Blood and Betrayal

Chapter 7

Twilight 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.

“Ready to meet the family?” Maldynado let his arm drop from the backrest to drape around Yara’s shoulders.

“Touching,” she said, though she kept her voice low.

“Yes, I imagine we should do quite a lot of that tonight,” Maldynado whispered, “though with lips instead of hands, don’t you think? To make our relationship look realistic.”

Maldynado hadn’t had many women growl at him, at least not outside of the bedroom, but the noise that escaped Yara’s throat sounded like it qualified.

“Now, now, my lady,” Maldynado said, aware that the guards could probably hear by now. “You know it’s only proper to save the growling for… later.”

Two men in crimson-and-black uniforms, those of some private guard service, stepped up to Akstyr’s chosen docking spot and turned up gas lamps perched on the poles. The brighter light nicely illuminated the rifles cradled in their arms. Maldynado did a double-glance. They were repeating firearms. It seemed Forge had been busy supplying its allies with the latest models from their secret weapons manufacturing plants.

Sespian lowered his face. The beard and new clothes disguised him well, but avoiding scrutiny was a good idea. He ought to loosen those white knuckles too; he was gripping the oar like he might turn it into a cudgel at any moment. He must hate having his fate in a Marblecrest’s hands. Maldynado would show Sespian that he was trustworthy.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he drawled to the guards.

“This is a private island, comrades,” one man said. “Unless you have an invitation, you won’t be permitted to get out of your boat.”

“I’m here on family business.” Maldynado waved toward the castle-turned-resort. From this lowly angle, trees blocked the view of most of the structure, but a couple of lit towers stood out against the night sky. A wide, well-lit cobblestone road wound its way up the hillside. “My sister-in-law, Mari Marblecrest, was supposed to arrive today. Did she make it safely? I would be remiss if I didn’t come to see her.”

The guards exchanged looks. One fingered the trigger of his rifle.

Maldynado stood, so he could take action if he needed to, but also so they could see his fine garments and the arrogant chin tilt he assumed. He hoped they’d believe him warrior-caste based on looks alone. By law, commoners who weren’t soldiers or enforcers with orders to do so were forbidden from lifting a hand, even in defense, against aristocrats.

“What’s your name? My lord.” The guard tacked the latter on, no doubt covering himself should it prove to be true.

“Maldynado Montichelu Marblecrest,” he said in his most pompous tone, then removed his hat and offered a slight bow, not the deep one a man might issue to a colleague or a lady, but the type that was considered a gesture of respect when given to commoners.

“Aren’t you disowned? My lord?” the man in charge of talking said after another exchange of looks with his colleague.

“He runs with mercenaries and outlaws, doesn’t he?” the other one whispered and eyed the rest of the “boat crew.”

Ugh, not good. “Ah, you’ve heard about my exploits down in the capital? I hadn’t realized that my tales had traveled this far downriver. I’m done with that life though.” Maldynado waved toward Yara, hoping to get the guards looking at her, and that oh-so-lovely bosom, instead of at the men. “I’ve been told that my father has invited me to rejoin the family and that Mari has the details. Do be a good lad and run along to let her know I’ve come, won’t you? My fiancee is eager to meet her.” He kept his hand extended toward Yara, and the guards’ eyes were indeed lingering on her, and not her face either. Fortunately Yara’s growl was too low for them to hear.

After another shared glance-Maldynado was beginning to think those two might share a brain as well-one of the guards said, “Go check,” and the other scampered off the dock.

Maldynado took this as an invitation to climb out of the boat. This drew a frown from the remaining guard, especially since Maldynado stood a half a foot taller than the man, but he stepped back without a word. Still trying to figure out if Maldynado deserved warrior-caste respect perhaps. Or maybe he knew that other guards stood at the base of the pier and would have plenty of time to shoot if anyone tried something. And then there were those additional men on the steamboat.

“My lady?” Maldynado offered a hand, inviting Yara to join him on the dock.

She stood, frowned at the hand, and proceeded to climb out herself. She tried to, anyway. The brass-tipped slippers Maldynado had chosen to match the dress lacked the sturdy soles of enforcer boots, and one of her feet slipped in a damp spot on the dock. Though she probably would have recovered her balance before she pitched sideways and fell into the river, Maldynado caught her about the waist and kept her upright. He needn’t have pulled her against his chest to achieve that goal, but opportunities to have a woman feel one’s pectoral muscles couldn’t be ignored.

