Early on, Amaranthe had wished to swab the crate with a mop, sterilizing it-and herself-with copious amounts of alcohol. She’d grown too weary to think of such things now. She longed for sleep-oblivion-but it rarely came. Chances to escape were even rarer. The one time she’d tried to sprint for the exit as soon as her crate door opened, the claw had swept down from the ceiling, plucking her into the air before she’d gone more than three steps. Pike had punished her attempt with an extra hour of “work,” as he called it, before starting in on question-asking. She’d tried lying to him, hoping to end the torment, but he had, with a knack that reminded her far too much of the one Sicarius possessed, seen through her attempts at mendacity. However many years had passed, Pike had known Sicarius well at one time and must have a good idea of what would and what wouldn’t motivate him to protect someone.
It bothered her that more than once while she was wadded up in the crate, Amaranthe had wondered if protecting Sicarius’s secret was worth the continued pain. After all the people he’d killed, did he deserve such loyalty? She loved him, but he’d offered so little in return. Did he truly care about her? Did he think about a life together with her when this was all over? Would the suffering she was enduring matter to him? She resented herself for her doubts; more, she resented Pike for causing her to have them.
On the third night, or maybe it was the fourth-the only thing she had to judge time by was the number of torture sessions that had gone by-a soft scrape roused Amaranthe from her latest attempt at sleep. A beam of light slashed into the crate. Accustomed to the blackness inside, she groaned at the pain it elicited and turned her head away.
“Amaranthe?” came a whisper from outside. Retta.
Hope stirred behind Amaranthe’s breast. After that first day, Pike had worked the controls for the claw and the table himself, and she hadn’t seen Retta again.
Fighting pain, Amaranthe forced her face toward the light. Retta had opened a horizontal rectangle in the door. It wasn’t big enough to slip a hand through-even if Amaranthe could maneuver an arm up to it-but she could see Retta’s hazel eyes through the gap.
“I didn’t know this flat came with a view,” Amaranthe rasped. Speaking hurt. During the last session, Pike had experimented with ways to induce panic in her, perhaps believing she’d blurt out the answers he craved, and he’d alternated between choking her and pouring water down her throat.
Retta’s eyebrows drew together, creating a tiny furrow above her nose. “How can you make jokes in your situation?”
“Inappropriate jocularity is one of my hallmarks. Just ask Sicarius.” Amaranthe decided it would take too much effort to explain that it was better to make jokes to distract oneself from the gravity of one’s predicament than to dwell upon it.
Retta leaned in closer, blocking the light with her face. “Why are you protecting that assassin? You could be free if you simply answered our question.”
Our. Amaranthe had wondered how closely Retta was associated with Forge, whether she was one of them or simply someone who’d been pressed into working for them. That “our” was telling.
“I could be free?” Amaranthe whispered. “Doubtful. I was responsible for Larocka Myll’s death, and my team has thwarted other Forge schemes this past year. We… ” It occurred to her pain-befuddled mind that she shouldn’t be volunteering information about what she had and hadn’t thwarted. Forge might not know all the details. “I’m sure I’m slated for execution once Pike has the information he seeks,” she finished.
“Don’t be foolish, Lokdon. Ms. Worgavic likes you. You would have been invited to join Forge years ago if you’d gone to work for an alumnus or started your own business. Nobody was going to approach an enforcer though. But now that you’re rogue… ” The narrow window slit didn’t offer a view of Retta’s shoulders, but clothing rustled, hinting at a shrug. “When Ms. Worgavic learned that you were leading those mercenaries and not simply tagging along with the assassin, she suggested to more than one person that you should be converted to our side instead of eliminated. As one of the six founders, she has the sway to make that happen.”
Amaranthe didn’t know what to think of Retta’s statement. She supposed it might be true, but Worgavic might have also sent Retta to try and extract information using a slyer method than Pike’s. She did tuck the tidbit about Forge having six founders away in the back of her mind. Worgavic hadn’t been on Books’s list; maybe he hadn’t discovered any of the founders yet.
“Why did you come?” Amaranthe asked. She might earn more useful information if she asked questions instead of answering them. Then she’d just have to figure out how to escape so she could put that information to good use. Retta seemed the most likely prospect to help with both goals. “The scowls you gave me that first day didn’t seem all that friendly.”
“Of course, I was scowling. You think I like hearing about what a boon it’d be for Forge if you could be converted? When I’m already here? I’ve been working for Ms. Worgavic for years and she barely acknowledges… ” Retta thumped a hand on the side of the crate. “They wouldn’t have any idea how to control the Ortarh Ortak if not for me.”
Was that the name of the craft? Amaranthe preferred her name, the Behemoth.
“ I’ve been instrumental to their success of late,” Retta continued. “ You’ve been a pest gnawing at their toes.”
How flattering. Amaranthe kept the thought to herself and grunted encouragingly instead. This was her chance. If she could keep Retta talking and establish a rapport…
“You were one of Ms. Worgavic’s favorite students, did you know that?” Retta asked. “ All the teachers liked you. And our peers too. It wasn’t fair. You weren’t warrior-caste, and you weren’t even from a good family. Isn’t your father some dirty logger, or something?”
“He was a coal miner,” Amaranthe said.
“Oh.” A note of apology came with that oh. Retta seemed to realize she’d been more insulting than she intended.
“I apologize because I don’t remember, but did I ever… wrong you?” Amaranthe asked.
“No, you never wronged anyone. That’s why everyone liked you. It was cursed annoying.”
Despite her discomfort, Amaranthe laughed. A short laugh, and the pain in her abdomen immediately made her regret it, but maybe it was worth it, for Retta’s blinked in surprise. Amusement was not the reaction she’d expected apparently.
“As I recall,” Amaranthe said, “you spent every free moment in the library, and, even in class, kept your face buried in those archaeology books. The teachers might have appreciated you more if you’d paid attention, or at least raised your hand to ask a question once in a while. People like to know others are listening when they talk. Teachers and students too.” Amaranthe kept her tone amiable, trying not to make her comments sound like a lecture, but she hoped to show Retta that whatever differences there might have been between them, they weren’t Amaranthe’s fault. No need to hold a grudge now…
“They were archaeology books. How’d you… I mean, I didn’t think you even knew who I was.”
Amaranthe decided not to mention that the fact had only stuck out for its oddness. All the other girls had carried their textbooks or, if they enjoyed reading, the latest romance or adventure stories. “While I don’t mind chatting, you haven’t answered my original question. Why are you here?”
Retta glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. “Nobody deserves this fate.”
“So, you’ve come to unlock me? Excellent.”
Retta grimaced. “I can’t. I owe Ms. Worgavic too much. She was the one who realized I was never going to be like my sister, that I was interested in history and archaeology instead of business, and that I didn’t belong at Mildawn. She talked to my family and had me sent to Kyatt to finish my education. After that, she elicited a lot of favors so I could go to the field to study artifacts with a woman who used to be on Professor Komitopis’s team. Do you know who she is?”