Conspiracy

Chapter 21

Amaranthe, using clamps she had scrounged, fastened one end of the slingshot to a vertical strut to the left of the cargo door. Basilard was doing the same on the other side. The already tilted floor angled more steeply toward the nose of the craft, and Amaranthe found herself hanging onto the strut as her feet threatened to skid out from beneath her.

“I didn’t think a dirigible could tilt that much,” she said.

Though Basilard was struggling to hold on as well, he managed to one-handedly sign, Maldynado’s driving.

“Good point.”

Something scraped behind them. The box of blasting sticks sliding across the floor toward the corridor. Amaranthe’s heart leaped. Those should have been secured when the men first came on board.

“What’s going on back here?” Books clawed his way out of the emperor’s suite and into the corridor.

“Grab that box,” Amaranthe shouted.

Alarm widened Books’s eyes, and she wished she’d kept her voice calmer. If he fumbled it and didn’t catch it before it smacked into the wall or slid down to the navigation cabin…

Books managed to catch the box before it struck anything.

“Thanks,” Amaranthe said. “Secure that, will you? And bring us a few sticks. And that lantern that’s sliding your way too.”

“I came back here to see what was happening, not get pressed into labor,” Books said, though he headed toward her.

“What’s happening is we need someone pressed into labor.” Amaranthe nodded toward the porthole in the door. “Maldynado’s swerving about isn’t helping much. They’re getting close.”

“Dead deranged ancestors,” Books whispered, staring at the hole.

Amaranthe doubted he could see details from across the cargo hold, but the black ship now filled the view. It blotted out the mountains and the sky with its bulk. Amaranthe couldn’t tell if it was bringing weapons to bear, but, even if it didn’t, the craft could probably destroy the dirigible simply by running into it. Like a steam tramper squishing a fly.

“Has it done anything yet?” Books was strapping down the box of explosives.

“It’s just following us,” Amaranthe said. “Getting closer and closer. Basilard, think we’re ready to open the door and test our blasting-stick slingshot?”

Our?

“You helped me construct it.”

It’s your idea.

“Basilard says we’re ready to go.” Amaranthe extended a hand toward Books. The dirigible tilted to the side, and her feet slipped. Only her fingers wrapped about the strut kept her from tumbling toward him.

“I can… read his signs,” Books said, his words broken as he focused on climbing on hands and knees up the slanted floor while he clenched blasting sticks in his fists. “That’s not what he said.”

The nose of the dirigible rose and the floor tipped the opposite direction so quickly it nearly hurled Books into the cargo door. Amaranthe and Basilard caught him before blasting sticks could fly from his hands. For a moment, the greens and browns of the wetlands were visible through the porthole before the craft leveled.

“That idiot,” Books growled. “I should be piloting. He’ll kill us before the enemy has a chance.”

Something flashed outside. Amaranthe and Basilard almost clunked heads as they leaned toward the porthole for a look. Maldynado had brought them within fifty feet of the ground. The tips of trees would claw at the dirigible’s metal hull if they dropped any lower. The other craft wasn’t quite as low, but it was far too close for Amaranthe’s tastes. A white beam shot out of the dome’s black belly. It sliced through the sky and tore into the earth below. Trees burst into flame or were hurled from the ground altogether. Marsh water boiled and erupted into geysers. The beam zigzagged across the ground with clumsy madness, and Amaranthe thought of a kid scribbling on the sidewalk with chalk.

“Why’s it shooting the ground instead of us?” Books asked.

Amaranthe thought of Sicarius’s explanation for the strange craft’s existence. If the original expedition had needed Admiral Starcrest and a genius code cracker from an enemy nation, maybe the technology was so foreign that the Forge people were struggling to work everything. Except they were having no trouble flying after her team in that monstrosity…

“I don’t know,” Amaranthe said, “but we better take advantage of the fact that we’re not a smoldering ball of flame yet.”

Even as she spoke, the beam zigzagged again, striking a stout cypress. The wood exploded beneath the power, or perhaps the heat, and shards flew everywhere. Flames erupted from the ten-foot-tall stump that remained.

“Good idea,” Books said.

“Let’s get this door open,” Amaranthe told Basilard.

“While we’re flying?” Books asked. “Is that wise?”

“Wiser than lighting a blasting stick in a room without an open door.”

Amaranthe unfastened a safety latch and tugged at the unlocking mechanism. It took several tries before she could muscle it loose. A smack sounded, as suction was broken, and the door dropped outward. It happened so abruptly that she might have followed, if not for Basilard. He grabbed her by the back of the shirt and kept her from falling.

