Forged in Blood I

Chapter 11

Evening approached as Amaranthe strode down the nicest part of Waterfront Street with Books and Akstyr at her side, though, thanks to the gray sky and snow, it had never truly felt like daylight. She’d spent the afternoon studying Suan Curlev’s book and watching the windows, hoping Sicarius and Sespian would walk into the factory. With the news of Fort Urgot being surrounded, she wasn’t surprised they hadn’t returned, but she’d hoped anyway, wanting to see Sicarius again before her mission. If things didn’t go well…

No thinking like that, she told herself. Things would go well.

With her shoulders back and her head lifted, Amaranthe was trying to appear confident as they walked, or at least like someone who believed her plan had a chance to work. But every time one of her newly blonde locks flopped into her line of sight, it gave her a start-and reminded her that she wore a costume, a costume that was nothing better than a guess at what a woman returning from Kendor might look like. A tintype in the back of Suan’s book had shown her wearing half-frame reading glasses, often pushed up into her shoulder-length hair, but the rest of the outfit was a guess.

The brown and tan pattern of the dress swirling about Amaranthe’s ankles had a desert feel, though the leggings and fur boots beneath were purely Turgonian and designed for winter weather. Maldynado had picked out a pair of suede wedge sandals, complete with skin-tickling tassels, to complement the dress, but she did not wish to invite frostbite to visit her toes. Nor could she imagine fighting in footgear that hoisted her heels three inches into the air and threatened to tip her nose-first onto the ground every time she took a step. Much to Sergeant Yara’s amusement, Amaranthe was wearing the string lingerie, if only because there’d been no time to shop for more practical underwear. Her regular cold-weather undergarments would have shown through the low-cut dress. Not the sexy look of an exotic globe-exploring woman, Maldynado had informed her. He refused to accept the idea that someone who explored the world could do so without being sexy. The final piece of the costume lay beneath a mink jacket, the slit-eyed medallion dangling on its silver chain.

Books was lecturing on Kendorian economics as they walked, and Amaranthe turned her attention back to his words, knowing she might need the information. Since Suan had last been traveling there, and the Forge people all had business interests, it might come up in an early conversation.

“…relatively meager gross domestic product in comparison with the empire,” Books was saying. “It’s not surprising given how much of the population is nomadic. Kendor is, however, known for a few niche industries, such as wool, copper, and sartorial crafts with their lizard-skin products being recognized all over the world. Some of the tribes also lease land to foreigners for ranching and mining, though Turgonians are not allowed, so an interested imperial entity must find a creative workaround, typically by engaging a third-party representative, to tread upon Kendorian soil.”

Books continued to speak, needing amazingly few breaths or breaks to rest his lips. He ignored Akstyr’s pronounced yawns and muttered asides. Only when Akstyr raised his voice and said, “Enforcers,” did Books pause.

A pair of patrollers had walked out of one of the steep side streets and rounded the corner onto the waterfront.

“Up the alley?” Akstyr asked.

“No.” Amaranthe touched her prosthetic nose, one that added length and a slight hawkish aspect to her face, to assure herself it was still attached; the rest of her makeup was cosmetic, and she didn’t worry so much about it, but if the nose happened to fall off at an inopportune time… She dropped her hand. It was fine and would, no doubt, be more likely to stay so if she stopped prodding it. “Let’s see how well our costumes work.”

“Looking for trouble before we reach the yacht club?” Books asked.

“If we can’t pass as non-outlaws in front of a couple of rookies, there’s no point in attending this meeting.”

“Very well.”

Books and Akstyr also wore costumes designed to make them appear traveled. Books’s long legs were clothed in sedate brown corduroy trousers, but the apricot and yellow silk “scholar’s robe” definitely bespoke Nurian origins. The lizard-skin satchel slung over his shoulder was out of Kendor, but, according to Maldynado, catching on in the capital, much like the boots she’d had so much time to study from beneath the clothes rack.

Akstyr had painted shamanic tattoos on the backs of his hand, one of which covered up his gang brand. For clothing, he wore a white shepherd’s robe, a winter-thick version of the ones the southern Kendorian nomads favored for tending bighorn desert sheep. Predictably, none of the Stumps clothiers had carried shamanic robes, but it would have been dangerous to put him in them anyway. Akstyr’s only comment had been to say that robes were stupid and his “pickaxe and diamonds” were freezing.

