Conspiracy (26 page)

“
Akstyr.” Books lifted his
head to study the control panel. “I need to—”

“
Yes, do it.” Akstyr
scrambled across the tilted floor, grabbed the pistol, and pressed
the muzzle into the back of the pilot’s neck.

Books leaped up and yanked a lever. The
floor leveled, but the vessel was too low, and they were veering
straight toward a mountainside.

“
You
did
watch him for long enough to
learn how to fly this thing, right?” Akstyr asked.

“
I watched him, but it’s
unlikely the intricacies of aviation can be mastered in such a
short time.”

“
That’s not your pompous
way of saying we’re going to crash, is it?”

“
Actually, we’ve reached
our destination, so I was hoping to land.” Books’s eyes searched
the control panel.

“
I hope there’s a
difference.”

The goat had faded from view when the ship
leveled, but another one scampered into sight. Brilliant, their
crash was going to be the evening entertainment for the mountain
critters.

Books tapped an altitude gauge, mumbled
something, and finally seemed to spot what he wanted. He spun a
wheel. At first nothing happened, but then the goat slipped out of
view to the side of the glass shield. The dirigible was slowing
turning to fly alongside the mountain instead of toward it. Too
slowly. A jolt ran through the craft, and a squeal of metal arose
from outside.

“
That didn’t sound good,”
Akstyr said.

“
We’re fine,” Books said.
“We glanced off a boulder.”

A thump reverberated through the dirigible,
and an ominous crack came from below.

“
What was that?” Akstyr
asked.

“
It
was
a tree.”

An image flashed through Akstyr’s mind—a
giant hole being torn in the bottom of the dirigible and the engine
falling out. No, he told himself. The hull was metal. It was
sturdier than that.

Another thump battered the ship, this one
hard enough to send tremors through the hull. Harkon’s muscles
bunched, as if he were preparing to try something. Akstyr pressed
the pistol into his skin.

“
I already killed the two
stowaways down below,” he growled, doing his best to sound
menacing. “I have no problem shooting you too.”

“
Do it then,” Harkon
snarled.

Akstyr thought about obeying the man.
Sicarius would. Hostages were more likely to be trouble than not,
but they might yet need help flying—or landing.

Books’s fingers gripped the wheel so hard
the tendons on the backs of his hands were trying to leap out of
his flesh. The craft shuddered again, and the quietness of the
fancy engine meant Akstyr had no trouble hearing cracks and thunks
from outside—rocks sheering away from the mountainside and bouncing
into the depths below. Beads of sweat rolled down Books’s temples
and dripped onto the control panel. Finally, the dirigible veered
far enough from the rocky slope that the scrapes and squeals faded
away.

Books wiped his brow. “Two stowaways?”

“
They tried to shoot me
when I went to look at the engine,” Akstyr said. “How’d we end up
so close to the mountains anyway?”

“
We heard you fighting, and
the pilot decided it’d be a good time to attack me as
well.”

“
Oh.” So Akstyr’s
investigation had started things. Oops. “Any idea who those blokes
were?” Akstyr glanced at Harkon, but he didn’t look like the sort
to be intimidated into sharing information.

Books hesitated. “No.”

Akstyr wondered if he had an idea, but
wasn’t going to share in front of the pilot. Before he could ask
further questions, Books pointed at something outside.

“
What?” Akstyr didn’t want
to step away from the prisoner to peer through the
window.

“
There’s a road below that
leads into a large, fresh landslide. I do believe we’ve reached our
first destination.”

“
Good. Now
what?”

“
Now, we figure out how to
land. Any chance you can convince the pilot to instruct me on a way
to accomplish that maneuver?”

“
Lick my right sack,”
Harkon said.

“
That’s a no,” Akstyr
said.

“
I’ll admit I’m not as
versed in Stumps’ street vernacular as you are, but I did deduce
his meaning.” With rocks and trees no longer assaulting the
dirigible, Books relaxed enough to turn around and check on Akstyr
and their prisoner. “What is that
smell
?”

