“…over here,” one of the soldiers said.
A couple of young mechanics shouldn’t have business in the command tent, but they were heading down the aisle in that direction. They’d pass beneath Sicarius and Sespian’s tramper.
Sicarius touched Sespian’s shoulder and wriggled back so his head wouldn’t be visible if someone walked below them. When Sespian pushed away from the side to follow, a few clumps of snow were brushed over the edge. Sicarius hoped nobody was close enough to see or pay attention to the fresh lumps on the ground.
“…need it tonight?” one man asked.
“Sarge’ll be mad if I don’t have it at morning formation.”
“Who is that?” called the guard at the corner of the clearing.
“Privates Tuller and Wardivk. Left my ammo belt in the tramper.”
Sicarius pulled farther back from the edge and knelt. He probed the snow and found the hinges of the roof hatch. Careful to keep his head out of the guard’s line of sight, he maneuvered about so he’d be behind those hinges, should the lid lift. If the soldiers entered this particular tramper to retrieve the missing belt, they shouldn’t have any reason to stick their heads up there, but one had to be prepared.
He caught Sespian watching him and noting the knife in his hand. He’d drawn it to deal with Heroncrest-the officers were still talking in the tent-but felt the need to justify himself under that solemn gaze. An odd feeling. He’d rarely worried about justifications before. Under Hollowcrest and Raumesys, killing had been the norm not the anomaly.
The hinges of the belly hatch whined as they opened. Sicarius couldn’t have said anything to Sespian if he’d wished it, not with the soldiers scant feet below.
“Better oil that in the morning,” one said.
“The hinges are just cold. So am I. Whose blighted idea was it to lay siege to a fort in the winter?”
“Ssh, the general’s tent is right over there, you dolt.”
Thunks and clanks sounded as one of the men unfolded the drop-down ladder and climbed inside the tramper. Sicarius’s hearing told him the other remained below-he was the one smoking. The smell of burning tobacco mingled with the pervasive coal scent in the air.
Sespian pointed at the roof hatch and spread his arms, palms up, silently asking what the plan was if the soldier opened it. He pointed to Sicarius’s dagger and shook his head once, emphatically.
Out of habit, Sicarius signed, I won’t kill him, though there wasn’t enough ambient light for Sespian to read the gestures. So long as he got the gist.
A clunk sounded right below them, followed by a string of curses. “Need a lantern,” the muffled voice said from within.
Still poised to attack if needed, Sicarius waited while the soldier searched for his missing item inside and kept an eye-and ear-on the rest of the camp. Sespian returned his attention to the tent, no doubt trying to pick out more information for Ridgecrest. Aside from the discovery of the tunnel-boring equipment, they hadn’t learned much that they hadn’t already known or guessed.
It wasn’t words, however, that reached Sicarius’s ear, causing him to jerk his head up. A distant shout of surprise came from the rear of the camp. It wasn’t from the direction where they’d left the cable, so it couldn’t be related to that.
The surprised shout turned to a shriek of pain. Cries of, “Get back!” conflicted with orders to, “Help him!”
Nearby tent flaps were thrust back, and soldiers streamed out buckling ammo belts as they balanced rifles and lanterns in their arms.
Sicarius gripped Sespian’s arm. “We need to get back to the fort.”
Sespian turned wide eyes toward him. “The soul construct?”
Another cry of pain sounded, this one closer and on a direct path inward from the first cries.
“It’s coming for you,” Sicarius said.
• • •
Amaranthe didn’t think she’d let any of her alarm over the announcement that Ms. Worgavic was on the way show on her face, but Books stepped forward and nudged her arm.
“You said this wouldn’t take long and that I’d be allowed to begin my research of the current socio-political climate in the capital for the paper I’m writing. These times of upheaval must be documented. Yet-” Books tilted his head toward the women, “-it’s been delay after delay. First we had to endure the blockade and the questioning from the soldiers, now this. Perhaps we could return to the boarding house and come back tomorrow, when the process can be expedited.”
He was trying to give her a way to walk away from the yacht club before Ms. Worgavic showed up, but Amaranthe didn’t want to leave. That would mean abandoning their plan entirely. What she needed was a ride down before Worgavic returned. She supposed it was too much to hope that her old teacher would get her shoe caught in a sewer drain, trip and fall, and be run over by a trolley.
“You’re staying at a boarding house?” the middle-aged Forge woman asked. “When your parents’ home is only a few miles up the hill?”
Alarm flashed in Books’s eyes. He’d said the wrong thing, and he knew it.
“I’ll be visiting them most certainly,” Amaranthe said smoothly, “but the last I’d heard, Mother had turned my old room into a study. After being absent for so long, I wouldn’t wish to intrude upon them. I doubt Retta is staying with them either.”
Retta blanched and touched her eyepatch. “No.”
Amaranthe patted Books’s arm. “I understand your concerns, but we needn’t rush. As I’ve told you, you’ll have a firsthand view of the changing of emperors and the rise of a new power if you simply remain with me. My colleagues are spearheading the movement.”
Books was searching her eyes, probably trying to figure out if she wanted him to continue arguing so she could pretend to eventually give in or if she truly wanted him to drop it.
“I’m hungry,” Akstyr said. “Do we really have to wait for this pomak?”
That was one of the Kendorian words Books had taught Amaranthe-a derogatory term that translated to scavenger fish. She hadn’t realized Akstyr had been paying attention. Books didn’t seem as surprised-he gave Akstyr an amused and almost fond look.
“That had better mean venerable and wise gentlewoman,” one of the Forge people said.
“Something of that nature,” Books said.
“I can pilot them out if they want to go now,” Retta said. “It won’t take that long, then I can come back for Ms. Worgavic and the rest of you. I’m quite eager to show my sister around the… ship.” The steady gaze she gave Amaranthe as she spoke suggested she was more interested in throttling her for details of her scheme rather than offering tours. “As some of you know, I’ve been wanting to show her the work I’ve been doing as well.” Bitterness laced the statement, a true one, Amaranthe sensed. Retta wanted to show her sister that, though she’d always been in her shadow when they’d been children, she was now reading the language of, and manipulating tools from, an advanced and utterly foreign race, something few people in the world could claim.
Amaranthe kept her face neutral. She didn’t know how the real Suan would respond or how much she knew about the Behemoth, if anything.
“Ms. Worgavic won’t appreciate a delay if she returns and our little tug isn’t here,” one of the younger women said, lips pursing.
Tug? More like a submarine-it had to be.
“You can blame me. I don’t mind.” Amaranthe waved her hand airily. “We’ve known each other for years.”
“Yes, I understand you were one of her students back when she taught math.”
“Actually, she taught economics,” Amaranthe said, not certain if this was another test or if the woman simply didn’t remember. “But, yes, I was a student at Mildawn.”
“Ah, economics, of course.” The woman nodded and pointed two fingers at Retta. “Fine, take her out.”