For now, all Amaranthe did was grab the rifle from the man by the door, then jog toward Mia. With both of her guards writhing on the floor, the woman should have spun back to face her attackers or, even smarter, raced off to escape again, but Books had to grab her arms and drag her away from her work.
“Unhand me, you benighted vandal,” she cried.
“Benighted?” Books managed to look indignant while he was gripping the woman beneath her armpits and dancing to avoid having his foot stomped on. “I assure you I’m neither benighted nor a vandal.”
Amaranthe kicked the rifle away from the last guard on the floor, the one whose kneecap she’d destroyed. She wished there was a way to lock everybody in the room, rather than worrying about tying up another group. Maybe they could-
“Look out,” Books barked.
Amaranthe lunged to the side. A shot fired. Bewildered, she glanced about. She’d collected all the rifles.
One of the guards by the door had risen to one knee. Blood saturated his trouser leg, but he had a pistol pointed at Books, smoke wafting from the barrel. Amaranthe didn’t know if he had another shot in the weapon, but she wasn’t going to risk it. Without thinking, she lifted her own rifle and fired. This time, the bullet took him in the chest, and he tumbled backward, the pistol dropping from his fingers.
“Books.” Amaranthe spun around, lowering her weapon. “Are you-”
She swallowed. Seventy-year-old Mia, spectacles still perched on her nose, was staring down at her chest, at the spreading bloodstain on her white blouse. Books was cursing under his breath and blinking rapidly.
“Dear ancestors, I didn’t mean to use her for a shield,” he said, voice cracking on the last word.
Amaranthe slumped. She thought to say, “She chose her side,” to alleviate some of Books’s guilt, but she couldn’t. She felt it herself. She’d come here to kidnap the woman, not kill her. If she’d shot to kill the guards in the first place, instead of trying to injure them, this wouldn’t have happened. No, she told herself, rubbing her face, it’d just be someone else dead.
Books carefully lowered the woman to the floor.
“Sorry, Books. Let’s… get back to Akstyr and Retta. They may need us. It’s been-”
The floor vibrated slightly beneath Amaranthe. She braced herself, but that subtle sensation, a faint pulse, was all that came.
“Are we rising?” Books asked.
“We must be.” Amaranthe pointed to the door, intending to say, “Let’s go,” again but Books held up a hand.
“Before we leave, you should know… she said something right before I pulled her away from the controls.”
“What was it?” Amaranthe asked.
“A triumphant little, ‘Hah.’”
She groaned. That couldn’t be good.
• • •
Wind skidded across the fields, driving snow sideways to gather against the northern walls of the log cabins and the machine shop. Darkness was settling on the lake, and Sicarius pointed and gestured, guiding Wodic, who’d taken his place in the crane, to pick up the completed trap. Mederak waited at the base of the dock, a brush in one hand and a paint tin in another. He wasn’t watching the crane; his gaze was focused on the cabin where they’d put the dead man.
Gunshots and artillery fire continued to ring out from the direction of Fort Urgot. It’d been going on all afternoon, and Sicarius itched to go check on it-to check on Sespian.
Soon, he told himself. He had to complete this task first. Or die trying.
“Where are we putting it?” Wodic called once he’d hooked the trap. When he lifted it a few inches off the ground, the crane’s long metal arm shuddered under the weight.
Sicarius had wanted it sturdy enough to contain the soul construct, but he worried they wouldn’t be able to carry it to its destination. Best not to dawdle, and for more reasons than the coming night.
“In the water.” Sicarius pointed at the dock, glad its concrete surface was reinforced with thick pilings. It was meant to be driven on by lorries laden with heavy loads of ice, not cranes carrying multiple-ton steel traps. He’d done a few mental calculations, but he wasn’t entirely certain it wouldn’t collapse when the crane drove out upon it.
“In the water? Are you sure?”
“It has to be hidden so the creature won’t see it.” Sicarius pointed again, more firmly. He didn’t care to discuss his plan with these people, not when he was already doubting it himself. Maybe he should have gone to the city for concrete, had these two dig a pit, and attempted to reenact the one strategy he knew had halted a construct. Too late now. “Go. I’ll tell you where to release it.”
Once the crane was in motion, Sicarius jogged onto the dock ahead of it, eyeing the dark water on either side, trying to judge the depth. He also kept an ear toward the camp behind them. By now, the practitioner knew his men weren’t returning. He’d send the soul construct or have another attack ready. Or perhaps he’d come himself.
The dock trembled beneath the weight of the advancing crane, the pilings groaning in protest. In the cab, Wodic’s face was tight and tense.
“There.” Sicarius pointed to the right of the dock. “Set it down there.”
His selected spot was just forward of the encroaching film of ice stretching out from the shoreline. If the temperature dropped much more after dusk… He shook his head. He’d have to find the creature quickly, that was all. By midnight, his trap could be beneath an inch of ice. If that happened, it’d be useless.
Despite the cold, sweat dripped down Wodic’s face as he manipulated the controls, slowly swinging the crane off-center, out over the water.
“Keep it close to the dock,” Sicarius said, imagining himself running this way at a not-so-future point.
Gesturing with his hands for guidance, he had Wodic lower the trap through the ice and into the water, inch by inch. At one point, he made Wodic halt to open a hatch on the side. It had been sealing a hole less than two feet wide in one of the walls. To the men’s bemusement, he’d already tested it, ensuring he could squirm out through it. He was counting on it being too small for the soul construct to do the same. A larger hatch over a bigger hole in the top was already open, this one spring-loaded to shut easily once a latch on the outside was thrown. Getting to the latch before the prey could escape… That would be a challenge. Especially at night. In freezing water.
This was your idea, Sicarius told himself.
He gave away nothing of his spinning thoughts as he stood on the dock, arms crossed over his chest, watching the huge steel block disappear beneath the waves. He made note of how far the crane hook descended beneath the surface before the trap hit the bottom. Less than three feet. Good. The water hid the hatch and the entire trap, but it wouldn’t be far to swim, so long as he found it swiftly.
Sicarius waved for Wodic to back the crane away, then called, “Mederak,” as soon as the dock was clear.
The man jogged out with the paint can. Sicarius pointed and Mederak made a red circle on the dock. In the fading light, the color appeared similar to blood.
“What now?” Mederak licked his lips and eyed the dead man’s cabin again.
“I suggest you and your comrade either go back to the city or lock yourself in that machine shop for the night.”
Mederak nodded vigorously as if he’d been contemplating the same thing. “The city sounds good.”
He jogged back into the camp, left the paint tin in the snow, and headed for the vehicle lot. Sicarius watched to make sure he didn’t try to take the lorry he’d kept fired up all day.
“Do you need help with the trapping, Mr. Sicarius?” Wodic asked after he released the pent-up steam in the crane and climbed down.
“No. Go with your comrade.”
“How’re you going to get it to jump off the dock and swim in there?”