Wind tore at her hair and clothing. The black craft loomed closer than ever, blocking out everything but a sliver of the ground where a swath of flames burned, devouring trees and undergrowth. The stink of smoke filled the cargo hold, and Amaranthe stumbled back, coughing.

Basilard waved at Books for one of the blasting sticks and pulled the slingshot back until his arms quivered. He nodded for Books to light the stick and place it in the center of the pouch. Books lit the fuse, then fiddled with the placement of the stick for so long that Amaranthe feared it would go off in the cargo hold. Basilard swatted his hand away and released the slingshot in time.

The blasting stick sailed through the doorway. With the black craft so close, it would have been hard to miss, but Amaranthe held her breath, not knowing what to expect.

The explosive disappeared in a starburst that filled their view and made her squint. She lifted an arm to protect her eyes from the brilliance.

“Get another one ready,” Amaranthe said before the smoke cleared. She doubted one would be sufficient.

The wind shredded the black-powder cloud. Nothing had changed. The great craft was still closing, with no hint of damage marring its inky hull.

“Did we hit it?” Books asked. “The stick must have exploded too early, before it struck the craft. We’ll try to time it better with this one.”

Amaranthe nodded, waving at them to ready another attack, but a heavy feeling plagued her gut. The blasting sticks might not be enough to damage the other craft.

Though Akstyr kept his eyes closed, he could feel Sicarius watching him with the intensity of a starving wolf. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of Akstyr’s face and dripped from his chin. He chastised himself for noticing. Concentrate, he told himself. He had to block out Sicarius, and block out the awareness of his body if he hoped to find the artifact.

It had left its spot beneath the emperor’s knot of scar tissue to burrow deeper. As Books had said, it was designed to hook to the jugular to deliver its poison if tampered with, so that must be where it had gone.

Akstyr imagined his senses were blood cells, able to navigate through the body with ease. Slowly, his consciousness drew closer to that main artery. Something alien brushed against his awareness. The device. Yes, it was there, attached to the jugular.

As he had started to do before, Akstyr coiled his mental energy, preparing to hurl an attack. He dared not loiter, because that thing must have already sensed a threat. One chance. That was all he had.

“It’s on his jugular,” Akstyr whispered without opening his eyes. “Right here.” He pointed at the emperor’s neck, directly over the artifact, and was careful not to touch the skin. “You’ll have to slice deep to get it out, but not too deep.”

“Understood,” Sicarius said.

Sespian heard, and he had to be terrified, but he kept his breathing calm. He continued to lie still, though his knuckles tightened where his hands gripped each other across his belly. A detached part of Akstyr observed that it was interesting that he could sense all of that with his eyes closed, but he forced the thought away, turning his concentration again toward the artifact.

He summoned all of his mental might into a tiny ball, targeted the artifact, and unleashed the coiled energy in a single blow.

At that moment, the dirigible shuddered, as if they’d hit something-or something had hit them. The disturbance affected Akstyr’s aim, and his mental blow glanced off the artifact instead of hitting it squarely. He kept his concentration and eased in closer, prepared to hurl another attack, if he had time. The artifact was frozen though. His blow must have been enough to stun it.

“Now,” Akstyr said, his eyes flying open. “Get it out.”

Sicarius gave him a hard, appraising look-it only lasted a half a second-but his hesitation filled Akstyr with alarm.

“I swear,” he blurted. “It’s stunned, but only for a…”

Sicarius’s hands blurred into motion.

Sespian stiffened, and tried to pull away, but Sicarius held him down with one hand while the other…

Akstyr started. It had happened so quickly, he had missed Sicarius switching tools. He already held the artifact aloft, captured in a pair of tweezers. Sicarius dropped the small sphere to the floor and smashed it beneath his boot.

The emperor sat up, a hand clasped to his throat, his eyes wider than gold coins. Blood spilled between his fingers, but not a lot. Sicarius hadn’t nicked the artery.

“He got it.” Akstyr handed the emperor a thick cloth from the table. “You’re not bleeding a lot, but you can use that to stop it.”

A resounding thud sounded, and another quake coursed through the dirigible. What was Maldynado doing? Mowing down trees?

Sespian took the cloth with his free hand and pressed it to his throat. Blood dripped from the palm of his other hand, joining spatters on his shirt. “What do you people consider a lot?” he asked, though there was relief in his eyes.

“Depends on who you ask,” Akstyr said. “Basilard and Sicarius probably wouldn’t blink unless they had a leg fall off. Maldynado’s been known to complain about splinters.”

“I will suture your wound.” Sicarius picked up the needle and spindle of thread Amaranthe had laid on the table earlier.

The relief faded from the emperor’s face. He watched Sicarius thread the needle with concern. Akstyr wouldn’t be thrilled about Sicarius being his surgeon either.

