Conspiracy

CONSPIRACY

by Lindsay Buroker

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Lindsay
Buroker

All rights
reserved.

Before we jump into the next adventure, I’d
like to once again thank the folks helping me publish the Emperor’s
Edge adventures in a timely manner. So, thank you to Kendra
Highley, Becca Andre, and Jeanne Marcella for reading early
versions of this manuscript and offering suggestions. Thank you,
Shelley Holloway, for making time to edit the novel the same week I
sent it over. More thanks go to Glendon Haddix for cover art design
and formatting for the paperbacks. And, as always, I’d like to
thank you, the reader, for sharing the adventure with my
characters. Maldynado is still hoping for his statue, but he’s
somewhat mollified by the fact that so many people are reading
about him.

The steel framework of the bridge trembled
with the train’s approach. Amaranthe Lokdon crouched on a beam
overlooking the tracks, steadying herself with a hand on a vertical
support pillar. The train chugged closer, approaching the bridge at
fifty miles an hour, black smoke streaming from its stack and
hazing the starry sky.

Aware of the full moon shining into the
canyon, Amaranthe hoped the engineer wasn’t watching the route
ahead too closely. Her form might be visible against the dark
sky.

When the locomotive reached the bridge, the
vibrations coursing through its steel frame intensified. Amaranthe
braced herself, ready to jump. She made a point of not looking at
the moonlight reflecting off of the river hundreds of feet below,
though her pesky peripheral vision refused to let her forget about
it—and the long drop it signified.

The massive black locomotive passed beneath
her, its smoke obscuring the view of the rest of the cars. The
acrid air stung Amaranthe’s eyes. Nerves tangled in her stomach,
but there was no time to worry about the view—or anything else.

As soon as the locomotive and coal car blew
past, Amaranthe took a deep breath and jumped off of the beam. She
dropped ten feet to the first freight car and landed in a crouch,
softening her knees to touch down lightly—and quietly. Though she
doubted the engineer would hear anything over the noise of the
train, she wagered Sicarius was watching from somewhere, and he
would have words for her—or a stern, expressionless stare—if she
performed sloppily.

Amaranthe turned her head away from the
coal-scented smoke in time to spot four figures dropping onto the
four subsequent freight cars behind hers. Akstyr, Books, Maldynado,
and Basilard, landing one after the other.

Akstyr straightened his legs too soon and
flailed his arms for balance. Amaranthe lifted a hand, concern
tightening her chest, but he recovered and sank to his hands and
knees. Face pale, he glanced over his shoulder at the deep drop and
the shallow river below. He raised two fingers in a rude gesture,
suggesting the canyon and the train could engage in carnal
activities.

Amaranthe snorted. No need for concern. He
would be fine.

Akstyr noticed her watching
and changed the rude gesture to one of Basilard’s hand signs, an
arm wiggle and finger tap that meant both
good
and
ready
. She returned the motion.
Further down, Basilard, Books, and Maldynado gave her similar
signs.

So far, so good.

This might simply be training for the real
mission planned for the following week, but the setting made the
potential for injury, even death, quite real. Amaranthe had argued
with Sicarius, suggesting they do this during the day, and in
flatlands instead of on dangerous mountain terrain, but the
discussion had been short-lived. She had given in under the force
of his unrelenting glare. He had been demanding near-perfection
from the team of late, driving them harder than ever, but she could
understand why. He had more at stake than any of them.

Akstyr and the others were crawling off the
roofs and onto ladders leading to the cars’ sliding side doors.
Amaranthe pushed her thoughts away and got moving. After all,
Sicarius was timing them.

She dropped to her hands and knees and
slithered over the edge of her car, probing for a rung. Again, she
had to force herself not to think about the drop.

Air thick with the scent of wet earth and
fallen leaves railed at her, tugging at her clothing and making her
eyes tear. Amaranthe descended with care, maintaining three points
of contact at all times, just as if she were climbing down a sheer
mountain face.

The short sword belted at her waist caught
between the rungs, and she lost a few seconds extricating herself.
Farther down, Basilard, Maldynado, and Akstyr had already entered
their rail cars. Amaranthe forced herself not to rush or sacrifice
safety for time, but tension tightened her muscles nonetheless.
Though it was foolish and she knew it, she always felt the need to
prove herself as capable as the men, especially when Sicarius was
around to witness.

She leaned to the side of the ladder,
reaching for the metal door latch. Her fingers brushed it.
Grimacing, she lifted her leg and groped for a toehold on the
inch-wide sill beneath the door, so she could lean out farther.
This time, she caught the handle, though it wasn’t easy to open,
and she struggled to find leverage without letting her foot
slip.

The train had passed over the canyon and was
chugging through a boulder-strewn valley, but a fall could still be
deadly. If she landed under the wheels, they’d cut her in half
faster than any weapon in the imperial army’s arsenal.

“
Quit it, girl,” Amaranthe
muttered.