The enforcers traveled down the street toward Amaranthe and the others, using the same sidewalk. Once, she would have lifted a hand in a comradely wave. Lately, her instincts were to flee down alleys. This time… she kept her chin up and strode straight toward them. Books and Akstyr eased in behind her, ostensibly to make room for the enforcers to pass, but they didn’t wear any face-altering makeup or prosthetics, so they wouldn’t want to test their costumes quite as rigorously. They’d altered their hairstyles-poor Akstyr had had little choice-allowing her to clip their formerly longish locks closer to their heads. They didn’t look much like their bounty posters, but she couldn’t blame them for not wanting to test the enforcers’ observation skills. Few in Forge should be that familiar with her team’s visages, especially for the lesser known members.

Engrossed in their own conversation, the enforcers walked past without giving them more than a glance.

Amaranthe exhaled slowly and said, “A good beginning,” when Books came up to her side again.

“All you’ve proven is that you don’t look like a notorious outlaw any more.”

“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.”

“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?”

The three women were exchanging glances with each other. Amaranthe might have to prove herself before they invited her down to their secret lair. Well, she was ready. This was why she’d been studying.

“Yes,” the first woman who’d spoken said. “Those who fancy themselves prognosticators suggest this snow will keep falling all week and bring in colder weather. Were the winters chilly down there in… where were you last? I’ve forgotten.”

Amaranthe doubted it. This was Test Number One. “Ibyria,” she said, “on the Gulf Coast. They don’t see snow down there. The orange and lemon trees wouldn’t care for it. Before that, I was securing trade deals in many of the desert city-states. Camel, Tiger, Red Cactus-” she paused when Books, standing at her back, nudged her, “-but you probably don’t want all the names.” He was right-if she spewed too much background information, they’d wonder what she was trying to prove. “The cacti also do not tolerate freezing temperatures, I understand. The Torrel ones that the shamans use for making their healing syrups are particularly valuable, so you’ll see them running about, tossing blankets over the thorny things if a frost is incipient.” Amaranthe waited for Books to nudge her again, but he didn’t. Of course, if his own tactics were something to go by, he approved of pedantic asides.

“I see.” The speaker was in her late thirties or early forties with a few lines creasing her brow. The other two were in their twenties-too young to be Forge founders probably. But then, Suan was one, and she was only thirty.

When nobody else spoke, Amaranthe gestured to Books and Akstyr. “You’re probably wondering who my comrades are and whether you can speak freely in front of them.” And in front of me, she added to herself. “This is Erav, my scribe.” She lifted a hand toward Books. “And this is Rist, my… adviser in things of an otherworldly nature.”

All three women’s eyebrows flew upward. It was true they were Turgonian, and Amaranthe wouldn’t normally speak of the Science to imperial subjects, but these people were flying around in an ultra advanced alien aircraft. Surely the notion of magic couldn’t alarm them at this point.

“He’s young for that, isn’t he?” One of the younger women eyed Akstyr from head to toe.

Maldynado would have assumed a pose that accented his features, insomuch as a heavy cotton robe could accent anything; Akstyr crossed his arms and issued his surliest I-am-not-young sneer. The haircut may have improved his looks, but with his attitude, his dream of antsy women tearing off his clothing wasn’t likely to happen.

“He is the apprentice of a shaman I worked with,” Amaranthe said, “and is accomplished in many areas. Also… I couldn’t be as choosy as I might have otherwise wished. Convincing shamans to take a trip into the empire isn’t easily done, but Rist was born here and only fled south to learn his art.”

Akstyr’s surly expression grew wistful. Yes, he’d like to be somewhere south-or south and west if one were thinking of Kyatt-studying his art now.

“I thought his skills, being unique here in the empire, could prove useful for us as we go forward,” Amaranthe said. “Though perhaps I underestimated your need for assistance. I understand Ravido Marblecrest has already taken the Imperial Barracks, is that right?”

The women shared glances again.

“We’re waiting for a couple of others to join us before we speak of business matters,” the middle-aged woman said.

Uh oh. Amaranthe did her best not to lift a fingernail for nibbling or otherwise exude nervousness. “Who else would be joining us? I long to see familiar faces.”

“Then you’ll enjoy seeing those who are coming.”

Another “uh oh” pranced through Amaranthe’s mind. If someone familiar was coming, someone who knew Suan and what she looked like…

Books bumped Amaranthe’s elbow, directing her to a newcomer entering the parlor. Her heart leaped to attention, but it didn’t know whether to dance or flee.

Retta strode toward the table, pinning Amaranthe with a one-eyed stare. Yes, one eyed. The other lay behind a brown velvet patch. Correction, it probably didn’t lay behind that patch, Amaranthe thought, shock filling her. Pike. When had he had time to do it? When she’d escaped, he’d collected his men and charged out of the Behemoth on her heels. Maybe he’d left instructions for the punishment to be carried out. Or maybe the Forge women had done it themselves. She couldn’t imagine Ms. Worgavic wielding a blade or hot iron, but her old teacher had demanded she be tortured, so who knew?