“I can fix him up with the Science,” Akstyr said. “The way I did with Am’ranthe that time. It’ll probably leave less of a scar than the needle and thread.”

Sicarius looked Akstyr in the eyes, and Akstyr forced himself to hold the stare. He had a feeling there was some measuring going on in there, measuring that went beyond whether or not he was qualified to mend a cut.

When Sicarius gave one firm nod, Akstyr knew it applied to more than the doctoring. Akstyr had passed the test, and Sicarius was giving him another chance to do right by the group. Akstyr nodded back, the same single nod.

“You do not mind?” Sicarius asked the emperor.

“Oh, no.” Sespian blew out a slow thankful breath. “That’s fine by me.”

“Lie back down, Sire,” Akstyr said, remembering to add the honorific this time. “Here, I’ll hold the cloth there while I work.”

He thought of telling Sicarius that he could leave to help the others-at the least, someone needed driving assistance-but the way Sicarius folded his arms over his chest said he wasn’t going to leave the emperor alone. He might be willing to forget Akstyr’s past transgressions, as he called them, but that didn’t mean he trusted Akstyr. Oh, well. It was a start.

“It’s getting closer,” Books said. “They’re bound to figure out how to aim that beam sooner or later.”

He was stating the obvious, and Amaranthe bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. She pointed toward the horizontal bank of windows-at least they looked like windows-near the top of the dome. The feature was the only thing on the craft that wasn’t made from the black material. “Aim for that, Basilard. Maybe it’s something like glass and isn’t as-”

A fit of coughing overtook her. Smoke filled the air outside and had invaded the cargo bay. Half of the wetlands were burning below. As Amaranthe struggled to still her coughs, a lake came into view. She recognized it from maps and knew it was only a few miles outside of Sunders City. If her team could avoid that beam for another fifteen or twenty minutes, they’d be flying over farmhouses and orchards on the outskirts of town. Surely that craft would leave them alone then.

Basilard must have gotten the gist of her request for he sank low in an attempt to angle the next blasting stick higher. He’d timed a couple of the previous ones to explode right as they struck the hull, but they hadn’t damaged the craft at all. Not a single scratch marred that impervious black alloy.

Books lit the blasting stick, and it sailed away.

Amaranthe crept as close to the open door as she dared. She craned her neck, watching the spitting fuse twirl end over end as the stick sailed toward the glass-like material. The explosive burst with a bang and a spewing of black smoke. She was so focused on it that she didn’t see the white beam leave the ground right away. Its angle changed, switching from vertical to diagonal. It slashed through empty sky, then pierced the hull of the dirigible.

Light exploded to Amaranthe’s right. The ship bucked like a mule, its back end jerking up so quickly that the men flew across the cargo hold and were smashed against an interior wall. She caught the slingshot and kept from flying through the air after them. Something clunked against the wall near the men. The box of blasting sticks.

Amaranthe cursed, but there was nothing she could do. She dangled by her hands, legs scrabbling to find a hold on a floor tilted forty-five degrees.

“Maldynado,” Amaranthe yelled, “you need to land us now!”

“We’re above the lake!” came his shout from the navigation cabin.

White light flashed outside the doorway. Before Amaranthe could groan a, “Now what?” another explosion rocked the dirigible.

Thick, black smoke roiled past the cargo door. The floor started to level, and she tried to get her feet under her.

An ear-splitting snap echoed from outside. The floor fell away again, this time in the opposite direction. Amaranthe’s legs swung about, a hundred-and-eighty degrees, and she scarcely managed to maintain her hold on the slingshot. Before the flexible band had swung inward, but now gravity sent it-and Amaranthe with it-toward the cargo door.

She flung a leg out, trying to hook it on the jamb, but there was too much momentum carrying her downward. The floor was still tilted at an impossible angle, and she only managed to bump the edge of the door as she swung outside.

Amaranthe hung on with fingers like vise clamps, but soon she dangled fifty feet above murky water, the slingshot the only thing keeping her attached to the dirigible. Smoke clogged the air, and she struggled to see what had happened. The back half of the craft dangled, severed from the balloon.

“Amaranthe!” Books called. “Hold on!”

She looked up, hoping help was coming. But a boom erupted from within the cargo bay, and smoke gushed out the doorway.

“Books?” Amaranthe called. “What was that?”

Shards of wood and the battered remains of the blasting-stick box spilled out of the doorway. The sticks followed, falling like deadly rain drops.

Amaranthe let go of the slingshot.

Better to fall into the water than be pelted with explosives. That’s what she told herself anyway, though her heart tried to leap out of her chest as she plummeted more than forty feet. What if the murky water was only a half a meter deep? What if she landed on a log? Or an alligator? Or what if that white beam cut her in half before she hit the water?

