Forged in Blood I (31 page)

“I know. We have the same weapons.” Amaranthe carried a satchel with some of Sicarius’s dried meat bars and a few other supplies, but she hadn’t known if it would be searched, so she hadn’t dared bring a pile of weapons. There hadn’t been any thoughts of Suan participating in dueling or wrestling classes in Retta’s memories.

Though he must have heard the lock turning, too, Books tried the door. The knob didn’t turn.

The hinges and wood had a sturdy mien, not that Amaranthe was ready to try breaking down the door. “Sicarius would be disappointed in us if we couldn’t handle ourselves against four untrained street youths.”

“Eight,” Akstyr said, eyes half-lidded. “They have friends.”

Wonderful.

“I’d like to sear them into lumps of charcoal,” Akstyr growled. “That one boy with the droopy eye, that’s Edge. We used to run together until he turned on me. He was one of the ugly sock stuffers who attacked me and handed me over to the enforcers right before you came along last year.”

“Sock stuffers?” Books murmured.

“Don’t ask,” Amaranthe said. “Please.”

Books grunted in agreement. “Shall we look for a more amenable place to make a stand? We’re at a dead end here, and I don’t fancy taking a swim if we’re forced back. Also, if they’re bright, however unlikely that is, they may think to come at us from water as well as land. Er, dock.”

“Not a bad idea, but we’d have to run back to the street before we’d find such a spot, and I’d hate to miss our appointment.” It’d be handy if the door opened then, and they were invited in before they had to fight anyone.

“They’re climbing up the back of the building,” Akstyr said. “Bet they’re going up on the roof to try and jump on us.”

“All the reason to move.” Books stepped toward the intersection of docks.

Amaranthe caught his arm. “Wait. Akstyr, how would you like a chance to deal with them in your way?”

His ears perked up. “By searing them into charcoal lumps with my mind?”

“No,” Books said, then, with concern in his voice, added, “You can’t actually do that, can you?”

Akstyr shrugged. “Maybe. Partially.”

Erg, that would be an unappealing way to die. And an unappealing way to watch someone die.

“Perhaps you can use a more imaginative method and simply scare them away,” Amaranthe said. “The yacht club is in an upscale neighborhood after all. Finding charcoal-lump corpses on the docks might alarm the clientele.”

“I should hope so,” Books said.

“I guess I could try something else.” Akstyr grinned. “It’d be ball-licking righteous if I could get them back.” He leaned around the corner of the building. “I bet those sludge suckers don’t even know they’ll be in full view of the eating house if they get up on the roof.”

“Is it my imagination,” Books murmured, “or has his vernacular grown more colorful since those hoodlums approached?”

“I could embarrass them good.” Akstyr nodded to himself.

“Yes, you could.” Amaranthe squeezed Akstyr’s shoulder. “Books and I will protect you so you can concentrate.”

“Really? Like my bodyguards?”

Books arched his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Amaranthe said firmly. She didn’t have a problem with all three of them standing back-to-back and fighting off the youths if that was required, but this was, at its heart, Akstyr’s problem, and she thought it’d be good for his growth—or at least his ego—if he handled it himself.

“Very well.” Books drew his dagger, sighed at it, and placed himself to Akstyr’s right side.

Amaranthe stood to his left. The water lay behind them and the building to the front, the door still shut. The windows next to it were shuttered, though wide ones farther down the wall and overlooking the water provided an open view. Unless someone was standing inside with a nose pressed to the glass, the dock shouldn’t be visible though.

A scrape sounded on the roof. Amaranthe thought about telling Akstyr that sooner would be better than later for whatever action he wished to take, but she kept her mouth shut. She’d made it clear that he was in charge of this battle; she had to trust him now to handle it.

Beside her, Akstyr’s eyes were fully closed—not something he usually dared during a fight—his face scrunched in concentration. A sign that he fully trusted her? If so, they’d come a long way in the last year.

Prepare yourself
, Books signed.

More scuffles sounded on the roof, closer this time. Amaranthe bent her knees and shook out her arms to relax the muscles. She was glad she’d chosen boots instead of those sandals; otherwise she’d be kicking them off and fighting barefoot. Not an amenable practice with snowflakes dusting one’s shoulders.