Alas, Yara shoved him away before she had a chance to feel much of anything. “Men,” she said in a tone that made it clear it was a curse. “Not only do they buy you clothes designed for the benefit of their eyes, but they consider it a coup if those clothes also make it more likely that you’ll need their help.” She glared at the guard, as if he had colluded with Maldynado to bring about the moment.

The guard skittered back, apparently more alarmed at risking her ire than that of Maldynado, warrior caste or not. He decided it wasn’t bad walking beside a woman who could quell men with a glare. If she’d just stop sending that glare his way so often…

“It’s a nice dress, ma’am,” the guard finally managed.

“Do you like it?” Maldynado withdrew the stacks of business cards the shopkeepers had pressed onto him. “Save up and visit Madame Mimi’s Fashion Boutique. I’m sure you’ll find something nice for your lady.”

The guard gaped at the card in his hand, a perplexed wrinkle to his nose. So long as the man didn’t find them suspicious.

A soft clatter arose from the direction of the road. None of the guards reacted, and, a moment later, a bronze-and-wood sphere on a tiny cart rolled out of the darkness and onto the dock. The knee-high contraption hissed and spat smoke from a tiny vent pipe on the top. Maldynado’s hand drifted to his rapier hilt. He’d suffered enough at the hands of magical devices of late.

In the back of the boat, Akstyr’s head perked in interest for the first time. When Maldynado met his eyes, he used Basilard’s hand code to sign, Magic.

Lovely complication.

The guards didn’t blink at the sphere’s appearance. Given how scarce-and utterly forbidden-magic was in the empire, that must mean they thought it some steam-powered automata.

The closest guard bent, opened a door in the sphere, and pulled out a scroll tied with silk. Maldynado tried not to be obvious about peeking over his shoulder as the man read. Most of the writing was too small to make out, but he spotted Mari’s flowing signature.

“You can go up,” the guard said, “my lord.”

Huh.

“Naturally.” Maldynado snapped his fingers at Basilard. “Gather our bags, boy.”

Basilard’s eyes widened, and his hands moved together, as if to sign a few choice imprecations, but Sespian cleared his throat softly. After a quick glare at Maldynado, Basilard fetched a trunk. Maldynado had found it in the junkyard and done his best to refurbish it, figuring Mari and her cronies would think it odd if he arrived without any luggage, especially when he was traveling with a woman.

Basilard plopped the trunk onto the dock, nearly catching Maldynado’s toe beneath the corner. Maldynado moved his foot in time.

I thought I was going to be the bodyguard, Basilard signed.

Bodyguard, lackey, it’s all the same to someone in the warrior caste, Maldynado signed back when the guard wasn’t paying attention.

One wonders how hard bodyguards try to save their clients from harm.

“You boys, tie the boat up and mind these security fellows. We’ll be back later tonight or in the morning.” Maldynado flipped the emperor a coin, hoping Sespian wasn’t the type to order public floggings for impudence.

Sespian kept his head down, but he caught the coin with a quick snatch and pocketed it. “Yes, my lord.”

“He’s the best actor among us,” Maldynado muttered to himself, then raised his voice for the guard’s benefit. “Do we have to walk up? Or are there carriages?” He waved at the message-delivery sphere still hissing where it idled. “It seems there’s some technology on this remote rock.”

“Sorry, my lord,” the guard said. “No steam carriages, but there are porters available if your lady is disinclined toward walking.”

“The lady can walk just fine.” Yara strode off the dock at a brisk pace, wobbling only slightly in the slippers.

“Come, boy,” Maldynado said and hurried to catch up to her.

Had Basilard the ability to mutter under his breath, he surely would have been doing so. But, in silence, he hefted the trunk over his shoulder and followed after Maldynado and Yara.

As soon as Maldynado passed the trio of guards waiting on the road, he pretended to trip on the cobblestones.

“Blast, this is a rough road,” he said. “Poorly lit too. Torches would be brighter than these twenty-year-old gas lamps.” Two of the guards carried lanterns, and, without asking, Maldynado plucked one from the hands of a fellow who didn’t appear particularly alert. “I’ll see this is returned to you, lad.”

“What? I-”

One of his comrades elbowed him. “Yes, my lord.”

Maldynado jogged and caught up to Yara. She said nothing about his delay. The woman wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

Bumps and clanks followed them up the hill. At first, Maldynado thought it was something in the trunk, but Basilard wasn’t the one making the noise. The message-delivery device, trembling and hissing from the strain of rolling up the bumpy road, had decided to trail after them. That could prove problematic, as Maldynado had planned to create his distraction as soon as they rounded a bend and trees hid them from sight.