A boom thundered a few feet above her. The shock wave slammed into Amaranthe, hurling her sideways and down. She hit the surface at an angle, and, instead of dropping in feet first, landed on her back. The water slapped her as hard as if she’d struck cement. She submerged a few feet and hit the bottom. The dense mud was more giving than solid earth, and nothing snapped or cracked in her body, though landing on her back had stunned her so badly, she couldn’t move her limbs. For a terror-filled moment, she feared she’d broken her spine and would be paralyzed for life.

Something brushed her hand, and her fingers twitched away from it. Thank her sturdy ancestors, she could move. More objects brushed against her. Blasting sticks. The water ought to render them useless, so she didn’t worry about them. Finding the surface was more important.

Forcing still-stunned limbs into movement, Amaranthe managed to push off the mud. Her head broke the surface, and she swiped water out of her eyes. Smoke tunneled down her throat, and she coughed up water with air. At least her lungs were working. Her ears rang, and she could barely hear herself coughing. Something warm-blood? — trickled out of one ear. She ignored it and searched the sky for the dirigible, for her men.

Smoke shrouded the wetlands like a fog, but she spotted orange above a cluster of trees on the horizon. Flames bathed the half-deflated balloon, and its body hung in branches, dented and dangling.

No sooner had Amaranthe located the dirigible than it dropped out of sight behind the trees. She didn’t see it crash, but she heard it. Though it must have gone down a mile from her, the sounds of snapping wood and groaning metal traveled clearly across the wetlands. A flock of ducks paddling near the shoreline hurled themselves aloft amidst much quaking.

Half swimming, half walking on the muddy bottom, Amaranthe maneuvered toward the closest bank. She checked the sky as she traveled, expecting to see the black craft hovering nearby, but it was nowhere to be seen. The smoke slowly cleared, and insects resumed droning. Or perhaps they’d been droning all along and Amaranthe’s ringing ears were now recovering enough to hear them.

A splash sounded to her right. An alligator flicking its tail before disappearing beneath the surface.

Amaranthe touched her belt, but she didn’t have any weapons, not even her knife. Maybe she should have kept one of the soggy blasting sticks, if only to beat at predators with it.

She reached the shoreline without incident and climbed toward dry land, mud sucking at her feet with each step. Twice she almost lost a boot, but she would have slogged through the swamp barefoot if she had to. She needed to check on the others. Between the crash and the explosion in the cargo hold, she worried that…

Amaranthe clenched her jaw and forced worries out of her mind. She’d find them and see what was what. Until then, she’d simply focus on walking there. Nothing more.

She found herself on a muddy peninsula, blanketed with wet, brown leaves. Vines and curtains of moss dangled from tree limbs, and animals skittered away from her, rustling the underbrush.

Before Amaranthe had taken more than five steps, a black-clad figure stepped out of the trees ahead. She started to smile, to lift a battered hand in greeting, but it wasn’t Sicarius. The man had white hair, not blond, and the weapon belted at his waist was a long trench knife with brass knuckles at the hilt, not a sleek black dagger. A crescent-moon scar cupped the bottom of one of his eyes.

Though Amaranthe had never seen him before, she recognized him from the men’s description. Major Pike, Hollowcrest’s old Master Interrogator.

He wore a pistol at his waist as well as the dagger, and Amaranthe didn’t think challenging him to a fight sounded like a good idea, not when she was battered from the events of the last twenty-four hours, and she lacked a weapon. She eyed her surroundings, wondering if she could run along the shoreline and evade him long enough to find the downed dirigible. But other people were stepping out of the trees as well. Four men in black fatigues wore swords and approached Amaranthe with rifles aimed at her. Two women she didn’t recognize walked behind them. A fifth man approached her from the side, and he had a familiar face. He looked like an older, harder version of Maldynado. The army general brother who wanted to take Sespian’s position on the throne.

Amaranthe glanced behind her, wondering if it might be best to hurl herself into the water and take her chances with the alligators.

“I wouldn’t, Ms. Lokdon,” Major Pike said, his voice hard and raspy, as if someone had applied a garrote to his throat once. “You’re not so valuable to us that we’d be upset if we had to put a bullet in your back.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Amaranthe said.

The major waved toward two of the men. They stepped forward as a pair, one keeping a rifle aimed at Amaranthe’s chest while the other unclasped handcuffs. The efficient way they approached her left little doubt that they were well trained. Even if they weren’t, there were too many other guns pointed her way. There was nothing she could do.

As the cold metal handcuffs snapped about her wrists, Amaranthe lifted her chin and stared defiantly at her captors. A tight smile came to Major Pike’s lips, and a predatory gleam of anticipation entered his eyes.