”

“Then it seems we’re at an impasse,” Amaranthe murmured.

“It’s better to be with them than against them. Trust me. I know what it’s like to be on the outside. Not only is this a chance to end your suffering, but you heard Ms. Worgavic. This is a chance to ensure you have a part in creating the future.”

“Why do you care if I join or not?” Amaranthe asked.

“Back in school, you didn’t look at me with soul-shriveling contempt. And you held the door open once when you saw that I was carrying a bunch of books. Human kindness was rare at Mildawn.” Again, the words sounded rehearsed, and they didn’t mesh with Retta’s earlier bitterness over their different school experiences. She had to be here, fishing for information, at Worgavic’s behest.

Amaranthe sighed and tried not to feel like she’d wasted her limited energy talking with the girl.

Retta leaned back from the slit. “Think about what I said. I’m sure you’d make friends easily in Forge, and it wouldn’t take long for you to go from suspicious stranger to trusted ally. Winning those people over, it’d just be a new kind of challenge for you.”

“I’ll… consider it,” Amaranthe said.

Retta nodded, apparently accepting that as a small victory. Amaranthe wished she felt like she’d won some victories.

A faint tremor pulsed through the floor.

“I have to go. It’s time to land.”

“Land? Land where?” Amaranthe hadn’t even known for certain that they’d been flying. She wondered how far they had gone. More precisely, she wondered how many miles separated her from Sicarius and the others. Escaping might only be Step 1 in reuniting with them. She sagged under the weight of the idea of a thousand-mile trek.

“The closest unpopulated area to our meeting spot.” Retta lifted a hand to close the slit to the crate.

“Wait,” Amaranthe blurted.

Retta paused, her hand hovering. “What?”

Yes, what indeed?

Amaranthe rifled through her thoughts, trying to think of something she could say to convince Retta to help her. Something to instill guilt? Would that work? “If I… don’t make it, and if Forge wins… whatever you do with this new future you and Worgavic are crafting, please ask yourself if you’re truly making the world better or if you’re simply replacing one group of ruling elite for another. And, if you’re the one responsible for making this aircraft accessible to Forge, please don’t let them use it to hurt people. With this much power in one’s hands, it’d be easy not to bother with governments at all and simply create dictators.”

Retta frowned, disappointment entering her eyes. Yes, she’d thought Amaranthe would give in and divulge Sicarius’s secret. She hadn’t expected a lecture, and she probably didn’t appreciate it.

The window covering slid shut, plunging Amaranthe into darkness again. She sighed. Hadn’t she been better at this once?

T
wilight deepened as the boat glided upriver, angling toward Rabbit Island where an ancient castle perched at the top of a tree-cloaked pinnacle, its grounds ablaze with gas lamps. Nice scenery, but Maldynado barely noticed it. He kept sneaking peeks at Yara, who sat on the bench beside him, her athletic form quite striking in the sleeveless blue velvet dress. A cape warmed her shoulders on the chilly night, but, from time to time, it drooped, revealing sleek, smooth skin, skin he’d seen for the first time when she had been changing back in the junkyard. Not that he was puerile enough to sneak behind a heaping debris pile to peep, but sometimes a man happened to be passing by on some other errand and accidentally glimpsed feminine flesh.

“When I volunteered for this duty,” Books said from behind Maldynado, where he hunched over bicycle pedals, powering the boat’s paddlewheel, “I didn’t realize this island was
up
stream.”

Maldynado, who lounged on the padded passenger bench, his arms draped across the backrest, said, “I assumed that your big brain had a map of the entire empire stored in there.”

“As a resort for the indolent wealthy, Rabbit Island isn’t worth a mention on many maps.”

“I think that means there are holes in his memory,” Maldynado told Basilard.

Basilard and Sespian manned the oars on either side of the boat. Akstyr sat behind Books, somehow having wrangled the non-physical position of tiller-man.

“Ssh,” Sespian whispered. “We’re getting close. There are guards up there.”

Even as he spoke, someone moved on the dock, and metal—the barrel of a rifle—glinted in the lamplight. Maldynado picked out six guards pacing near the gangway of a wood-paneled, brass-bejeweled, three-story steamboat. The
Glacial Empress
. Twilight’s deepening made it hard to tell, but some of that brass might have been gold.

“There are more guards on the steamboat too,” Sespian whispered.

“Guess I’d better make a bigger distraction than I’d planned.” Maldynado patted the bulging side of a satchel slung over his shoulder.

“Just don’t light the entire island on fire,” Books murmured.

The men rowed the boat into the cove with the dock. A few yachts and private water taxies shared moorage with the steamboat. Akstyr aimed their craft toward an open spot alongside the main pier.