“You two see Akstyr’s warning?” Maldynado asked, keeping his voice low in case the device could somehow report their goings on to its master. He wagered it did more than deliver messages. When Yara gave him a blank look, Maldynado remembered she wouldn’t have understood the sign if she’d seen it. He tilted his head backward. “We seem to have picked up a spy.”

“Does it matter?” Yara asked.

Not sure she understood the device’s magical significance, Maldynado said, “If it’s here to observe us, probably.”

She gave him a sharp look. Yes, she understood now.

Maldynado supposed he could leave Books and the others to figure their own way onto the steamboat, but he had promised a diversion.

Basilard stopped and set the trunk down with a thump. He shook out his arms and rubbed his lower back. It wasn’t that heavy, so Maldynado knew it was a show.

He signed, Idea?

Basilard considered their surroundings. They were winding their way up the hill and had left the trees to walk across the open face of a cliff on the back side of the island. Its steep walls rose above and dropped below them. The guards couldn’t see them anymore, thanks to the topography, but the steam device clanked to a stop behind Basilard.

He finished his rubbing and stretching and bent to pick up the trunk again. He pretended to stagger under its weight, and stumbled a couple of steps to the rear. The wheeled sphere started to roll backward, but not quickly enough. Basilard stumbled again and accidentally punted the thing off the road and over the cliff. Never mind that a star brindle-ball player would have struggled to launch a projectile so far.

The device clunked on a boulder at the base of the cliff and bounced into the river.

Oops, Basilard signed with a wink.

“Nice,” Maldynado purred.

He opened the trunk and pulled out the tattered, grimy clothes people had been wearing before he resupplied the group with more suitable attire. After dousing them in lamp oil from his satchel, he wadded them up. He tied the bundle into a nice knot, lit it with the lantern, and tossed it onto a promontory below. It landed in the branches of a tree. Perfect. The rocks separating the promontory from the mainland ought to keep the rest of the island from catching on fire, though he supposed that’d make an even more engaging diversion.

He dusted off his hands. “Just enough of a problem that a few guards will need to check it out.”

Yara regarded Maldynado and Basilard with pursed lips. “When I first met you people, I thought Corporal Lokdon was the crazy lunatic who’d used her charisma to talk you men into haplessly following her. I see now I was mistaken; you’re all crazy lunatics, and you deserve each other.”

Basilard asked, Should we be offended?

“Careful,” Maldynado told Yara. “Basilard says he can do that with people too.” He pointed over the cliff at the spot where the device had disappeared into the river.

Basilard punched Maldynado in the arm.

Yara snorted and continued up the road, again striding ahead, showing no interest in waiting for her “fiance.”

“Whoever marries that woman is going to have his hands full.” Maldynado lifted the trunk and helped Basilard hoist it back onto his shoulder.

Or her hands, Basilard signed with his free fingers.

Maldynado scratched his jaw as they started up the hill again. “You suppose that’s the case? I have been perplexed by how resistant she is to my charms.”

Basilard did an impressive job of balancing the trunk without his hands, so that he could sign, I did catch her giving Amaranthe a speculative look when we were on the dirigible.

Maldynado stumbled. It was a good thing he wasn’t carrying anything. “You did?”

Normally, he wouldn’t mind the notion of two women running off together-indeed, in the past, he’d been known to encourage such activities so long as he could be involved in some way-but the idea of Yara being permanently unavailable chagrined him for reasons he had a hard time identifying. Before his chagrin set in too deeply, he noticed the mischievous glint in Basilard’s pale eyes.

“Oh, you’re just kicking me in the shin, aren’t you?”

Basilard flattened his hand against his chest in an unconvincing “who me?” gesture.

“That’s what I get for mistranslating your signs for people, I suppose.”

Basilard nodded once, then, as they strolled around another bend, he signed, I caught her peeking at you when you were sleeping.

“You did? When I had my shirt off to use as a pillow?” It’d been a bit chilly for shirtless napping, but one had to make sacrifices when trying to impress a woman.

Yes, it’s amazing how often you’ve been unclothed since she showed up.

“Pure coincidence.” Maldynado smiled, his self-esteem bolstered by Basilard’s revelation.

Beside him, Basilard slowed to a stop, his eyes toward the road ahead, or rather what was at the end of the road. It is a castle, he signed.

