Forged in Blood I (30 page)

“That’s not a bad place to start.”

“Do you truly believe you can pass as this Suan?” Books asked. “Someone you’ve never met?”

“We went to the same school, and I’ve read her book. Also, I
have
met her, sort of, through the mind link I shared with her sister.”

“Isn’t the girl supposed to be a genius though?”

Amaranthe stepped closer to a building to avoid a delivery boy slipping and skidding down the sidewalk on a bicycle laden with boxes. “What are you implying, Books? That I’m too dim for the position?”

He brushed dirty snow from his trousers, courtesy of the bicycle’s wheels and the surrounding slush. “What are the chief industries that comprise the Kendorian economy?”

“Leased land, wool, copper, and sexy lizard-skin purses, boots, and lingerie,” Amaranthe said, relieved he’d asked a question about the part of the lecture she’d actually been listening to.

“Hm.”

Maybe she should have quoted him directly instead of adding flair in regard to the lizard-skin items. Still, he’d have to know she’d been listening and passed his test. “Hm? That’s it? I get more enthusiastic praise from Sicarius.”

Books missed a step. “Truly?”

Amaranthe smiled. “No.”

Akstyr snorted.

“I can do this. I’m sure of it.” Amaranthe didn’t know how to express the richness of the vision she’d gotten through Retta’s link. She had a vivid impression of this sister, specifically how others viewed her. Instead of trying to explain that, she smiled again and said, “How hard can it be? Nobody’s seen Suan in ten years except her sister, and I’m hoping the sister will ally with us and help out.” If she’s still alive, Amaranthe added silently. She believed the arrival of the
Behemoth
meant she had to be—she was the pilot after all. Of course, Retta could be alive, but not in good standing with the outfit.

“What if you didn’t bond with this sister as much as you think, and she turns you in?” Books asked.

“Then they’ll take us prisoner, and we’ll get a ride to their ship regardless.”

“Or they’ll shoot us,” Akstyr said.

Amaranthe patted him on the shoulder. “If they seem so inclined, I hope you’ll magic something up to prevent that.”

“Magic.” Akstyr scoffed at the inappropriate word. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate when my apples are freezing.”

“It’s not
that
cold out,” Amaranthe said, though she would have preferred her long wool underwear to Maldynado’s string garment.

“It is when you aren’t wearing anything under your robe.”

Books frowned at him. “
Why
aren’t you wearing anything? I showed you how to make appropriate Kendorian smallclothes.”

“You showed me how to wrap a sheet between my legs. I could barely walk.”

“The Kendorians manage to walk, run, and make war without trouble while wearing the
daikka
.”

Amaranthe pointed at a teak sign with golden letters that read
Summer Point Yacht Club and Sailing Association Headquarters
. From the impressive gleam, the embossed letters might have been crafted using actual gold flakes. She led the men left, down a broad, well-maintained dock—not so much as a splinter was gouged from any of the boards, which had been swept free of snow. The mildew invasion stampeding across the docks at the southern end of the waterfront wouldn’t dream of inserting a colony here. Most of the boats had been removed in anticipation of the lake freezing over, but a few craft remained, their skeletal masts stretching toward the gray skies.

“Maldynado spotted me trying to put it on and said no woman would sleep with me if she saw me wearing a big sheet diaper,” Akstyr said.

“Amaranthe,” Books said, “at what point when you were explaining this mission did you mention that Akstyr would be required to lift his robes for women?”

“I don’t remember mentioning it.” She glanced down a branch in the sprawling dock system, toward a two-story building with tall glass windows overlooking the lake. Clinks of pots and dishes drifted from it, so she assumed it was an eating house, not a likely place for Forge to store its secret underwater pod, or whatever they were using to reach the bottom of the lake.

“It could happen,” Akstyr said. “These Forge people are mostly women, right? Some of them might think I’m cute and get antsier to rip off my robes than a smoke-head tearing into a
caymay
wrapper.”

“Ancestors save us,” Books muttered.

“You know,” Amaranthe told him, “I’d prefer it if you not goad him in such ways that he shares his lurid fantasies with us.”

“Yes, I’ll remember that in the future.”

