Basilard had been in the middle of springing away, and he tried to catch himself, lunging for a branch, but another shudder coursed through the tree, and he missed the grasp. He dropped to the ground not ten feet from the creature, his feet slipping on the ice.
Sicarius jumped down, hurling the serrated knife to draw the beast’s attention, then raced toward the buildings. He knew as he ran that he wouldn’t have enough time-he’d gauged the speed at which the construct covered ground and run the calculations in his head-but maybe if he got close enough to the dockworkers, it’d decide that it couldn’t reveal itself, then turn away.
When he didn’t hear paws hammering the ground behind him, Sicarius glanced back. The creature wasn’t following him. A feeling of concern-one he wouldn’t have expected in regard to anyone except Amaranthe or Sespian-came over him. He slowed down, searching the snow for Basilard. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. But there wasn’t any blood nor other signs of a fight either. Only the wool cap he’d been wearing lay in the snow. Maybe he’d simply run up the next tree. The construct remained in the same spot, its head cocked toward the lake. Like a dog that had heard its owner’s whistle to come home?
That big, blunt head rotated slowly, its red-eyed gaze landing on Sicarius again. Maybe not a command to come after all. Maybe one to kill. The creature turned so it faced him, and Sicarius prepared to race away. He had a head start this time. He’d reach the buildings. He’d-
The creature sprang. Not, as he expected, toward him, but toward the lake. It ran to the shoreline, leaped into the air, and was paddling its legs before it hit the water.
Still crouching, ready to run, Sicarius watched for a long moment before he relaxed. Remembering the bounty on his head and that human dangers existed in the city as well, he took a quick survey of his surroundings-in the poor lighting, nobody seemed close enough to have seen the incident, though a couple of men on a dock were pointing in the direction of the destroyed tree. Sicarius jogged back to see if Basilard was indeed safe.
As Sicarius approached, Basilard shimmied down the trunk of the nearest standing tree. He appeared unharmed, though he offered a sheepish shrug and retrieved his cap. That was lucky.
“Indeed.” Sicarius watched the creature as it continued to swim. It wasn’t heading to the yacht club after all. Recalling the theory about the ancient aircraft hiding on the lake bottom, he wondered if the construct would disappear beneath the waves, swimming down to join an underwater master. But would Forge be working with Nurians? Their plans were to support Ravido, not assassinate him.
Where’s it going?
The size of its head kept it in view for several moments, and Sicarius guessed it had swum a couple of miles before it finally faded from sight. In that time, it didn’t dip below the surface. Perhaps it had nothing to do with the Forge people. He considered the direction it had been swimming. Southwest. He’d run around the entire lake enough times to know the geography by heart. “In the winter, there’s an ice harvesting camp over there,” he said, remembering a mission he and Amaranthe had shared there once. “It’s too early in the season for that though.” He nodded toward the few inches of frozen crust at the edge of the lake.
I know the settlement of which you speak, Basilard signed. There are permanent log dwellings. Perhaps someone has moved in. Such as a Nurian wizard.
Sicarius thought about jogging out to investigate, but it would take a few hours, roundtrip, and he still needed to talk to Amaranthe and share that letter with her. And the pastry. He admitted it irked him slightly that she’d been too busy to talk privately to him, but he wouldn’t want to push Sespian aside for something that might be insignificant.
Mancrest may know if someone is over there, Basilard added.
Sicarius didn’t let any reaction onto his face at the mention of the name, but Basilard gave him a sidelong look anyway.
He is a handsome man. Do you fear he will…
Basilard’s hands faltered, hanging in midair as Sicarius gave him his most quelling glare. He did not wish to discuss the possibility of a relationship between Deret and Amaranthe. That would not happen.
Basilard diffidently finished with, …print news of your relationship to Sespian if he learns the truth?
“He is not the one most likely to do that,” Sicarius said.
Have you seen Books’s documents? What he proposes in this new government?
“No.” Sicarius didn’t know what Basilard’s topic shift implied, but, after one last look toward the lake, he headed toward the city.
Basilard walked beside him. Among other things, he suggests an elected official take the role of emperor. Rulers that go in and out of office every few years. Though the Turgonian empire has problems as it is, at least in the eyes of the rest of the world, I know that if Sespian returns as emperor, I have a chance at having an advocate for my people’s concerns. An unknown has no reason to help me. I do not know if I’d wish to fight for this.
So, Basilard was thinking of leaving the team if they couldn’t get Sespian onto the throne. Why divulge this to him? Maybe he thought Sicarius had some insight into Sespian’s thoughts. Or maybe Basilard simply thought they had bonded in the tree and should now be divulging secrets. Right.
“Understood,” Sicarius said, because Basilard’s continuing glances meant he expected an answer. The answer seemed to satisfy him.
• • •
Though daylight had come, it had not yet permeated the darkness in the factory. On his way in, Sicarius had spotted Maldynado taking a turn at watch on the rooftop, but everyone inside seemed to be sleeping. Basilard had gone straight to his bedroll. A few occupied blankets lay on the cement floor near a back wall covered with pipes. Stacks of books edged a couple of them-Books and Akstyr’s areas. Sicarius recalled a mention of private offices upstairs, so he glided past the snorers without rousing anyone, heading for the nearest set of metal steps.
On the wall near the base of the staircase, a recently used mop hung from a peg, a bucket upturned to dry beneath it. He wished Amaranthe had been sleeping instead of cleaning, but the damp implements didn’t surprise him.
The stairs led to a wide landing and catwalks allowing access to giant vats and two- and three-story-high machinery. On the left, there were three offices with windows and closed doors. In a less olfactory-dense environment, he might have been able to identify which room belonged to which team member before entering, but the pungent odor of syrupy molasses, mingled with hints of sugar beets and alcohol, dominated the air, even weeks after the factory had closed for work. Fortunately, the last office offered another clue: a clean window. Trusting it marked the spot Amaranthe had claimed, he strode toward it.
Sicarius entered soundlessly-if she’d managed to achieve sleep, he did not wish to disturb it. Her blanket was stretched on the floor behind an old metal desk. She wasn’t lying on the blanket; rather she was hunched in a ball on one end, leaning against a rickety filing cabinet. Though her eyes were closed, distressed mumbles came from her lips. Her hands twitched, clasping and unclasping the blanket.
Sicarius closed the door and considered whether to wake her or simply leave the letter and the pastry on the desk. Had her sleep appeared restful, he would have done the later, but perhaps she’d appreciate an escape from whatever nightmare haunted her.
On the journey to Stumps, after they’d been forced to abandon the steamboat, the team had camped in the woods each night, many people shivering under shared blankets to stave off the late autumn cold. Amaranthe had refused to sleep with the group, not wanting to disturb anyone with her rough nights-or perhaps not wanting anyone to know she had rough nights. As if that were possible with everyone living in close quarters-she and Yara had been roommates on that boat before it sank. Sicarius, of course, had known. Requiring little sleep himself, he was often up at night anyway. He’d thought of going to her, offering a shoulder to lean on or whatever else she might wish, but whenever she’d seen him watching her, she’d been quick to proclaim herself fine. Fit to fight. Perhaps he’d focused too much on training in the last year, for she seemed to think that was all he ever had on his mind. He’d done little to show her otherwise, he admitted. He didn’t know how.