Yes, the massive structure possessed all the requirements, everything from massive stone walls cloaked with creeping ivy to a moat winding its way around the base of the structure. Lampposts with intricate wrought iron and glass frames lined the ground inside the moat, ensuring nobody would climb up those ivy-bedecked walls without being noticed. Further, Maldynado thought he spotted caltrops or something similar dotting the ground around those lamps. Above, guards in chainmail clanked as they strolled along walkways protected by crenelated parapets. Towers rose at each of the corners, complete with arrow slits, though modern breech-loading guns had replaced cannons and were perched on the roofs, poised to fire upon vessels coming up or down the river.

“It’s a castle,” Maldynado agreed, “but a lot of that pomp is for show. I’ve heard it’s a nice resort inside. There are heated mineral baths and massage stations all over the bottom floor. Each suite upstairs has its own dedicated butler.”

Does the structure predate the empire?

“You’d have to ask Books for the boring details, but I think the first Turgonian conquistadors set it up as a guard post to protect the route inland. Once they found gold and diamonds in the mountains around the Chain Lakes, they weren’t looking to have the Nurians or anyone else coming a-visiting.” Maldynado waved at double oak doors on the other side of a bridge stretched across the moat. “We better knock before someone starts to wonder where their mechanical spy went.”

Though Maldynado wasn’t intimidated by the castle itself, uneasy twinges assailed his gut as he approached the drawbridge. He dreaded a chat with Mari. He might not have volunteered to be disowned, but he hadn’t fought it either. No longer having to attend family gatherings had been a relief.

Basilard pointed at the moat. Two crimson eyes stared at them from the surface of the water. It seems the alligator stories are true.

The stories didn’t mention glowing eyes, Maldynado signed, thinking of the tainted creatures the team had encountered while seeking the makarovi-infested dam.

More magic. We had better pay close attention inside.

Because you’re the help supposedly, my sister-in-law will ignore you. You might be able to slip away and snoop.

Yara stood by the door, her hands on her hips as she waited for Maldynado and Basilard to catch up. They’d barely stepped off the drawbridge when she grabbed an iron knocker wrought into the broad ursine head of a grimbal and clanked it three times.

A clink-clunk emanated from behind the walls, followed by a faint hiss. The doors groaned open, revealing a brighter entryway than one would have expected from the grim stone exterior. Though the inner walls were also stone, they had been whitewashed. Gas pipes, also painted white, ran along the walls, powering countless lanterns and an elaborate chandelier dangling from a high, arched ceiling. Landscape and portrait paintings mounted between the light fixtures displayed a mixture of the straightforward unimaginative styles of the empire and more exotic and fanciful images from faraway lands. The signatures were all from historically significant artists, meaning the paintings had cost someone a fortune to purchase.

“Pretty,” Yara grunted in a tone that suggested she preferred the utilitarian decor of an enforcer office.

“Yes, but not so pretty as you, my lady.” Maldynado swept into a bow, figuring people would be observing them by now.

Yara looked like she might throw up, but refrained from telling him to stuff his compliments up his-

“Lord Marblecrest?” a man asked, stepping down from one of four stairways that tunneled into the walls, leading upward from the stone foyer. The slim, mustached butler wore an ornate blue suit choked with gold and silver trim and adorned with coattails one would have to be careful not to trip over. If he didn’t feel ridiculous in the outfit… he should. But he likely had no choice. With pale skin and straight blond hair tied back in a braid, he appeared Kendorian or Mangdorian. Maldynado wondered if he had been hired because he’d work cheaply or if he might be an illegal slave, as Basilard had been. Either way, if foreigners comprised most of the help, Basilard might have an easier time wandering about and spying.

“Yes, good fellow.” Maldynado stepped forward. That the man had called him “lord” was a good sign; it meant Mari hadn’t squashed his story of having a right to the family name again. He’d best lay on the warrior-caste arrogance thickly. “I insist on rooms for the night and to be taken to see Mari Marblecrest at once.”

“Er, rooms?” The butler had been walking toward them, but he halted, almost stepping on one of those flowing tails. “I hadn’t realized you’d been invited to spend the night.”

Maldynado adjusted his hat, giving it a jaunty tilt. “This is a resort, is it not? You do have rooms available, do you not?”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” the butler said in the soothing tones of one who had mastered the art of placating self-important aristocrats. “They are generally by invitation only, but I can add you to Lady Marblecrest’s party. Yes, I’ll tend to the accommodations promptly.” The butler stepped backward a few paces, avoiding the dangling coattails with subconscious skill that could only come with practice, and extended his arm toward an arched doorway. “You and your party may wait in the Relaxation Grotto.”

