“Easy, girl,” Amaranthe whispered. “Don’t let him break you before he’s so much as plucked an arm hair out.”
A soft clank sounded, the first noise to penetrate the metal walls of her crate. Someone had entered the room. Amaranthe wished she could maneuver her feet beneath her, to prepare to spring out and attack-or flee-if she saw the opportunity, but the tight space denied that much movement. Several moments passed, and nobody opened her door. Ear pressed to the wall of her prison, she listened for voices or footfalls. Maybe there were people out there, but the crate possessed a sound-dampening quality that kept her from hearing them.
When the door swung open, Amaranthe spilled out. Light blinded her, and she squinted her eyes shut. Her legs were numb after being locked in one position for so long, and she couldn’t feel her feet, much less get them beneath her. Several hands grabbed her and hoisted her from the floor. No, not hands. Something harder, colder.
Amaranthe forced her eyes open and urged them to adjust to light as harsh and as brilliant as the sun. It emanated from all directions, the walls, the ceiling, and even the floor, though there were no lanterns or obvious sources.
Whatever held her was moving her through the air. It halted with a jolt.
“No, not that one, that one. Yes.” Odd. It was a woman’s voice.
Amaranthe’s eyes finally adjusted to the light. She hung horizontally in the air, face toward the ceiling. The first things she made out were six black bars, or maybe arms, around her. They articulated and had six-pronged pincers at the ends, pincers that gripped her as effectively as human hands. She tried to squirm out of their grasp and decided they were more effective than human hands. The arms were attached to a vertical bar that attached to a blocky device-some machine, she supposed-mounted on the ceiling. The claw-like device carried her away from the crate and swung her toward the operating table. It appeared depressingly secure with a sturdy metal body and legs somehow sunken into the floor.
The gripping machine slid her onto the table, almost. She wasn’t high enough, and her head clunked against the edge.
“Oops,” came the woman’s voice again, followed by a few words in another language. Curses, Amaranthe would guess. She tried to see the speaker, but the claw blocked her view. It bumped her against the table again before rising a couple of inches and laying her flat on her back.
“So this is how it’s to go?” Amaranthe asked. “I’m to be beaten against things with strange alien technology until I talk?”
“It’s generally not a good sign when the prisoners are mocking you,” came Pike’s voice from somewhere behind Amaranthe’s head. The dry amusement in his tone surprised her. He hadn’t struck her as someone human enough to have a sense of humor.
“I’m sure you’ll put an end to that shortly,” came a new female voice. “The girl needs practice with the equipment. It took too long to shoot down that dirigible.”
Amaranthe’s mouth sagged open. The voice was familiar. Her thoughts flashed back to her school days. One of… her teachers? Yes, that sounded like-
“I translated everything in the navigation chamber, Ms. Worgavic,” the owner of the first voice said, “but even a year of study couldn’t prepare me to understand and operate the Ortarh Ortak fully.”
“Ms. Worgavic?” Amaranthe twisted her neck, trying again to see the speakers.
Ms. Worgavic had taught economics at the private business school Amaranthe had attended as a girl. It shouldn’t be a shock that one of her old teachers had been drawn in by Forge-Larocka Myll had been providing scholarships for the school, after all-but Ms. Worgavic? She’d liked Ms. Worgavic. She still quoted the woman on occasion.
The claw pincers held Amaranthe fast, keeping her from seeing much, but the two female speakers walked over to stand beside the table. Yes, that was definitely Ms. Worgavic, a short, buxom woman with a few strands of gray in wavy black hair pulled back from her face with a clip. Dressed in a long wool skirt and short jacket that accentuated but didn’t flaunt her curves, she was the epitome of professionalism, or so Amaranthe had always thought. Her teacher had changed little in the last ten years, though the spectacles perched on her nose were a new addition.
It took Amaranthe longer to identify the younger woman. She was even shorter than Ms. Worgavic and more chubby than curvy beneath her wrinkled clothing. A pencil perched above one ear, and, beneath it, a gold chain clipped to her collar held a monocle with a thick magnifying lens. She clutched a couple of books and had a finger stuck in one, acting as a bookmark. She was about Amaranthe’s age, no, a year younger. That was right. She’d been in the class behind Amaranthe. Retta Curlev. That was it. A frumpy girl, who’d avoided eye contact with everyone, read constantly in class, and been teased often. Amaranthe might not have remembered her at all, except that Retta had an older sister who’d been a legend at school, holding all of the academic records, and reputedly never missing an answer on a test. The last Amaranthe had heard, the older sister had gone on to be some world-traveling entrepreneur. The younger sister had become… well, Amaranthe was about to find out.
A slight sneer twisted Retta’s lips as she gazed down at the table. Amaranthe didn’t think she’d ever participated in teasing the girl, but she doubted she’d offered her any kindnesses either. Their paths hadn’t crossed often. Unfortunately, Retta had the look of an angry young woman out to take revenge on the world for the collective wrongs received as a youth. Still, talking to her and Ms. Worgavic had to be better than dealing with Pike.
“Afternoon, ladies,” Amaranthe said. “It’s nice of you to come visit. I’ve been lonely in my crate. Is this your flying vehicle? It’s quite the technological marvel. Find it at an archaeological dig, did you?”
Retta’s eyebrows flew up. Had she been wearing the monocle, it would have dropped away. She turned toward Ms. Worgavic, a question on her lips, but the older woman lifted a hand to silence her. One correct guess, anyway.
“Amaranthe Lokdon.” Ms. Worgavic clasped her hands behind her back and shook her head slowly. “You were a promising student until you dropped out of school to become an enforcer… What a waste.”
Amaranthe should have offered a witty comeback, or at least a good sneer, but she found herself blurting an excuse. “My father was dying. I had to take care of him, and, after he was gone, I couldn’t afford to finish school.”
Ms. Worgavic kept shaking her head. Given how often her team had thwarted Forge schemes of late, Amaranthe found it strange that her enforcer background seemed to disappoint Worgavic more than anything else.
“Your… ingenuity over the last year shows that you can find a way when you want something badly enough,” Worgavic said. “You could have stayed in school, if you’d truly wished it. If nothing else, you had friends and were well-liked by your teachers.”
Retta frowned at the last statement, perhaps remembering lonelier school years.
“Why didn’t you simply ask someone for help?” Ms. Worgavic asked.
“I… ” Erg, her old teacher had Amaranthe more on the defensive than Pike had. She had to figure out a way to cast old feelings aside; she was no longer a student yearning for the praise of a respected mentor. This woman was plotting against the throne and, for all Amaranthe knew, may have hurt or killed the men on her team.