Conspiracy (The Emperor's Edge Book 4) Page 4

  Amaranthe cleared her throat as loudly as she dared. “So, your answer is, ‘Yes, we’re probably on the Archcrest Plantation.’”

  “Er, correct.”

  The workers raised the gate on the second lorry and dropped the flap, apparently finished unloading cargo. To Amaranthe’s surprise, the men who had been at the depot when the train first rolled in grabbed weapons and rucksacks and climbed into the rail car. Eight men in all. The last one pulled the rolling door shut from within.

  “That might not be good,” Amaranthe whispered.

  “Let’s hope they stay in that car and that the others are able to avoid them,” Books said.

  “Let’s hope they’re smart enough to avoid them.” Amaranthe knew Basilard would not be a problem, but Akstyr did have a tendency to make reckless choices now and then, and Maldynado would probably smirk and let him.

  “Would you be?” Books asked.

  Amaranthe frowned at him.

  “I simply meant that you’d probably want to spy on them for information,” Books said. “Stroll in and chat with them perhaps.”

  “Oh, please, I haven’t done anything that imprudent in ages.”

  “Hm.”

  “Two months at least,” Amaranthe amended. In part because of the lecture Books had given her that summer, she’d been trying to make more thoughtful, wiser choices when it came to dealing with the opposition. She did still have a tendency toward... impulsive actions. Like hopping off a perfectly good train in the middle of the night to—

  “They’re coming,” Books said.

  Amaranthe dropped to her belly, keeping her head just high enough to see over the rows of corn stubble. Books stretched out next to her.

  The first lorry was rolling away from the depot, and the remaining two men climbed into the cab of the second. Amaranthe eyed the cargo bed on the back vehicle. That’d be the most likely place to hop on and stow away.

  As the men were closing the doors, a shadow moved at the back of the second lorry. If Amaranthe hadn’t been staring right at the spot, she would have missed it, and, even so, it was gone so quickly she almost thought it her imagination, but she knew it wasn’t.

  Sicarius was aboard. Now it was time for her and Books to join him.

  The first lorry approached their position. Amaranthe lowered her head until dirt scraped at her chin. The vehicle bumped and rattled past on the weed-choked road without slowing. In fact, she was surprised—and concerned—with how fast the lorry was moving. Catching up and jumping aboard would be a challenge. She pressed her palms into the damp earth, ready to spring up as soon as the second vehicle drew even with her and Books.

  “Now,” Amaranthe whispered.

  She jumped to her feet, and, staying low, ran toward the road. The lorry rumbled forward, pulling away from them. As soon as Amaranthe’s boots hit the road, she straightened and turned her run into a sprint. Books’s boots pounded the earth right behind her. The lorry picked up speed. The weeds and ruts made for difficult running, and Amaranthe misstepped, almost twisting her ankle. Books passed her.

  Amaranthe urged her legs to greater speed. Her rucksack bumped on her back, thumping against her shoulders, but she gained ground.

  Books reached the lorry first. He reached out and caught the back gate with one hand. His jump was ungraceful, but he made it, disappearing beneath the tarp amidst a tangle of long legs.

  The road curved, and Amaranthe closed the distance. She reached out, fingertips brushing the cold metal gate. When the road straightened, the lorry picked up speed again and pulled away from her. The flap lifted, and Sicarius peered out.

  Cursed ancestors, she wasn’t going to fail in front of him, not when Books had made it. Amaranthe pumped her legs faster. She closed the distance and grasped at the gate again. This time, she caught the top with both hands. Holding on to the accelerating lorry turned her running strides into leaping bounds, barely held in control. Turning one of those bounds into a jump in order to thrust herself inside was a daunting task, especially with the rucksack’s weight on her back.

  If Amaranthe looked up and met Sicarius’s eyes, he would probably help her inside, but she mulishly set her jaw.

  She sprang and pulled at the same time. Her belly hammered the top of the gate, and her knee thumped unyielding metal. Growling, Amaranthe wriggled and pulled herself inside, possibly with less grace than Books had displayed.