The double doors at the entrance groaned shut, and Maldynado tried not to find their resounding thud ominous. The butler paused and frowned, his gaze darting about as if he were looking for something. Oh, right. The ambulatory artifact Basilard had booted over the cliff.

“Wait?” Maldynado sniffed, drawing the man’s attention to him. “The service here is terribly slow and antiquated for an exclusive resort. I can’t imagine what drew Mari to the place. Did she also have to hike up a mountain simply to knock on the door?”

“Maldynado, do you never stop whining?” Yara asked. “The longer you stand there and complain, the longer we’ll be kept from the steam baths and our private room.” She gave her hips a suggestive wiggle. Though it wasn’t as practiced and comfortable a wiggle as Maldynado usually saw from women, it did draw one’s eyes to her curvy parts, and he found himself forgetting what he was doing and why he was doing it.

“Er, yes,” he managed. “The Relaxation Grove, was it?” Maldynado waved for her to enter first.

“Grotto.” Yara brushed past him, their bodies touching for an all-too-brief moment. “Do pay attention, Mal.”

Yara gave the servant a wink before she disappeared through the doorway. Despite her admirable acting job-so admirable that Maldynado had to take a deep breath to re-gather his thoughts-the servant’s frown remained. As much as Maldynado would love to spend the night entertaining Yara in their “private suite,” he had a feeling they should get what information they could and skedaddle off the island as soon as possible. He hoped Sespian and the others had already found an opportunity to slip aboard the steamboat.

Warmth and humidity wrapped about Maldynado as he entered the so-called grotto. The dimness and a return of the gray stone walls, albeit ones carpeted with numerous species of flowering vines, brought a cave to mind, if a luxurious one. Furs muffled the team’s footfalls as he, Basilard, and Yara walked around padded benches and lounge chairs, gurgling fountains, potted palm trees, and coal-burning braziers with dancing flames.

Once they were all inside, the door thudded shut behind them.

“I guess we’re not supposed to wander,” Maldynado said.

Yara skirted a steaming pool with meandering curves and stopped before an oak door on the far side. When she tried the latch, it didn’t budge. “It seems not.”

Maldynado didn’t see any other doors, though the foliage growing from pots and wandering up the walls obscured the view. He walked to the front of the room where a long, cushion-covered bench ran below a window that stretched from side to side and almost to the twenty-foot ceiling. During the day, it must let in ample light and offer an impressive view of the river, but all Maldynado noticed in the darkness was the moat. Two sets of red eyes floated past.

Numerous black iron bars made up the window frame, holding the hundreds of square panes in place. Basilard ticked the metal. Sturdy.

Indeed. Nobody could jump out that window.

“Relax,” Maldynado said, as much for himself as for the others. “This is a resort, not a dungeon.”

“A resort in a very functional-looking castle.” Yara strode over to Basilard and extended her hand, palm up. “Do you still have it?”

Basilard lifted a pant leg and fished something out of his boot-a sheathed knife with a leather strap wrapped around it.

“Thank you.” Yara propped her foot on a planter, hiked the calf-length hem of her dress up to her waist, displaying a view of a muscular yet shapely leg, and strapped the sheath to her thigh.

A tap on the shoulder drew Maldynado’s attention.

“What?” he asked Basilard.

Do you believe we are likely to be attacked? Basilard’s firm signs emphasized the fact that he was repeating himself.

Sorry, Maldynado signed back while Yara finished with the knife. I was… somewhere else.

I noticed.

Maldynado cleared his throat and told himself to focus. “I don’t know.”

Is it possible we’ve walked into a trap?

“It’s a little soon to assume that, don’t you think?” Maldynado had been proud of himself for taking charge and scheming up a plan to get the team onto the island. He’d hate to think that he’d been ensnared somehow, and that someone had all along wanted to get him here, with the emperor in tow. It had been quite a coincidence that he’d happened to run into Cousin Lita in a city with a population of fifty thousand. And it had been rather easy for him to snob his way into an invitation to step foot on the island. Not to mention how quickly the servant had agreed to overnight accommodations.

Maldynado moaned.

“What’s the problem?” Yara asked.

“Nothing. Just, ah, practicing my moans for the bedroom exploits we’ll need to have tonight. In order to convince people that we’re truly engaged. Mari knows me. She’ll expect audible proof of our joining to emanate through the walls.”

The narrowness of Yara’s eyes implied she hadn’t bought a second of that. “That was a moan of distress, not a moan of passion.”