A dark bottle sailed over the edge of the roof, a fuse dangling from the top, a flame dancing along its length.

“Watch it,” Books barked.

Knowing the gang members meant the bottle to hit the dock and drench them with burning kerosene, Amaranthe jumped up and forward, catching it in the air, careful to soften her grip so it didn’t break in her hand. Before her feet hit the dock, she’d tossed the incendiary. It splashed into the water behind them, the flame snuffed out as the bottle sank.

Two figures, Gold Cloak and a new man, leaped over the edge, clubs raised high in both arms. Surprise twisted their faces, and one blurted, “It didn’t work!” as he fell.

Assuming Books would take the man closest to him, Amaranthe targeted Gold Cloak. She lunged under the eave to evade his dropping form, then stepped in as he landed, launching a side kick. Her heel thudded into his kidney like a battering ram. He dropped the club and staggered forward. He tried to spin toward her, but Amaranthe had a second kick waiting. This time, she took him in the hip, and he pitched sideways, following the bottle into the water. A second big splash went up beside him, Books hurling his opponent off the dock.

Nobody else was leaping off the roof, so Amaranthe risked a glance at Akstyr, wondering if he was doing anything yet. Though she couldn’t feel the Science being used, not the way Sicarius could, his face held a familiar expression of utter concentration, and his arm was outstretched, his fingers splayed.

Grunts and heavy footfalls came from the roof, but nobody else leaped into sight. Were they regrouping? They sounded… discombobulated.

Amaranthe grabbed the fallen club with her free hand and turned sideways so she could watch the roof as well as the water, in case the first two thugs tried to throw something or crawl up behind Akstyr. The golden cloak floated on the surface, but its owner had disappeared. Back under the docks to recover perhaps.

On the roof, a new thug came into sight and Amaranthe readied herself, expecting more to jump down. This one was stumbling as he approached the edge, though. In one hand, he grasped a rust-pitted short sword, but the other was busy holding up… his pants? That’s what it looked like.

Before she could decide if it was Akstyr’s doing, the boy from the dinghy rolled off the roof and landed on his side on the dock. Something popped, and he cried out, but he didn’t remove his hands from his waistline. “Get it out, get it out!” he yelled and kept trying to yank off his trousers.

Two more men leaped from the roof, forgoing the dock and angling toward the water. Black smoke streamed from their rear ends. Amaranthe thought to shove the writhing boy into the lake, too, but he glimpsed her when she approached, the club in hand, and jumped to his feet of his own accord. He took off running for the street, still clawing at his waistband. The ragged trousers
did
appear to be pulled uncomfortably high.

Amaranthe quirked a brow at Akstyr. He was still concentrating with his eyes closed, but a smirk had found its way onto his lips.

“Curse you!” the man who remained in sight on the roof shouted. He’d lost the battle with his trousers, and they were tangled about his ankles, revealing knobby knees and hairy legs. Rage twisted his face, and he lifted his arm to hurl something.

In the poor lighting, Amaranthe couldn’t tell what he held, but she guessed the target. As the thug released the weapon, she grabbed Akstyr’s arm and yanked him out of the way. His eyes flew open, his concentration broken, but she didn’t have time to apologize. The throwing knife the guard had used earlier lodged into the piling behind Akstyr. Amaranthe jumped up, her dagger in hand, intending to return the throw—without missing. But the hairy-legged fellow was already pitching off the roof to the dock in front of her. Cries of pain escaped his lips, as he clutched at his thigh. Books’s dagger protruded from the muscle.

At that moment, the door opened and the two guards stepped into view.

“Problem?” one asked mildly.

Splashes sounded as the men in the water swam out of sight beneath the dock. Amaranthe pinned the whimpering man’s shoulder with her boot, so Books could retrieve his knife. His lips flattened with disapproval of this necessary causing of further pain, but he knew the blade would have to come out eventually, one way or another. He pulled it free as quickly as possible, and Amaranthe let the man up. He didn’t bother glancing about to check on his comrades; he ran away as well as he could, half dragging the injured leg as he clutched at the wound to halt the bleeding.