  She collapsed, her back against the inside of the gate. The darkness in the cargo bed prevented her from seeing anything, though she could hear Books’s labored breathing. Or maybe that was her own. She hoped it wasn’t loud enough for the men in the cab to hear, or all this would be for naught. But the boiler and furnace were mounted between them and the cargo bed, so Amaranthe hoped that would offer noise insulation.

  “Are you all right?” Books whispered.

  “Of course,” Amaranthe replied. “I’m finally warm.”

  Books snorted.

  Someone settled beside her, shoulder to shoulder. Sicarius? Amaranthe surreptitiously wiped sweat from her brow and stomped down a goofy thought that popped into her mind. She was not going to ask him how she smelled now. Instead, she leaned her head on his shoulder, figuring it was best to rest while they could. Who knew what kind of adventure she had just signed her team up for?

  * * * * *

  The train had started up again, heading away from the isolated depot, and Akstyr was trying to get some sleep, but Maldynado kept climbing in and out through the trapdoor. More than once, hindered by the dark interior, he stepped on Akstyr with his big feet.

  “What’re you doing?” Akstyr finally asked.

  A hand covered his mouth, not Maldynado’s—Akstyr could see Maldynado dangling, legs halfway through the trapdoor. It had to be Basilard.

  Akstyr pushed the hand away and asked more softly, “What’re you doing? Both of you.”

  Maldynado dropped down again and slid the trapdoor shut, careful not to make any noise. The darkness inside the car thickened.

  “They’re done loading the train,” Maldynado said.

  “That usually happens before the train starts moving, yes,” Akstyr said. “Why don’t we all go back to sleep?”

  “They didn’t get off the train once they finished loading.”

  “They’re riding along with their guns? That’s not real surprising.”

  “I guess not.”

  Akstyr flopped back, throwing his arm over his eyes. “If they stay in their car, and we stay in ours, it shouldn’t matter.”

  “As long as we don’t stumble across each other.” Maldynado laughed. “Could be kind of awkward if one of us and one of them decide to hop up on top of the train at the same time to water the shrubs.”

  Akstyr rolled his eyes. Maldynado was at least ten years older than he was, but he didn’t act like it sometimes. It was like he was still a boy. Probably because he had grown up in some wealthy aristocrat’s house, not a backward street drowning in sewage where, if one didn’t pay attention, one got kidnapped and sold downriver to be enslaved in the boiler room on a steamer for years and years. Or worse. Akstyr had lost a friend with a pretty face to one of the slimy brothels in the ghetto where nobody cared if the kids were willing screws or not.

  The train picked up speed, leaving the depot far behind. Akstyr relaxed. Whenever Sicarius was gone, he felt more at ease, and, with Amaranthe gone too, he could plan his next move without worrying about—

  “We could check up on them,” Maldynado said.

  Akstyr sighed.

  “Maybe they’re in there, talking about their weapons and where they’re going,” Maldynado said. “I reckon the boss would like to have as much information as possible.”

  “Go check then. Me and Basilard will wait here.” Akstyr had no idea what Basilard wanted to do—it was impossible to talk to him in the dark—but he had more common sense than Maldynado, so he probably wouldn’t go hunting for trouble.

  “How is it that you command as large o
f a cut on payday as I do, when you only ever look out for yourself and your interests?” Maldynado asked.

  “I’ve got charms.”

  Maldynado snorted. “Sure, you do. That’s why you’re always asking me to find you women.”

  “I can get women without you.” Actually, Akstyr hadn’t had much success at that, but he’d never admit it.

  “Women with teeth?”

  “Maldynado, eat street.”

  “Uh huh, you’re about as charming as my hairy—”

  A clunk sounded outside, somewhere nearby, and Maldynado fell silent. Akstyr lifted his head. The men had been loading the weapons ten cars farther down the train. That noise had sounded much nearer.

  “Move away from the trapdoor,” Maldynado whispered. “Take your gear too.”

  Akstyr’s first thought was one of huffiness—who had put him in charge?—but a heavy thump sounded, this time almost above him, and he hurried to obey. Someone had to be walking along the tops of the cars, maybe jumping from one to the next. Another thump followed the first. Maybe two someones were up there walking.