“Well, I did see you strap that knife to your inner thigh. I don’t know how rough you like it.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Maldynado wanted to riposte with a retort as sharp and biting as the tip of his rapier, but if he had walked them into a trap, he was an idiot.

A soft clank emanated from a corner of the grotto. Maldynado moaned again. Now what? Some giant, steam-powered contraption that would stomp out of a secret chamber and trample them to death? Basilard and Yara dropped into crouches, back to back, knives drawn. Maldynado felt a twinge of jealousy over the fact that Yara chose Basilard as her fighting buddy, but reminded himself that they likely had more important things to deal with.

Two more clanks followed. With the last one, Maldynado glimpsed motion high up on one of the walls. Before he could think better of it, he ran across the room, jumped onto a fountain, and vaulted into the air. He landed on the wall, his hands wrapping about clusters of vines. Belatedly, he hoped they would hold his weight. Several vines pulled away from the wall, stolons torn from the mortar and dirt between the rocks, and Maldynado readied himself to be dumped onto the floor, but the tangled mass of greenery held.

“ What are you doing?” Yara didn’t say idiot this time, but Maldynado could hear the word hanging on the end of the sentence.

“Climbing.” Maldynado picked his way up the wall toward a metal grid near the ceiling. He felt foolish when he reached it, though, for it was nothing but a grate. No, a vent. And maybe he hadn’t been foolish after all. He must have seen the slats opening, and they wouldn’t have opened for no reason…

“Is there something flowing out?” Yara asked. “Gas?”

Balanced precariously on the vines, Maldynado waved his hand before the vent. He didn’t feel anything drafts, nor did he see anything coloring the air. Thinking he heard something, he leaned closer, ear tilted toward the vent. Yes, it sounded like air blowing out. Not out, he realized when he placed his hand on the grate and felt suction drawing at his fingers. In.

“Are those doors airtight?” Maldynado hopped down.

“What?” Yara asked. “What kind of castle is airtight? They’re drafty by nature. That’s why nobody lives in them anymore.”

Basilard left her side to check the door they’d entered. After probing with his fingers, he turned back and signed, Possibly. There are no obvious gaps. If they’re not airtight by design, a Science practitioner could make them so.

For the third time, Maldynado moaned. This night was getting worse by the minute. “I was afraid they wanted to trap us. It seems they just want to kill us.”

“By removing all the air in the room?” Yara scowled. “That’s a cowardly way to kill someone.”

“We’ll be sure to register a complaint with the city tourism board.” Maldynado jogged to the other door, checked it for air cracks, and, when he didn’t find any, tried ramming it open. Unfortunately, the oak proved stouter than his shoulder. He tried the latch again, just to be sure, but it still wasn’t budging. On a whim, he knocked.

Yara snorted.

“You never know,” Maldynado said. “Maybe some towel boy who isn’t in on the ensnare-the-newcomers plan will hear me and open it out of curiosity.”

Alas, no towel boys poked their heads into the room.

“Let’s try the window,” Maldynado said. “That’s glass, right? Nice, breakable glass?”

The tiny panes were too small for anyone to climb out, but a hole would solve the air problem. Maldynado and Basilard grabbed a heavy earth-filled pot with a moss garden fuzzing the top. They dragged it toward the window.

“That seems too obvious,” Yara said.

“Maybe they overlooked the window. I don’t think my sister-in-law is that practiced at planning murders.”

Maldynado gave Basilard a nod to indicate he was ready. As one, they lifted the planter and hurled it into the glass. The heavy pot clunked off the window and dropped to the bench and then the floor, dirt and moss spilling onto the stones.

“Come to think of it,” Maldynado said, “it’s been a while since I’ve been to a family get-together. Maybe Mari’s new hobby is planning murders.”

“Your relatives sound delightful.”

“Any ideas, Bas?” Maldynado spun in a slow circle, seeking inspiration. “Maybe if we ram the door with one of the stone benches… ”

Basilard shrugged-not exactly a glowing endorsement of the idea-and followed Maldynado to a seating area near the door. Even with two people, lifting the granite bench seemed like a Sicarius-inspired exercise. They manhandled it to the door and were panting by the fifth thump against the oak. None of their thumps resulted in more than dents in the sturdy wood.

“You two are wasting our air with all that panting,” Yara said.

“So sorry, my lady. I thought it worth the risk if it might mean escaping.” Maldynado touched the oak planks. The wood hadn’t seemed that thick. “Magic?” Maldynado sat on the bench, not bothering to shove it away from the doorway. “Some sort of enhancement?”