“
Am’ranthe’s smoke grenades
work real good,” Akstyr said. “What’re we going to do with this
thug?”

Books rubbed his lips. “Did you find any
closets during your explorations?”

* * * * *

The first two days on the
train passed without incident. Basilard and Maldynado played dice
while Amaranthe nibbled her fingernails down to nubs and wondered
if she was flexible enough to start in on her toenails. She hadn’t
spoken to Sicarius. That first morning, he had slipped out to find
his own berth and had not returned. In truth, she’d been relieved.
When he’d killed the men on the farm, it had arguably been in
self-defense, or at least in
her
defense. With these assassinations... he’d gone
out and, in a premeditated manner, killed more than twenty men and
women. Even if they’d all been Forge loyalists involved in plots
against the city and the emperor, they still would have deserved a
chance to face the magistrate and explain themselves. For Sicarius
to execute them based only on the fact that their names appeared in
Books’s journal...

Amaranthe could forgive
Sicarius for his past crimes; when he’d worked for the throne, he’d
been raised—
indoctrinated
—to obey Hollowcrest
and Raumesys. But he’d chosen to assassinate the Forge people of
his own volition. It was murder, through and through. Even if it’d
been born of frustration and a need to protect his son, it upset
her. That she could care for someone capable of cold-blooded murder
made her question her own integrity.

They were in the middle of a mission,
though, and there wasn’t much she could do about the choices
Sicarius had made. She still needed his help. At sunset on that
second day, she talked herself into seeking him out to make sure he
intended to give it.

Amaranthe slid the freight door open and
eased outside. As she climbed the ladder toward the top of the car,
cold wind whipped at her clothing. They were passing through the
same mountains where they had run their exercises the week before.
Snow now blanketed the craggy hills. The train was approaching the
Scarlet Pass, which meant they were five thousand feet above sea
level, and up there it already felt like winter. When she reached
the top of the rail car, a dusting of snow coated it as well. She
glanced skyward, wondering if she might glimpse Books and Akstyr,
but, if they had gone east to check on the shaman’s mine, they
would be behind the train. Nothing more interesting than an eagle
glided through the air.

Prepared to have to search each car to find
Sicarius, Amaranthe was surprised to find him sitting cross-legged
in the snow near the head of the train. His back was to her as he
faced the mountains, a small black figure surrounded by a white
world. Something about his posture made the word “forlorn” come to
mind. She shook her head. Someone who had slashed two-dozen throats
wasn’t somebody to pity.

And yet... he’d never had a
choice about his career, about what he was. Hollowcrest and
Raumesys had spent years—
decades
—molding Sicarius into a
weapon, a blade as deadly as that black dagger he wore at his
waist. Could one turn a man into a sword and then blame him if all
he knew how to do was cut?

Wondering if the others
were right and she
was
crazy, Amaranthe picked her way toward Sicarius. Every time
she leaped from snow-slick roof to snow-slick roof she risked a
fall. Sicarius had to hear her coming, but he didn’t look back. The
train started up a slope and slowed down, so the wind wasn’t
battering her so fiercely by the time she sat down beside him,
though the cold snow chilled her backside.

“
Fair evening,” she said,
the first thing that entered her head. Maybe she should have
rehearsed.

Sicarius acknowledged her with an impassive
look, nothing more. He wasn’t wearing anything thicker than his
usual trousers and long-sleeved shirt, and she recalled that he
hadn’t been carrying any gear beyond his weapons when he leaped
into the train. Killing up to the last minute, she supposed.

“
Aren’t you cold?”
Amaranthe asked.

“
No.”

She touched the back of his bare hand,
concerned he might be neglecting his health and risking frostbite,
but his skin was warm beneath her own already-chilled fingers. “How
is that possible?”