Retta wore Kyattese single-strap bamboo sandals and a brown velvet dress to match the eyepatch-clothing that suggested she’d come from a warm, controlled climate, not the snowy outdoors-and looked as put together as one might expect from a young Forge acolyte, but pain lines edged her face, lines that hadn’t been there a few weeks before, and her jaw was tight. Angry.

“Retta!” Amaranthe exclaimed, stepping toward her with arms outstretched, half because it seemed like something sisters should do and half because she had to keep Retta from blurting out that this intruder was not her sister. “What happened to you? Your eye… is it…?”

“How did you heal so quickly?” Retta demanded.

Er. Amaranthe clasped both of her arms and pulled her close for a hug, all the while wondering if Retta would leap away or punch her. “I’m your sister,” she whispered in Retta’s ear. “Go with it, please. I’ll get you out of here this time.”

Retta backed away from the hug. On the outside, Amaranthe remained calm, but inside… she was cursing and cringing. This wouldn’t work. Retta wouldn’t go along with it. It was already obvious Amaranthe wasn’t Suan. Indeed, the three women were watching the exchange intently, trying to figure out what was going on. Retta was… staring at the medallion dangling on Amaranthe’s chest.

She cleared her throat. “I mean, you look so well. Your last letter said you’d come down with that desert flu and would be delayed in your return.”

Letter? Such as one sister might send to another? “Yes, I thought I’d be delayed, but it turns out that Rist here knows a few things about herbs.”

Akstyr’s eyes widened at this claim; Amaranthe hoped her statement didn’t make trouble for him later. If some Forge lady approached him, hoping he could make an apothecary’s tincture for wrinkle removal… She didn’t think Akstyr could even pick out the common herbs Basilard used in his culinary preparations.

Retta’s lips pursed as she studied Amaranthe. Her expression wasn’t welcoming. No, she looked irked that Amaranthe had survived Pike’s ministrations less scarred than she had. Understandable. Hearing about Amaranthe’s bad dreams probably wouldn’t mollify a woman with a missing eye.

“I also have a comrade who knows all the best foods to eat to hasten healing,” Amaranthe added. She wondered if Retta would be more sympathetic, or at least less irritated, if she knew how many meals of fish eyes and organ surprises Sicarius had foisted upon her. “But what happened to you, sister?” she deliberately used the word instead of a name, hoping Retta would vouch for her. “Your eye. Is it injured or…?”

“Cut out,” Retta said icily. “A psychopathic madman decided to punish me for dropping a branch across his path.” And causing him to trip, the rest of the saying went. She’d done more than that. Retta must know Pike was dead. Did she care? It wasn’t as if his death could bring back her eye.

“Do Mother and Father know?” Amaranthe demanded. The indignation in her tone wasn’t feigned-it frustrated her to know that helping her had caused Retta to be punished. At the time, she would have done just about anything to free herself, but she wished there’d been a way to keep anyone from knowing Retta had a hand in that escape. “Surely they can hire someone to exact revenge.”

The three women were sipping from their cups, watching with interest, though it seemed academic. As if they didn’t truly care one way or another about the outcome. Given the size of the organization, Suan’s return was probably of little consequence.

Amaranthe widened her eyes slightly, trying to get Retta to proclaim their kinship. Her team had to get onto the Behemoth, and she doubted they’d be offered a ride down without credentials.

“From what I’ve heard, the perpetrator has been killed,” Retta said. There was no gratitude, no “Thank you for hurling your assassin at that bastard” in her expression.

“A deserving end,” Amaranthe said. “What coward would cut out a woman’s eye?” And then she stopped talking. Nobody was listening to her. They were all staring at Retta, waiting for the word. She’d halfway helped Amaranthe, mentioning some letter, but everyone was waiting for something more solid. But Retta seemed reluctant to give it. And why shouldn’t she be? What might it cost her to help Amaranthe again? To be caught helping?

“A cast-out from the warrior-caste.” Retta sighed. “Come, Suan. I’ll tell you about it on the way down.”

“Down?” Amaranthe asked, guessing that no one had explained the Behemoth in written communications with Suan.

“You’ll need to wait,” the middle-aged woman told Retta. “Neeth needs to go back down too. She’s on her way.”

Amaranthe swallowed. She recognized that first name. Neeth. Neeth Worgavic.