That brightened Akstyr’s consternated expression.
You’ve been spending too much time with Maldynado, Books signed to Amaranthe.
Have I? She smiled innocently.
They’d reached the door, and, when one of the guards opened it for her, she rearranged her face into what she hoped passed for the bland indifference of a world-wise businesswoman who’d never doubted her right to join her colleagues here. One guard in front, one behind, they were ushered down a hallway. The walls were painted with murals of yachts, their sails full of wind. Though Amaranthe had never followed the art world, even she recognized the name of famous muralist Ansil Inkwatercrest painted in the corner, under the title “Regatta.”
While she was noting the artwork, she also noted a trail of wet footprints leading out from a shut door on that sidewall. She itched to open it, suspecting their submersible craft was docked somewhere behind it, but the guard trailing behind Akstyr and Books didn’t spread his arms in an invitation for them to explore. Rather his brisk pace assured they wouldn’t dally.
At the forward guard’s gesture, Amaranthe stepped into a parlor with tall windows on three sides. Three women in ankle-length felt skirts and blouses with jackets sat at one of several round tables in the room. A tidy white tablecloth cascaded to the floor, and silver tea and cider pots steamed on the surface while the women sipped from the smallest, daintiest cups Amaranthe had ever seen. A platter in the center of the table held cookies shaped into boats with a familiar stylized C stamped in the centers. Curi’s. The idea that the baker supplied cookies to Forge filled her with a sense of betrayal. That had been her favorite place to buy sweets for years.
She didn’t think she’d seen the women before, though one was somewhat familiar, someone who’d been in that big Forge meeting, perhaps. She felt the blessing of her ancestors that Ms. Wargavic hadn’t shown up, but the cool eyes that narrowed at her approach stole her sense of relief. Did they know what Suan looked like? And that Amaranthe wasn’t she?
To avoid their hard gazes, Amaranthe pretended to admire the views through the windows. On one side, the two-story eating house rose, along with a view of some of the yachts. One the far side one could see the rest of the waterfront. The lake-side windows… She hoped their little skirmish hadn’t been visible outside them. As she’d noted earlier, the dock wasn’t in view, but the two men who’d sailed off the roof with smoke streaming from their underwear… She forced herself not to grimace as she acknowledged that unique sight might have been in view.
“Suan?” one of the women asked.
“Yes.” Amaranthe faced them again and walked up to a chair. “Forgive me, please, but I’ve been out of the capital for so long. I haven’t missed the sak lee winters, but there is a beauty about the lake in winter.” She wasn’t trying to adopt any sort of accent-after all, Suan had been born in Stumps-but Books had made her memorize a few Kendorian, Kyattese, and Nurian words to toss into regular conversations. “It’ll ice over soon, don’t you think?”
The three women were exchanging glances with each other. Amaranthe might have to prove herself before they invited her down to their secret lair. Well, she was ready. This was why she’d been studying.
“Yes,” the first woman who’d spoken said. “Those who fancy themselves prognosticators suggest this snow will keep falling all week and bring in colder weather. Were the winters chilly down there in… where were you last? I’ve forgotten.”
Amaranthe doubted it. This was Test Number One. “Ibyria,” she said, “on the Gulf Coast. They don’t see snow down there. The orange and lemon trees wouldn’t care for it. Before that, I was securing trade deals in many of the desert city-states. Camel, Tiger, Red Cactus-” she paused when Books, standing at her back, nudged her, “-but you probably don’t want all the names.” He was right-if she spewed too much background information, they’d wonder what she was trying to prove. “The cacti also do not tolerate freezing temperatures, I understand. The Torrel ones that the shamans use for making their healing syrups are particularly valuable, so you’ll see them running about, tossing blankets over the thorny things if a frost is incipient.” Amaranthe waited for Books to nudge her again, but he didn’t. Of course, if his own tactics were something to go by, he approved of pedantic asides.
“I see.” The speaker was in her late thirties or early forties with a few lines creasing her brow. The other two were in their twenties-too young to be Forge founders probably. But then, Suan was one, and she was only thirty.
When nobody else spoke, Amaranthe gestured to Books and Akstyr. “You’re probably wondering who my comrades are and whether you can speak freely in front of them.” And in front of me, she added to herself. “This is Erav, my scribe.” She lifted a hand toward Books. “And this is Rist, my… adviser in things of an otherworldly nature.”
All three women’s eyebrows flew upward. It was true they were Turgonian, and Amaranthe wouldn’t normally speak of the Science to imperial subjects, but these people were flying around in an ultra advanced alien aircraft. Surely the notion of magic couldn’t alarm them at this point.
“He’s young for that, isn’t he?” One of the younger women eyed Akstyr from head to toe.
Maldynado would have assumed a pose that accented his features, insomuch as a heavy cotton robe could accent anything; Akstyr crossed his arms and issued his surliest I-am-not-young sneer. The haircut may have improved his looks, but with his attitude, his dream of antsy women tearing off his clothing wasn’t likely to happen.
“He is the apprentice of a shaman I worked with,” Amaranthe said, “and is accomplished in many areas. Also… I couldn’t be as choosy as I might have otherwise wished. Convincing shamans to take a trip into the empire isn’t easily done, but Rist was born here and only fled south to learn his art.”
Akstyr’s surly expression grew wistful. Yes, he’d like to be somewhere south-or south and west if one were thinking of Kyatt-studying his art now.
“I thought his skills, being unique here in the empire, could prove useful for us as we go forward,” Amaranthe said. “Though perhaps I underestimated your need for assistance. I understand Ravido Marblecrest has already taken the Imperial Barracks, is that right?”
The women shared glances again.
“We’re waiting for a couple of others to join us before we speak of business matters,” the middle-aged woman said.
Uh oh. Amaranthe did her best not to lift a fingernail for nibbling or otherwise exude nervousness. “Who else would be joining us? I long to see familiar faces.”
“Then you’ll enjoy seeing those who are coming.”
Another “uh oh” pranced through Amaranthe’s mind. If someone familiar was coming, someone who knew Suan and what she looked like…
Books bumped Amaranthe’s elbow, directing her to a newcomer entering the parlor. Her heart leaped to attention, but it didn’t know whether to dance or flee.
Retta strode toward the table, pinning Amaranthe with a one-eyed stare. Yes, one eyed. The other lay behind a brown velvet patch. Correction, it probably didn’t lay behind that patch, Amaranthe thought, shock filling her. Pike. When had he had time to do it? When she’d escaped, he’d collected his men and charged out of the Behemoth on her heels. Maybe he’d left instructions for the punishment to be carried out. Or maybe the Forge women had done it themselves. She couldn’t imagine Ms. Worgavic wielding a blade or hot iron, but her old teacher had demanded she be tortured, so who knew?