“No problem,” Amaranthe told the guards, wondering what they’d think of her and Books’s display of pugilistic competence. She hoped their task inside had kept them too busy to wonder about the thumps on the roof and the shouts outside. If they’d been watching at the window and had seen proof of Akstyr’s unique talents, that’d prove nettlesome at best. She strove to keep the concern off her face, instead turning her back to them to retrieve the throwing knife from the piling. “No problem at all,” she repeated as she returned it to its original owner.

Books sheathed his dagger and straightened his colorful robe. “Have we been vouched for?”

The guards exchanged looks with each other, but only said, “Your lady has been invited inside, yes.”

Amaranthe wondered if that invitation included her men. Better to act than ask permission and be denied. She waved for them to accompany her. The guards led the way inside without comment.

As soon as their backs were turned, Akstyr’s fingers twitched in a flurry of signs.
Was that all right? Should I have killed them? It seemed funny when I thought it up, but now… I messed it all up, didn’t I? They’ll run back and tell everyone where I am, and there will be a thousand Arrows and bounty hunters and ancestors know who else waiting for us to leave the docks.

His jaw firm, Books signed,
You should never feel you ‘messed up’ when you chose a path that spared lives instead of taking them. If there are consequences, we will deal with them.

The guards were leading them across the ballroom toward a door at the back, so there wasn’t much time for a lengthy conversation, but Amaranthe gripped Akstyr’s shoulder and signed,
Books is right. You should also never regret that you took advantage of an opportunity to light someone’s underwear on fire.

That brightened Akstyr’s consternated expression.

You’ve been spending too much time with Maldynado
, Books signed to Amaranthe.

Have I?
She smiled innocently.

They’d reached the door, and, when one of the guards opened it for her, she rearranged her face into what she hoped passed for the bland indifference of a world-wise businesswoman who’d never doubted her right to join her colleagues here. One guard in front, one behind, they were ushered down a hallway. The walls were painted with murals of yachts, their sails full of wind. Though Amaranthe had never followed the art world, even she recognized the name of famous muralist Ansil Inkwatercrest painted in the corner, under the title “Regatta.”

While she was noting the artwork, she also noted a trail of wet footprints leading out from a shut door on that sidewall. She itched to open it, suspecting their submersible craft was docked somewhere behind it, but the guard trailing behind Akstyr and Books didn’t spread his arms in an invitation for them to explore. Rather his brisk pace assured they wouldn’t dally.

At the forward guard’s gesture, Amaranthe stepped into a parlor with tall windows on three sides. Three women in ankle-length felt skirts and blouses with jackets sat at one of several round tables in the room. A tidy white tablecloth cascaded to the floor, and silver tea and cider pots steamed on the surface while the women sipped from the smallest, daintiest cups Amaranthe had ever seen. A platter in the center of the table held cookies shaped into boats with a familiar stylized C stamped in the centers. Curi’s. The idea that the baker supplied cookies to Forge filled her with a sense of betrayal. That had been her favorite place to buy sweets for
years
.

She didn’t think she’d seen the women before, though one was somewhat familiar, someone who’d been in that big Forge meeting, perhaps. She felt the blessing of her ancestors that Ms. Wargavic hadn’t shown up, but the cool eyes that narrowed at her approach stole her sense of relief. Did they know what Suan looked like? And that Amaranthe wasn’t she?

To avoid their hard gazes, Amaranthe pretended to admire the views through the windows. On one side, the two-story eating house rose, along with a view of some of the yachts. One the far side one could see the rest of the waterfront. The lake-side windows… She hoped their little skirmish hadn’t been visible outside them. As she’d noted earlier, the dock wasn’t in view, but the two men who’d sailed off the roof with smoke streaming from their underwear… She forced herself not to grimace as she acknowledged that unique sight might have been in view.

“Suan?” one of the women asked.

“Yes.” Amaranthe faced them again and walked up to a chair. “Forgive me, please, but I’ve been out of the capital for so long. I haven’t missed the
sak lee
winters, but there is a beauty about the lake in winter.” She wasn’t trying to adopt any sort of accent—after all, Suan had been born in Stumps—but Books had made her memorize a few Kendorian, Kyattese, and Nurian words to toss into regular conversations. “It’ll ice over soon, don’t you think?”