Basilard merely shrugged again. You should have recruited Akstyr to tote your trunk.

“I doubt he would have agreed.”

I didn’t agree either.

“No, but you’re a more amenable sort, and I knew you’d play along without entertaining thoughts of killing me later.”

“How about more ideas and less pointless banter?” Yara snapped. She stood in a crouch by the fountain, her knife clenched in her hand, as if she hoped people would come in and attack her.

“You’re welcome to share your ideas,” Maldynado said, refraining from snapping back. He figured she hadn’t faced death as often as he had-not that he’d learned to relish the notion-and fear spurred her short temper.

The knife in Yara’s hand drooped. “I’m sorry. I’m just… concerned.”

“Me too.” Maldynado knocked on the door again. “Hello, we’re not finding the Relaxation Grotto very relaxing. Mind if we try another room in the spa?”

Basilard signed, Are you actually expecting an answer?

“A maniacal cackle, perhaps.”

Maldynado noticed himself drawing in longer breaths, as if he were tramping about on top of a mountain. Yara stalked to the window and tried smashing the tip of her knife into one of the panes. Whatever that clear stuff was, it wasn’t glass, for her blade didn’t leave so much as a scratch. All that happened was that her knife flew out of her hand.

She picked it up, the movement not as smooth as usual, thanks to the confines of her garment. “I can’t believe this idiotic dress is going to be what I die in.”

“You could always take it off.” Despite the thin air, Maldynado managed a convincing leer. “I’ll strip, too, and we can die entangled in each other’s arms, thrashing about on the floor like deer in the rutting season.”

“You make sex sound so appealing.”

“I’m open to gentle, unhurried methods as well.”

“Does he ever think about anything else?” Yara asked Basilard.

Rarely.

Maldynado sank down onto the cold stone bench. In truth, he’d have a hard time working up the energy for good rut. Already his limbs had grown weak. His lungs inflated deeply, but couldn’t find sustenance in the air.

Basilard placed a dagger between his teeth and scaled the vines to one of the vents. He tried to pry the grate open.

“In case I don’t get another chance to say this,” Maldynado said, pausing to inhale between words, “I apologize for dragging you two up here. I should have known my family wouldn’t truly be interested in exonerating me. If I hadn’t been thinking to fool them myself, I would have realized this was a trap.” He slumped. “Cursed ancestors, I hope we didn’t set the others up to get caught too. Or worse.”

The scrapes on the wall ceased. Basilard hadn’t managed to pry the grate open, not that it would have done any good anyway. That duct was too small to crawl through. Basilard hung now from one hand, his eyes half-closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, strained breaths.

“You better come down before you fall down,” Maldynado said.

Without any of his usual agility, Basilard climbed down the wall, his grip slipping several times. He landed hard and sank straight to the floor. He leaned his head and shoulder against the bench and stared at Maldynado with defeat in his bleary eyes.

Sorry, Maldynado signed.

I forgive you.

Thank you.

Maldynado wished he could get something similar from Yara, but she appeared too irked to consider tender parting words. He lifted a hand, inviting her to come sit on the bench beside him. Jaw set, she remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest.

Maldynado sighed and closed his eyes.

In the dark confines of the crate, after a long, gruesome day of torture, Amaranthe allowed tears to roll down her cheeks. She wouldn’t show those tears to Pike, but there, in utter solitude, she saw little reason to maintain a facade. In the beginning, she’d thought she could somehow rescue herself by talking someone over to her side, but she’d made little progress on that front. Perhaps if she had a month, she might find a way to chisel through Retta’s barriers, but her body told her she didn’t have that month. Healing salves or not, she couldn’t imagine surviving three more days of Pike’s torture, much less thirty. A hundred times, she’d fantasized about Sicarius appearing behind Pike, slashing his throat, freeing her from that terrible table, and carrying her off to safety. But, in her heart, she knew he’d gone with Sespian. Even if he hadn’t, if Retta was to be believed, the Behemoth had landed days ago. If Sicarius had been able to follow the craft somehow, he would have found a way on board by now. And he hadn’t.

The slit on the crate door slid open. Amaranthe hurried to wipe away her tears, though it couldn’t be Pike. He always had the machine yank her out of her prison; he didn’t crouch down to chat through the door.

“Amaranthe?” Retta asked hesitantly, as if fearing she might have passed on.

“I’m still here,” Amaranthe croaked, wondering if she dared hope her last words to Retta had somehow meant something.

“I have a question for you.”