“Whatever,” Akstyr said, and repeated, “it could happen. Especially if I get to share about how… skilled I am.” He wriggled his fingers.

“Let’s wait until we get a read on our hosts before making announcements about that.” Amaranthe did intend to introduce him in a manner that suggested he had such skills—she hadn’t been able to imagine any other capacity in which Suan might employ a teenage boy in her entourage—but most of the Forge people were Turgonian. Despite their eager adoption of the ancient technology, they might share the national prejudice against practitioners.

“That may be the spot.” Books subtly turned his chin down another branch in the dock system.

Two men in green wool uniforms with silver piping stood guard in front of the entrance to a one-story building built on piers. Amaranthe didn’t recognize the attire and guessed they belonged to a private security outfit. Short swords and batons—given the girth of the wood weapons,
clubs
might be a better term—hung from their belts, and they glared down the docks, their meaty forearms crossed over their broad chests.

Amaranthe strolled toward them as if she had every right to be there. Remembering how Maldynado dismissed or looked
through
servants, she angled for the door as if the men weren’t looming on either side of it. Suan wasn’t warrior-caste, but she’d grown up amongst the affluent.

“Pardon, my lady,” one of the guards said, “are you a member? I don’t recognize you.” He’d guessed she was warrior-caste; that was good. He’d also stepped sideways to block the door; that was less good. The second guard glowered at Books and Akstyr.

“Oh, no, I prefer to let others handle the organization of my water-based transport,” Amaranthe said, “but I have an invitation to meet with one of the yacht club regulars. They should be expecting me. Suan Curlev.” She hoped Ms. Worgavic wasn’t the one waiting inside. She’d deliberately waited until nightfall for this approach, thinking she might be greeted by a more junior Forge member during off hours.

“I wasn’t told about any visitors, my lady.”

Er, what if this wasn’t the right place? A plaque on the door read
Sailing Association Headquarters and Ballroom.
Sicarius hadn’t mentioned a specific building when he’d reported trailing the messenger back here, but the presence of security personal made her assume there was something to hide inside. The eating house hadn’t been bedecked with big beefy guards.

“Can you check, please?” Amaranthe asked. “I can wait.”

Books and Akstyr shuffled from foot to foot behind her as the speaker eyed her thoughtfully. Suspiciously?

“Very well,” the guard said. “Wait here, please.”

At least he was being polite, though that would change if he figured out she wasn’t warrior-caste, amply moneyed, or otherwise elite and special. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, Amaranthe tried to get a glimpse of the interior. Despite dusk growing deeper, nobody had lit any lanterns, at least not within view of the door. She had a sense of a high-ceilinged open room devoid of furnishings, but that was it. The guard disappeared down a hallway.

The remaining man cleared his throat, the multi-syllabic rumble aptly conveying that she shouldn’t be peering so intently inside. Amaranthe smiled and clasped her hands behind her back. She was debating whether she should try to engage him in conversation or merely gaze blandly out at the lake when movement in the water caught her eye.

Three young men and a boy of twelve or thirteen were rowing a weathered dinghy through the area. They were all dressed in mismatched and ill-fitting clothing, with the oldest, a gangly fellow in his early twenties, wrapped in a gold silk cloak decorated with knife holes and faded bloodstains. Two youths rowed while two dragged weighted nets. A pile of waterlogged boots, soggy clothing, tin cans, and other dubious treasures was heaped in the bow.

“Street eaters,” Akstyr growled and shifted to stand behind Books. He glanced at his hand, making sure his Black Arrows gang brand was still hidden.

The young men in the boat had branded hands as well, theirs also displaying arrows. One of them muttered something to his colleagues and pointed toward the trio on the docks. Amaranthe didn’t know if they’d picked out Akstyr specifically—they could be commenting on the value of her jewelry—but given the shared Black Arrows background, they easily could have recognized him.

“Maybe
you
should have been the one to dye your hair blond,” Books whispered to him.

“Isn’t it enough that Si—someone hacked it all off?” Akstyr whispered back.

“Apparently not.”