“
In their natural habitat,
mammals become cold-adapted in the winter, burning summer’s fat
stores to efficiently heat the body. When humans clothe themselves
in parkas and sleep in artificially warm environments, they fail to
achieve this adaptation and do not thrive in the cold.”

“
So... what you’re saying
is that you have no physiological need to cuddle.”

That comment earned her another impassive
look. Maybe someday she’d learn to stop joking with him. He didn’t
seem to appreciate it, and trying to make him smile seemed destined
to remain a fruitless endeavor anyway. Besides, his cool look
reminded her that, murdered men not withstanding, he had a reason
to be irked with her too.

“
I’m sorry I didn’t tell
you about Sespian’s... bump,” Amaranthe said. “I didn’t think your
knowing could change anything, and I figured you’d worry for no
reason.” Though he didn’t pin her with one of those soul-piercing
stares, she felt compelled to add, “And I was worried you’d do
something... rash if you found out. Which, as it turns out, you
did.” She tried to keep her tone light, but a hint of censure crept
into it anyway.

“
Those who are dead will
not trouble us further. Those who I could not reach will be afraid
to leave the security of their homes. Men who live in fear rush
when patience is called for, and they question their decisions at
every turn. They falter and make mistakes.”

Nothing in his tone suggested he would
apologize for his action or admit he might have made a mistake
himself. Amaranthe wondered if they would ever see eye-to-eye on
questions of humanity.

“
Now that you’ve taken the
action you meant to take, can I have Books’s journal back?” she
asked. “He’s not happy that you... Well, he wasn’t done with his
research, and I want to give it back to him.”

Though he continued to face forward, a
hardness came to Sicarius’s eyes, and she half-expected him to
refuse or say he wasn’t done with it, but he reached into a pocket
and handed it to her.

“
Thank you.”

Amaranthe flipped through the pages, and a
chill that had nothing to do with the snow crept through her when
she saw the neat, precise check marks penciled next to many of the
names. Pencil. Something so sinister and cold ought to be drawn in
blood.

She tucked the notebook into an inside
pocket on her parka. “Do you still intend to join us in the train
infiltration?”

“
Yes.”

“
Good.”

Business concluded, his silence seemed to
say. Amaranthe ought to leave him be, but she found herself
reluctant to do so. Even if he’d been forged into a blade from his
earliest years, he’d been born a human being. Deep down, he must
have the same emotions and needs that everyone else was born with.
Knowing someone cared and wanted to offer him comfort would have to
matter. Wouldn’t it?

“
Are you sure you don’t
want me to bring you a blanket? I’ve been sleeping in a pile with
the boys to stay warm, so I don’t need mine.”

“
No.”

“
I’m sorry about the
implant,” Amaranthe repeated. “Sespian must know about it and have
some plan to deal with it. Maybe this request of his is part of
that plan. I’ve only ever talked to him when he was under the
influence of that drug, but he seemed bright even then.”

Silence.

“
He’d have to be smart,
right?” Amaranthe said, thinking he might feel the situation was
less hopeless if she could remind him that Sespian had the
wherewithal to help himself. “You’re no dull blade, and I never
heard anything to suggest Princess Marathi was either.”

Sicarius continued to stare straight
ahead.

“
I’m sure we’ll get him,
and it’ll all work out in the end.” When Amaranthe’s comments
elicited nothing but silence, she admitted defeat and placed her
hands in the snow, ready to push herself to her feet.

“
I know what you’re trying
to do,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe froze. She’d only wanted to help,
but his words sounded like an accusation.

“
Oh?” she asked
carefully.

“
Yes.”

“
And?”

He was still gazing straight ahead, and she
almost missed his soft words: “I appreciate it.”

Amaranthe blinked. Three words shouldn’t
mean so much, but a lump swelled in her throat nonetheless. Not
trusting her voice, she gave him a hug made awkward by their seated
positions and the moving train, then released him and returned to
the others.