Good. Amaranthe gave the women a curtsey and a “Thank you,” and turned for the door. She didn’t want to delay, not when Worgavic might come in at any moment.
“Not them,” the woman said as Books and Akstyr started to follow.
Amaranthe froze. “Pardon?”
“Our new… yacht is not for outsiders. They can wait for you at the boarding house.”
Amaranthe took a moment to make sure none of the panic clutching at her heart reflected on her face, then turned toward the table again. “These aren’t outsiders. They’re my advisers and my allies. I’ve known them for a long time, and we’ve been through a great deal together.”
“Perhaps they can be invited dow-out at a later time, but not now. You’ll understand when you see the yacht. Tell her, Retta.”
Amaranthe met Retta’s eyes, hoping for some support.
Retta licked her lips, glanced at the others, then nodded. “We can’t let strangers down. For our safety and theirs. They might not be ready for… the truth.”
Books snorted. Akstyr looked intrigued. They were both interested in seeing the inside of that craft, if for different reasons. Their curiosity aside, Amaranthe had reasons of her own for wanting them. Not only would they be necessary for coming up with a plan on how to take over or break the Behemoth somehow, but she’d need them to help her sneak or fight her way to the engine or navigation room, or whatever the craft had, the place of power and control. More than that, she needed… them. There at her back. Helping her and lending support in case… in case… cursed ancestors, she couldn’t face that place alone. Not again.
“I’m sure they can handle it,” Amaranthe said, shocked that her words came out calmly without terrified squeaks punctuating the words. “For Turgonians, they’re quite ecumenical.”
“No,” the middle-aged woman said.
Retta shook her head once, minutely, a silent message in the gesture: Give up this fight. You won’t win.
“The guards will escort them out,” one of the younger women said. “You can meet up with them again in the city tomorrow.”
“Very well,” Amaranthe said and struggled to keep a lid on the pot of desperation trying to boil over inside of her. She’d never hyperventilated in her life. She wasn’t going to start now. She hoped.
Chapter 13
“Bloody bears, why’s it coming for me?” Sespian whispered. “You’re the one who’s irked the world.”
Sicarius, scanning their surroundings, didn’t answer. He’d picked an escape route when they first climbed onto the tramper, but with so many soldiers thundering out of their tents now, their lanterns burning away the shadows, there weren’t any obvious paths out of camp. Any direction that he and Sespian ran, they’d be seen. They’d have to risk it and hope their uniforms and the soldiers’ distraction camouflaged them sufficiently.
“I’m sorry,” Sespian said. “I didn’t mean that I want it to kill you. I just…” He shrugged.
Sicarius hadn’t been offended. Besides, it’d kill both of them if it found them together. “We’ll go back this way, between the vehicles, then south. Don’t worry about being seen. Cut across the field and back to the fort. If we get separated or there’s not time to reach the walls, meet up at the water tower.”
“I understand.”
The shouts were everywhere now, then a screech of utter pain rose above them. It couldn’t be more than a hundred meters away.
Sicarius rose to both feet, intending to leap down. At that second, the hatch flew open. Sespian had been crossing the roof, following Sicarius, and the metal lid thudded into the side of his knee. His leg buckled, and, in the slick snow, his other foot lost purchase. He dropped hard with a pained grunt.
Sicarius grabbed Sespian’s arm to pull him to his feet.
“Blasted ore, what’s-” The soldier, head and torso rising from the hole, whirled toward them. As he turned, he lifted a lantern, and he got a good look at Sicarius’s face.
He dropped back inside, lunging for something. Sicarius had succeeded in helping Sespian up and pushed him toward the edge.
“Can you climb down?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just-”
The soldier’s head popped out again along with a hand holding a pistol. Sicarius had expected it and was already moving. Before the weapon came to bear on him, he’d closed the distance, and his fingers latched around the man’s wrist. Sicarius pulled the arm, forcing the soldier off balance and feinted at his eyes with his dagger. The man tried to yank back, but Sicarius held his wrist fast.
“Don’t!” Sespian blurted, fooled by the feint.
Sicarius had already reversed the blade, and it was the hilt he drove into the sensitive flesh between the soldier’s nose and mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes, and the pistol dropped into the snow. The man stumbled on whatever he was standing on, and disappeared below, thumping his head against the rim of the hole as he fell. Sicarius kicked the hatch shut.
He sensed the approach of danger, of a Science-crafted entity in the same heartbeat as Sespian shouted, “Look out!”
Instincts blaring, Sicarius flung himself to his belly and rolled sideways. There wasn’t enough room on the roof for the maneuver, and he dropped over the edge. Before his head descended below the level of the roof, he spotted the dark hulking form landing, snow flying as it struck down, claws screeching as they attempted to brake by digging into metal.
Like a cat, Sicarius twisted in the air, landing feet-first to the ground. Someone was sprinting out from beneath the tramper and toward the tents. At first, he thought it was Sespian, fleeing the wrong way, but the bright red tip of a burning cigarette clenched in the man’s teeth stopped him. It was the second soldier. Where was Sespian? There. He’d jumped down, too, and must have yanked the soldier’s rifle from his hands, for he waited by the front leg of the tramper, the stock of the weapon pressed against his shoulder, the barrel pointed upward. He was ready to fight, ready to shoot the creature when it leaped off the tramper.
“Mortal weapons can’t hurt it.” Sicarius lunged, grabbing Sespian’s arm, intending to propel him toward the vehicles and the escape route they’d planned.
Snow dropping from the roof of tramper warned him a split second before the soul construct sailed off the roof, its massive form bigger than four people combined. It landed between the vehicles, twisting to face them.
Sicarius turned the push into a pull. “This way.”
They’d have to escape in another direction.
Sespian fired before obeying. Even though Sicarius was pulling him off balance, the rifle ball hammered into the huge dog-like head, striking between the eyes. It bounced off with all the effectiveness of hail striking a cement sidewalk.
Sespian might have stood there, stunned, for a moment, but Sicarius grabbed him about the waist and hoisted him onto his shoulder. That elicited a startled squawk and a protest of, “Put me down!” but Sicarius didn’t pay attention. He sprinted toward the tents, knowing that creature could catch them in a heartbeat. He couldn’t run away as fast as he’d like, as soldiers were forming into squads around the vehicle clearing. One rank had dropped to a knee, preparing rifles to fire. He would have to plow through them and hope they gave way.
As Sicarius approached, one hand gripping his black dagger, one hand holding Sespian in place, General Heroncrest strode out of the command tent. With knives bristling from his belt and a cutlass and pistol in his hands, he was ready for a fight. He’d come out behind the first three squads of soldiers, and he faced the trampers right away. His eyes widened, not with recognition of Sicarius but at what was behind Sicarius.
“First squad, prepare to fire,” a sergeant commanded.
With more reason than ever to get out of the way, Sicarius jumped onto a rock and leaped over the row of kneeling soldiers as well as the squad standing behind. Because of the extra weight on his shoulder, he wouldn’t have cleared that second row, but they saw him coming and stumbled out of the way. He landed not three feet from Heroncrest.