“I don’t suppose we can wait inside?” Amaranthe asked the guard amiably, as if the answer didn’t matter one way or another. “It’s getting colder out here.”

The guard was glowering at the dinghy and didn’t response. He strode three paces to the end of the dock, puffed out his chest, and rested a hand on his sword. This new view of the man revealed a throwing knife holder on the back of his belt, three flat steel hilts protruding from the compact sheaths. “You sewer mutts get out of here. This is private property.”

“You can’t own the lake.” Gold Cloak sneered, flinging up a hand in an old gesture once used as a command for castrating irresponsible servants. “We’ll go wherever we want.”

“Ignorant thugs, you can too own water rights. These docks, those beaches, and the lake out to those buoys belong to the yacht club.”

“Come make us leave, why don’t you?”

Almost fast enough to impress Sicarius, the guard pulled out a throwing knife and hurled it. The path of the blade was hard to track in the dim lighting, but Amaranthe heard the thunk of it landing and the cry of pain that followed. The knife had sunk into one of the wooden benches, pinning the gold cloak—and the hand that made the rude gesture.

The display of accuracy didn’t surprise Amaranthe—after all, wouldn’t Forge hire the best in private security?—but it did make her decide not to irk the guards. She didn’t want to pick a fight with them.

Much cursing arose as the gang members hastily rowed beneath the docks and out of the guard’s line of sight—and blade hurling.

“Thanks for the knife, Fatty!” the youngest called when they’d rowed far enough away that they thought they were safe.

Obnoxious laughter followed, even from the injured man. The street-raised youths probably would think such a fine blade a worthwhile trade for a little pain.

“Sorry you lost your knife,” Amaranthe told the guard.

He shrugged and returned to his station at the door, his glower no different than it had been before. “My employers will compensate me.”

Akstyr wasn’t paying any attention to the conversation; his gaze remained to the south, the direction the gang members had been heading when they rowed beneath the docks. They hadn’t reappeared. They might have continued south, using the docks for cover, but they could be plotting nearby too. The value of that knife was minuscule compared to the bounty the gangs had placed on Akstyr’s head.

“So, no waiting inside?” Amaranthe tried again. The guard had been distracted before.

“Sorry, no.”

On the waterfront street, at the head of the dock, couples started arriving in steam carriages. Dressed in furs, jewelry, and displaying the latest fashions—Amaranthe smirked when she spotted a lizard-skin purse—they strolled toward the eating house. A woman in city worker’s overalls walked onto the dock with a lantern and tools for lighting the lamps along the way. She must have veered too close to some of the wealthy diners for their tastes, for someone in a group of well-dressed women snapped at her. The worker scurried away, chin ducked to her chest.

Amaranthe couldn’t know for certain if the diners were warrior-caste or part of the successful business class, but the fact that she couldn’t tell the difference said much. Forge simply wanted to replace the aristocracy with another group of power-caressing snobs. In the end, nothing would change. Forge spoke of merit-based wealth, but all of their scheming and blackmailing proclaimed they wanted special privileges to ensure they were at the top of this merit-based system. Sespian was still the best bet for a better world. If Books were one of his advisers, they could work together to implement a more egalitarian system.

The door swung inward, and the first guard reappeared. “Need you for a minute, Lors.”

“What about us?” Amaranthe asked at the same time as the second guard asked, “What about them?”

“We’ve got to do that special… procedure. It’ll just take a minute.” The first guard lifted a hand toward Amaranthe. “My lady, the people who can verify the validity of your claim will be here shortly. Please continue to wait outside.”

“Very well,” Amaranthe said, letting a hint of haughty exasperation into her voice.

The guards disappeared inside, and a solid thunk sounded as the lock turned.

“It sounds like their underwater conveyance is docking,” Books murmured. “It must come up under the building. If those hooligans are still down there somewhere, they might get an interesting show.”

“They’re not still down there.” Akstyr’s eyes had that faraway look that meant he was practicing his Science.

“Where are they?” Amaranthe asked.

He waved toward the dock behind the headquarters building. “Get ready for a fight.”

“A fight?” Books whispered. “I’m not properly geared for a fight. I was told to look academic and interestingly exotic. All I have with me is a dagger.”