Amaranthe barely noticed as the soldiers unlocked her and marched her out the hatch, her arms clamped in their hands. Her mind dwelled on that new information. TheIce Cracker I, not decommissioned, but destroyed. What if-
“How’re we going to do this?” one of her escorts asked, voice low.
“We’ll split it. Gotta make it look like she tried to escape.”
Emperor’s eternal warts, her soldiers were going to get greedy instead of taking her to the brig. She eyed the bleak gray corridors, textured flooring, hanging lanterns, and intermittent ladders and hatches. Sicarius would be aboard by now, but he would be hunting for the Kendorian, not looking to rescue her in some random passageway.
“This is good. Nobody’s around.” The men slowed. “Get your sword out. We’ll-”
“Are you really intending to risk your careers for a chance at my meager 10,000-ranmya bounty?” Amaranthe asked, hoping a little chitchat might distract them.
An alcove ahead held a bucket of sand, an axe, and a hand pump. Though she wondered what there was that could possibly burn on the metal ship, the firefighting station offered hope.
“Hush, woman.”
“10,000 is a lot. And ain’t nobody going to object to your death.”
“10,000 isn’t enough to live on for more than a couple years, and you have to split it, right? A mere 5,000 each.” She stopped to trade looks with them. In truth, she just wanted to take a break in front of that axe. “What you really need to do is get Sicarius. He’s worth millions.”
“Naw, too dangerous. He’s a sincere killer.”
“He’s on the ship. It wouldn’t be hard to set something up.”
She had their full attention now. The axe was in reach, if she could just get a hand free.
“He trusts me,” she said. “I could easily set a trap. I wouldn’t dare go against him alone, but with help…”
“Maybe we could-” one of the soldiers started.
“No, don’t be stupid,” his comrade said. “Sicarius would kill us easier than spit.”
She twisted her neck to look behind them. “Then you’ll be concerned that he’s standing behind you.”
The soldiers’ eyes bulged, and they whirled about. She yanked her arms free. She grabbed the bucket and threw the sand just as they turned back and reached for her. Their arms flailed. They cursed as grit pelted their eyes.
Amaranthe snatched the axe and swung at the closest soldier. She turned her wrists and struck with the flat of the blade. It thudded against the man’s head. As he dropped, she tore his cutlass free. He struck the floor and clutched at his head, oblivious. She released the axe in favor of the lighter weapon.
The other soldier recovered from the sand barrage and unsheathed his own blade as well as his pistol. He opened his mouth, but she did not have time for conversation now. She sidestepped and kicked the pistol out of his grip.
Cutlass leading, she lunged and slashed, hoping to catch him by surprise. As a soldier, he would have had hours of drills pounded into him, though, and he parried easily. Reluctantly, she settled in for the obligatory exchange where they gauged each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Someone could turn down the corridor any moment, and now that she was armed, soldiers would not be her allies.
His cutlass flashed toward her head. She recognized the feint-even with his greater arm length, his lunge would not bring him close-and only dropped her own blade in anticipation of a second attack. Steel screeched as cutlasses met before her thigh.
She used the momentum of the rebound to riposte, flicking at his wrist. A line of blood appeared in his flesh.
Though the small wound could not have hurt much, his eyes flickered with surprise. It was too small a victory to celebrate triumph, but first blood was often enough to rattle an opponent.
Attacking with more care, the soldier pressed her with additional strikes. He had reach and strength, but she had sparred often with Sicarius. Parrying his lightning strikes made everyone else’s blade thrusts seem molasses-like.
The soldier was careful not to leave himself open, and she parried and gave ground, studying him, waiting for an advantage. He cycled through a handful of combination attacks, and they soon became predictable.
Someone moved behind him, and she winced. Amaranthe had to finish this before the second soldier got back into the fray.
When the high slash toward her head came again, she was ready before he fully launched it. She ducked, tossing out a parry in case his blade came down, and darted in close. She sliced her cutlass against his ribcage, even as she continued past and came out behind him.
He grunted with pain and started to turn toward her, but she launched a sidekick that could have busted down a door. His boots left the ground as he sailed backward. His head struck one of the hanging lanterns. It broke, and he went down amongst shattering glass.
Amaranthe whirled, expecting the second soldier. The black-clad figure standing before her was no soldier though.
“I trust you, and you could easily set a trap for me?” Sicarius held out her short sword, eyebrows arched.
She grinned. “Even these two shrubs weren’t buying that. They must know you sleep with your knives.”
She dropped the cutlass, belted on the familiar blade, and glanced around him at the second soldier. The prone man was more unconscious than she had left him; she hoped he was not dead.
Amaranthe knelt to truss her soldier, intending to use his bootlaces to bind ankles and wrists.
“Don’t bother,” Sicarius said. “We have to go. Now.”
“Why? Did you find the-”
“The engineers are dead, the safety valves on all four boilers have been tampered with, and the Kendorian is down there shoveling coal into the furnaces.”
Amaranthe stared. “Why didn’t you-”
“There’s a trap at the door. I watched two soldiers run in and get incinerated by flames. There’s no way into the boiler room right now.”
“Show me.” Amaranthe started past him, heading for the closest ladder, but he gripped her elbow.
“This isn’t worth risking your life for,” Sicarius said.
She turned and looked him in the eyes. “Hundreds will die if this ship explodes. And what happens if the city can’t import food for the rest of the winter? There are a million people in the capital. Local stores aren’t enough to feed everyone.” Again, she tried to step toward the ladder, but he did not release her. She might as well have been bound by steel.
“We’ll survive.”
A frustrated rant leapt to her lips, but, cursed ancestors, there was no time for arguing. He said so himself. Grasping for calm, she spoke evenly: “Let me go.”
Even now, his face was unreadable. Only those dark eyes held extra intensity. A heartbeat passed-it seemed like hours-and he released her.
Amaranthe sprinted for the ladder. Ignoring the rungs, she slid down to the bottom of the ship. Heat bathed her as she stepped into the corridor. She expected to run into crew and soldiers, but the lanterns on the walls illuminated an empty passageway.
The chugging and clanking of machinery led her to the engine room. At the hatchway, she passed the first body: a man in a gray engineer’s smock, throat cut, his blood pooled on the deck.
Nine-tenths of the crew did not know there was a problem; the other tenth was dead. Great.
She raced through the engine room, a jungle of colored pipes, gauges, and machinery. A railing surrounded the churning pistons of the engine. More corpses clogged the twisting walkways.
Two blackened bodies blocked the hatchway leading to the boiler room. Only the dead men’s boots, which stuck out toward Amaranthe, had not been marked. Such intense fire had charred their clothing and features that little more than melted lumps remained. The smell of roasted flesh rose above the odors of machine oil and burning coal.
A hand landed on her shoulder. She jumped, but it was only Sicarius. He did not say anything, but she would have had trouble hearing over the machinery anyway.