  A whisper of cold air wafted down from the trapdoor. Maldynado had shut it most of the way, but a half an inch remained open.

  A surge of anxiety swept through Akstyr. What if the men saw the open door and shut it and locked it from the outside? The rolling side door was already locked. They’d be trapped down here, in this dark hole, with no way out.

  Relax, Akstyr told himself. He had the mental sciences. He might be a long way from reaching mastery at anything, but he could surely thwart a lock.

  The footsteps stopped. The trapdoor scraped open a few inches. Light glowed above the crack, then descended, and a brass lantern eased into view, flame dancing behind its dirty glass panes. Stubby fingers with dirt wedged beneath the nails held the handle. The tip of a rifle edged through the opening as well.

  The low roof forced Akstyr to crouch so deeply that his knees were bumping his chin and his head was brushing the ceiling, but he pressed himself against the wall, sucking his belly in and hugging the shadows the best he could. After hours in darkness, the light half-blinded him, but he didn’t see Maldynado or Basilard or anybody’s gear or blanket within the lantern’s sphere of influence. Though—Akstyr cringed—someone’s underwear lay draped across a bundle of poles near the wall.

  “See anything, Rov?” a man asked outside. “It’s a might suspicious that this here door ain’t secured.”

  Akstyr closed his eyes and concentrated on the flame. He didn’t know how to manipulate air or gases yet, so he couldn’t simply blow it out or suck all the oxygen from inside the lantern casing. He did know how to tie and cut things, thanks to that book Amaranthe had found him on healing. One had to do those things in the body sometimes.

  “Not sure.” The lantern dropped a few inches lower, bringing a hairy wrist inside with it. “There’s something over...”

  Akstyr formed a razor blade in his mind. It sliced through the lantern’s wick, extinguishing the flame.

  “Emperor’s bunions,” the voice growled. “You got a match?”

  “Yeah, you see anything?”

  “Some underwear, I think.”

  Akstyr sighed.

  “Underwear! What’ve we got, some hobos down there sodomizing each other?” The man laughed at his own joke.

  Akstyr’s thighs were starting to burn. If the men came down here, he was done hiding. He, Basilard, and Maldynado could take these idiots. Though, if a rifle went off, the rest of that gang might hear. And if Akstyr and the others were supposed to follow these people to their drop-off point without being seen... An out-and-out brawl with the entire force wasn’t exactly not being seen.

  Akstyr shook his head. He didn’t care. It wasn’t as if there was money riding on this job.

  The trapdoor scraped the rest of the way open. Light appeared again, then two figures dropped into the car, landing in crouches, their rifles raised.

  Akstyr focused on the closest man. More precisely, he focused on the lantern the man held, letting his eyelids droop as he concentrated. Just before the flame winked out, Basilard leaped out of the darkness on the far side of the car and barreled toward the intruders.

  Darkness fell, and Akstyr didn’t see what happened next, but the grunts of pain and sounds of flesh smacking against flesh told much. He pushed away from the wall, ready to jump into the fray, but the noises gave him little hint as to who was where.

  Something banged against Akstyr’s toe. He patted around and found a rifle. The scuffle died down before he’d done more than pick it up.

  “Akstyr, how about a light?” Maldynado asked from a few feet away. “It’s hard to tie people up in the dark.”

  “Why not just throw them from the train?” Akstyr asked, though he closed his eyes and pictured a ball of light in his head. Creating illumination with the mental sciences involved bending and enhancing existing light, sort of like putting a mirror behind a candle to increase its output, so it was hard to do anything in extremely dark conditions, but he’d learned a trick or two in studying illusions.

  “That might make more sense,” Maldynado said, “though the boss would probably be upset if we killed these thugs.”

  Akstyr stretched his thoughts out, bringing the light from his head to the air in front of him. A silvery ball the size of his fist blushed into existence. Since the trapdoor was still open, he kept the intensity low. It provided enough light to see Maldynado and Basilard, kneeling on the backs of the downed men, Basilard with a knife to one’s throat, Maldynado simply applying force to twist his foe’s arms into chicken wings. Though the intruders’ faces were scrunched up in pain, their eyes bulged when they spotted the otherworldly light.

