“Here and here.” Retta pointed at two perforated lines. One had a cluster of blue dots in front of it, but the other door appeared unblocked.
“I think I’ve got the route memorized,” Amaranthe said after a moment, then lifted her eyebrows to ask if Books had done the same, in case they were separated.
He sighed and muttered, “Sortie,” but nodded.
“Akstyr, you’re in charge of defenses here.” Amaranthe clapped him on the back. “If you see any blue dots wandering onto this route-” she traced the path she and Books would take, “-we’d appreciate it if you tormented them a little. Trousers around the ankles would be fine.” She guessed that took less effort than some of his other tricks.
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Akstyr brushed his fingers through hair damp with sweat, pausing to frown anew at the shortness of his locks.
“With luck, nobody will cross paths with us,” Amaranthe said. “If you get bored, you could also keep those people in the lift uncomfortable, so they’re less prepared to attack if a door opens. I imagine they’re wearing a wide variety of undergarments that they’d like to model for each other.”
“I can’t believe you’re encouraging that behavior,” Books murmured as they checked their rifles, stuffed cartridges into their pockets, and headed for the secret door the map had indicated.
“You don’t approve?” Amaranthe asked. “It’s better than killing, isn’t it?”
“You won’t be laughing if he decides to try the gag on you someday.”
“Those are the risks you must accept when you step into the role of leadership.”
• • •
By the time noon approached, the pieces of Sicarius’s trap were laid out on the flat bank above the dock. If not for a clock inside the shop, it would have been difficult to guess the hour. Snow was falling again, more inches accumulating on the fields beyond the camp, and the sun had not been seen all day. The temperature had dropped as well, and the ice edging the lake seemed to expand outward with every hour. Sicarius was watching it, knowing his plan hinged on immersing the trap in the water, not under a frozen sheet.
Steam hissed as the arm of a crane lifted and moved one of the heavy walls of the incipient box. The other two machinists operated welding tools powered by the engine of a second vehicle. Sicarius had been directing the placement of the beams and sheets, but he paused to gaze out at the field. It was one of many scans he’d been making of the area. He hadn’t sensed anything otherworldly, such as he might feel if the soul construct approached, but something kept plucking at his senses, a discordant twang on a harp.
The camp was being watched. He was certain of it.
The area had long ago been logged, so the white fields should have left few hiding places, but there were always dips and rises in seemingly flat land, and the falling snow limited visibility to a quarter mile or so. Further, someone might approach along the waterline, using the clumps of brown vegetation thrusting out of the drifts for camouflage.
“I think we’ll make it by dusk, Mr. Sicarius,” Wodic said, his voice muffled by the welding helmet he wore. The glass faceplate didn’t hide his eyes-and the concern in them as he glanced up from his work. “What is it you think’ll come?”
Though Sicarius knew his own face betrayed nothing of his thoughts, the men must have noticed his frequent surveys of the surrounding land. Normally, he wouldn’t have shared anything with the workers-he required them to complete this task, nothing more-but because they had a loose relationship with Amaranthe, he felt more disposed toward them than he would in other circumstances.
“General Flintcrest has brought a Nurian wizard with him to support his bid for the throne,” Sicarius said.
“That ore-stealing traitor,” Wodic growled. “That’s his camp out there, isn’t it? We’ve known about it, but the soldiers haven’t bothered us yet, so we’ve been staying out of their way. Mederak went to town yesterday, though, and he said Fort Urgot is surrounded. Is that Flintcrest?”
“Heroncrest.” Sicarius directed the crane operator to pick up another beam to reinforce the tee weld Wodic was finishing.
“Them officers are all over the place with their troops,” Wodic grumbled. “Can’t even go into town for a swig of applejack without them stopping to question you, like you’re some foreign mongrel, not a loyal imperial subject who’s lived here his whole life.”
“Continue welding,” Sicarius said. “We must finish this as quickly as possible. The wizard has summoned a creature that is hunting the nights.” He thought about mentioning Sespian, but did not know if these men cared one way or another who was on the throne. “It is hunting loyal imperial subjects.” They ought to be concerned about their own lives if nothing else.
Sicarius thought the workers might be skeptical about wizards and magical creatures, but Wodic must have seen enough to believe in such things, for he only said, “We’ve heard it out hunting the last few nights. We stayed locked up tight in the cabin with the thickest walls. I don’t care how much I had to water the bushes, I wasn’t going outside before morning.”
A flash of movement drew Sicarius’s eye, and he spun toward the source, his black dagger finding its way into his hand. He didn’t see anything except snow falling about one of the cabins on the edge of the camp. A clump of powder dropped from the roof, plopping into a drift below. In other places as well, clumps fell from the roofs as more snow accumulated above the eaves. It might have been what had drawn his attention. Sicarius didn’t sheathe the dagger.
“What is it?” Wodic lifted the faceplate of his helmet.
“Continue working,” Sicarius said, then jogged toward the cabin.
He veered around it, approaching the corner where he’d seen that movement from the opposite side. He slowed his steps, compressing the snow underfoot as softly as possible, making no sound as he drew near. Before he poked his head around the corner, he stopped to listen and sniff the breeze. He also touched his fingers to the chinked log wall, trusting he’d feel it if someone bumped against the cabin on the other side. The smoke from the steam crane tainted the air, making it difficult to pick up lesser scents, and its clanking and hissing also may have smothered lesser sounds, but Sicarius felt something. A faint scrape that traveled through the logs.
Without sheathing the dagger, he pulled out a throwing knife from the trio sheathed on his right forearm. He could throw with equal accuracy with both hands, and he was prepared to loose the blade with his left as he peeked around the corner. Nobody was there.
Sicarius immediately looked up-roofs were a viable place from which to launch an attack. There wasn’t anybody up there either, but a few trickles of powder whispered down from the edge. Using the eaves for cover in case an attack came from above, he eased toward the other corner, eyeing the ground as he approached. Footprints marked the snow, two sets of footprints. Their owners had come from the direction of the southern shoreline. The prints indicated soft shoes with soles that curved up at the edges, hand-made moccasins rather than the more common boots of the Turgonian people. Kendorians or Nurians had such footwear, and the latter was more likely given the situation.
The footprints showed that the people-men he guessed from the depth of the marks, each around his weight-had stopped at the wall, then jumped up. His first guess had been correct.
Something plucked at his senses again. This time, it did have an otherworldly taint to it. The wizard? The signature was faint. People using Made tools, perhaps. He thought of the man with the scimitar who’d been speaking to the practitioner.
Sicarius sheathed the black dagger and, keeping the throwing knife in hand, jumped and caught the gutter. Snow pattered against his face, but he ignored it, pulling his eyes over the edge. He was prepared to release the grip and drop down in an instant, but the roof was empty of everything except snow. And footprints.