She readjusted her grip and twisted and
pulled the latch with determination. The handle released with a
lurch, but she anticipated it and shifted her weight back to keep
her balance. She reached inside, found something metal to grip, and
clawed her way into the car. Only when both of her feet were on the
textured metal floor did she release a breath of relief. She didn’t
relax for more than a second though, not when she was silhouetted
against the sky for anyone inside to see.

The freight car carried seeds, tools, and
other agricultural supplies, so she didn’t expect anyone to be
inside, but Sicarius had promised the objective would not be easy.
She envisioned booby traps, but she had to be prepared for
anything. She hoped her decision to split up the team had not been
a mistake.

Amaranthe pressed her back against a stack
of crates strapped to the wall beside the door. She pulled a
satchel over her head and removed a small lantern and a wooden
match nestled in a waterproof case at the bottom. Making a light
was a risk, but she had little hope of achieving the objective, or
dodging booby traps, in complete darkness.

The objective was, thanks to her
questionable sense of humor and need to interject levity into the
strenuous hours of training, to retrieve a fist-sized wooden ducky.
Sicarius had said he’d place it in one of the first four freight
cars, so it might not be in hers, but she had to check thoroughly.
The team had only fifteen minutes to find it and meet him at the
end of the train.

After lighting the lantern, Amaranthe eased
into one of two lopsided aisles formed by crates stacked
floor-to-ceiling against the walls and head-high piles of seed bags
in the center of the car. According to Books’s research, much of
the cargo had already been off-loaded at previous stops, and the
train was on its way to its final destination in Agricultural
District Number Seven, near the capital and home.

Amaranthe padded down the first aisle,
hunting for places where one might stick a wooden duck. The tall
piles of seed bags blocked her view of much of the car, and that
made her uneasy. She alternated duck hunting and watching the
floor, expecting trip wires at any turn.

Her first circuit revealed nothing, and she
went around for another look, this time lifting the heavy bags on
the tops of the piles to peek under them. One of sacks leaned
precariously, throwing a shadow like a rearing bear against the
crates on the other side. She set her lantern down to push the top
couple of bags into balance, so the pile had a tidier look, then
realized what she was doing and shook her head in disgust.

“
Time frame,” she muttered.
“This isn’t the place to clean.” She crouched to pick up the
lantern. “Or talk to yourself.”

Something at the corner of her eye
moved.

Amaranthe spun, her hand going to her sword
hilt. Nothing was there.

A rectangle of moonlight bathed the metal
floor near the entrance. It winked out as the train passed tall
trees and then flooded the car again. That must be what she had
seen. She drew her short sword anyway.

Leaving the lantern on the floor, Amaranthe
returned to her search. She poked through an open crate filled with
metal parts for some steam-powered farm implement. No wooden ducks.
She shifted a few more seed bags aside to look under them, though
her movements were rushed and less methodical than before.

Not only was she aware of time running out,
but Amaranthe was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Something
grated against her senses, like the wheels grinding on the rails
below her. Though she had been all around the car, she had the
feeling that something was watching her. Some animal perhaps? A
rat? Or—a new thought occurred to her—it could be some person
hiding, someone who had stowed away to avoid the pricy fare of a
passenger train.

Amaranthe glanced down at the lantern. It
would be highlighting her face, a face that adorned numerous wanted
posters in the capital city.

“
Time to get out of here.”
She crouched and cut off the light, leaving a tang of kerosene in
the air.

Before she could pick up the lantern, some
sixth sense stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. She heard
nothing, but instincts told her to move. Fast.

Amaranthe lunged forward, throwing herself
into a roll. The lantern flew from her hands and skidded across the
floor to clack into a crate. Not important. She kept her grip on
her sword and jumped to her feet before the door.

Amaranthe didn’t glance back the way she had
come—something told her she didn’t have time. She bolted out the
door, jumping to the side and twisting in the air to catch the
rungs. She flew up them with none of her earlier caution and only
checked below as she was pulling herself onto the roof.

A dark figure jumped out of the car, somehow
gripping the top of the doorway and swinging itself up to land in a
crouch before her. Amaranthe scrambled to her feet and turned her
sword arm toward the person, bending her knees in a ready
stance.

The moon came out from behind the trees and
shone on the figure’s short, pale hair and familiar angular
features. Dressed all in black, he wore daggers to rival a
porcupine’s quills, as well as throwing knives sheathed on his
forearm.

“
Sicarius,” Amaranthe
blurted, relief washing over her. “I thought you were—”

A cutlass appeared in his hand, an army
officer’s weapon. His face held no expression, and his dark eyes
bore into her. She might as well have been exchanging stares with
some stranger who wanted to kill her. The training exercise wasn’t
over.

Amaranthe had barely prepared herself for
the idea of a fight when Sicarius darted toward her, a dark blur
under the moonlight. Her instincts told her to leap back, so she
had more time to think, but she stood her ground. There wasn’t much
space to give up on the top of the rail car.

The cutlass clanged against her short sword,
driving it wide. Amaranthe knew the follow-up would slice toward
her gut, so she had to leap back, giving herself time to bring her
blade back in. She tried to parry, but his second thrust had been a
feint, and already the cutlass slashed toward the inside of her
thigh.