  “Nobody has to tell her,” Akstyr said.

  Basilard frowned at him.

  “What?” Akstyr picked up a second rifle and admired the sleek barrel. He’d never seen anything like the loading mechanism. He thumbed open a latch, revealing a chamber that held a bullet, no, multiple bullets. “These are brilliant.”

  “I guess,” Maldynado said in response to something Basilard signed when Akstyr wasn’t looking. “It doesn’t make sense to risk ourselves, trying to keep them prisoner all the way back to the city.”

  The intruders’ eyes had been riveted to the light, but one started paying attention to Maldynado’s words, and concern crinkled his brow. “Listen, we’re just following orders. We wouldn’t have tossed you out at fifty miles an hour. That’s break-your-neck speed.”

  “Shut up, Rov,” the second man growled.

  “No, we like you chatty,” Maldynado said. “While your tongue is dancing, why don’t you tell us what you know about these weapons? Like who had them made, where they came from, and where they’re going.”

  “Eat street,” the more belligerent man said.

  That drew Akstyr’s attention, and he tore his gaze from the rifle. That saying was one common on the streets where he had grown up. Nobody had bothered putting the oldest section of the city on the sewer system, and people dumped piss pots out of their windows. Akstyr checked for gang brands on the men’s hands, but only dirt marked their skin.

  “Easy, Motty,” the more talkative man said. “They’ve got magic.” Some new thought must have entered his little brain, because his eyes bugged out even more. “They must have a witch!” Though he couldn’t move his head, not with Basilard’s knife to his neck, his buggy eyes darted about like marbles in a jar.

  Akstyr snorted. “There are male practitioners, you know.”

  Maldynado roughed Motty up for a minute, then said, “Listen, we can drop you from the train nicely, or you can go under the wheels. Tell us about those weapons, and I’ll make sure you live.”

  Blood trickled from Motty’s nose, but he managed a sneer. Since the notion of magic bothered both men, Akstyr formed an illusion, a knife similar to the solid black blade Sicarius carried. He eyed it critically as it floated in the air, thinking it could have appeared
to be more realistic—he would have to work on improving his artistic talents—but both men focused on it, their belligerence fading.

  “We don’t know who the guns are for,” Rov blurted. “We just got hired to deliver ’em. We weren’t told where they’re going, just to help unload them and do whatever the bloke waiting there wants.”

  “Who’s paying your salary?” Maldynado asked.

  Rov hesitated. Akstyr made blood drip down the knife and splash onto a box in front of the prisoners. Of course, there wouldn’t be any real moisture in the drops, but neither man was in a position to reach out and check.

  “Jo—Jovak!” Rov nearly swallowed his tongue in the rush to get the name out. “He’s the foreman in the factory. I don’t know who pays him or anything else, I swear it. The money’s real good, so we don’t ask questions. Beats thieving in the Buccaneers territory.”

  Huh, so they were from the streets. The Buccaneers had been a rival gang to Akstyr’s own Black Arrows, but it didn’t sound like these two were members, so that didn’t give him much of a clue as to who might be behind things.

  The knife and the light flickered, and he grimaced, refocusing his concentration. Even with simple illusions, one had to keep thinking about maintaining them, or they blinked out. Nobody seemed to notice.

  “This Jovak hired you?” Maldynado asked.

  “Yes, he’s the only one we’ve ever seen that’s in charge.”

  “That go for you too?” Maldynado shook his man.

  “Lick my sweaty balls, Dung-for-Brains.”

  “Oh, yes, this one’s definitely going under the wheels,” Maldynado said.

  Basilard smirked and managed to sign with one hand, I think he likes you.

  “He’s too ugly for my tastes,” Maldynado said. “Let’s get them out of here.”

  Akstyr extinguished his illusions and helped Basilard and Maldynado drag the prisoners onto the roof. Despite Maldynado’s threats, he didn’t throw anyone under the train, but he was none too gentle with chucking the surly one into the passing fields. He lowered Rov down more carefully, though both men tumbled away like empty cans hurtling down a cobblestone street in a windstorm. Their speed and the train’s own noise muted whatever yells they might have made.