“Unless it’s a new one, I decline to answer.”

Retta knelt beside the crate and leaned close, tilting her head as if to hear better. Amaranthe knew her voice was weak but couldn’t manage a stronger one.

“Why did you leave school to become an enforcer?” Retta asked.

A new question after all. One that surprised Amaranthe because it didn’t have anything to do with… anything. At least it didn’t seem to. It must though. Random curiosity wouldn’t have brought Retta here to voice questions.

“Why do you ask?”

“I just need to know.”

“My father-”

“I know that’s what you tell everyone,” Retta interrupted, “but Ms. Worgavic was right. If you’d wanted to finish school and continue on in the world of business, you could have found a way. Why didn’t you? Why choose the enforcers over a chance to craft your own destiny?”

Hm. For whatever reason, Amaranthe had been in Retta’s thoughts. That last talk had seemed scripted, as if Retta were only there because Ms. Worgavic told her to question Amaranthe. Now, though, perhaps Ms. Worgavic was gone, off to that meeting, and Retta could ask her own questions.

Amaranthe considered her answer carefully. The truth, the one she had once told Hollowcrest when he’d asked a similar question, probably wouldn’t win her Retta’s favor. Had she known what exactly the girl wanted to hear, she would have been tempted to provide the appropriate answer, even if it were a lie. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what Retta wanted to hear.

“I’m not… against the notion of capitalism,” Amaranthe said, “and I believe it’s possible to do good, both by providing a useful product or service and by putting the money one acquires along the way toward a noble purpose, but as we entered our latter years of study, I came to realize business wasn’t for me. I’d always competed at the races, and I preferred a more physical lifestyle. More than that, I wanted to help people. I wanted the satisfaction that comes from helping people. I like knowing that I matter, that the work I’m doing matters. I also wanted… to be someone history remembers. I thought I could earn that by becoming the first female enforcer chief in the empire. I didn’t want money, or business success, just immortality of a sort.”

Amaranthe waited for Retta to laugh or belittle her-no immortality for you now, girl, just a slow death at the end of Pike’s knife. Instead, she said, “It’s interesting that you didn’t start to gain any fame until you broke away from the enforcers and became an outlaw.”

“That is true,” Amaranthe said, still wondering what Retta wanted.

“My parents forced me to go to that school, to follow in my sister’s path, even though I had no interest in business myself. I wanted to study history and archaeology and explore the world, to see what the past could teach us.”

Amaranthe grunted encouragingly.

“When Ms. Worgavic offered me the chance to do all I wished to do, if only I worked on her behalf, I saw my opportunity. I could study as I wished and see the world, and the apprenticeship would please my parents as well. It seemed ideal.” Retta settled onto the floor, only her shoulder in view as she leaned against the crate door, her gaze toward a distant wall. “But when you tie your dreams to someone else’s wagon, and you agree to be bound by their rules, you’re never truly free. All the success you achieve is ultimately the result of someone else doing you a favor. And if that wagon starts down a course you wouldn’t choose, it may be too late to untie yourself. I wish… I’d been more patient and found a way to do it all on my own.”

“There’s still time,” Amaranthe said. “You’re young. Start now.”

Retta turned sad eyes in her direction. “I know too many of their secrets. They wouldn’t let me walk away.”

Amaranthe remembered worrying the same thing about Sicarius once, that he’d never let her walk away because she knew his secrets. How fortunate she was that she hadn’t wanted to leave him.

“If you let me walk away,” Amaranthe said, knowing full well that it was too early in this newfound kinship to make requests, but knowing too that she didn’t have the luxury of time, “perhaps my team and I can rock the wagon enough that the drovers wouldn’t notice someone slipping away.”

Retta shook her head slowly. The sadness in her eyes deepened, and that disturbed Amaranthe more than a snort or a “nice try” would have.

“Even if I didn’t fear reprisal, I can’t betray Ms. Worgavic. She’s done everything for me that she said she would, and, wishes for the future aside, I’ve benefited handsomely from the association.” Retta placed her hand on the crate door. “The only way I can release you is if you tell me what everyone wants to know. Ms. Worgavic said she’d let you go if you did, so I wouldn’t be betraying anyone. I could do it now, in the middle of the night, when nobody would be around who might… override Ms. Worgavic’s wishes for your continued existence.”

Amaranthe laid her head on her knees, the tears threatening to swallow her eyes again. She was tired of the fight and of the pain, and was more tempted than she would admit by the offer. “I can’t,” she whispered and was glad when Retta left without pressing further.