CHAPTER 24

Flint rasped against steel, spraying sparks onto the thin undershirt Books had been wearing beneath the diving suit. Now it was serving duty as a fire starter since the shaman had not been considerate enough to leave matches and tinder along with the wood. The shirt worked, and he soon had flames crackling in the tunnel borer’s firebox. A cool draft stirred gooseflesh on his bare arms, but a garment was worth giving up if it meant flooding the lair and perhaps destroying the rest of the shaman’s cursed projects.

With his back to the cavern, and the open furnace door blocking his view, he was in a poor position to monitor the exits. An uneasy feeling whispered across the back of his neck. He turned his head, expecting to find the shaman watching.

He did have a visitor, but not a human one. One of the tiny spiders observed from the tunnel leading to the higher levels. As soon as he spotted it, the creature scurried off.

Books clenched a fist. He might have fooled it before, but it would not fail to report his escape this time.

He sprinted across the cavern. With legs much longer than the spider’s, he had little trouble catching up. Before wiser thoughts could stop him, he jumped and stomped on the device.

Shards of metal tinkled against the rock walls. Books lifted his boot. In his enthusiasm—or perhaps desperation was the better word—he had smashed the thing to bits. Good.

He ran back to the cavern. It would take time for the water in the boiler to heat enough to produce steam to power the vehicle.

Books tried to work calmly and efficiently as he stoked the fire, but he could not keep from glancing at the tunnel entrance every few seconds. His expectations were answered.

A heavy clank, clank, clank echoed from the passage.

Books ticked the gauge on the boiler. It was close but not ready. No choice. He threw more wood on the fire and climbed over the borer’s treads and into the cab. The number of levers daunted him, especially considering how little time he had to figure out how to drive the vehicle.

Something metallic glinted in the mouth of the tunnel.

Books threw a lever. In front of the cab, a great rotating cylinder started to spin.

“Forward,” he muttered. “How do we move this thing forward?”

A massive cast iron creature clomped out of the passage, scraping rock and dirt off the sides with its broad body. Though reminiscent of the small spider Books had squished, this mechanical beast had more features. Such as fangs.

Black, iron teeth as long as his forearm gnashed together in a protruding jaw shaped like a dog’s snout. Not two but six eyes glowed above that snout. Each of the eight legs below its bulky carapace had the heft of a pillar. Twin arms stuck out of the front, and crab-like pincers snapped. Steel razors gleamed, reflecting the light from the wall orbs. Without hesitation, the great spider clanked toward Books.

He tried another lever.

The tunnel borer lurched forward. Surprised, Books tipped backward, ramming his naked shoulder blades against unforgiving metal.

On the gauge, the needle wobbled beneath the ready mark, but Books had no choice. He set himself and pushed the lever to maximum. The borer picked up speed.

He chose one of two paired levers, figuring they must be for steering. His first try angled the machine into the wall. He lurched, nearly thrown back again. Pulverized stone flew, pelting the cab, and the noisy grinding drowned out the spider’s approach.

Books pulled the other lever, and the borer veered away from the wall. He steadied the machine and drove it toward the spider. He curled his lips in a grimace of anticipation, anticipation that this might be messy. For him. The drills could handle rock, but what about cast iron? Cast iron possibly enhanced with magic?

Maybe he should wheel the borer around and try to outrun the spider to the pump room. If he could destroy the machinery before—

No time. The spider snapped its jaws and increased its speed, lunging like a wolf.

At the last second, Books hurled himself from the cab.

Metal screeched and squealed. He rolled away, arms sheltering his head. Shrapnel hammered the rock all around him and splashed into the pool. A fist-sized chunk slammed into his naked shoulder. Warm blood flowed down his arm.

Grinding noises and the smell of scorched metal filled the cavern. Books lifted his head and opened an eye.

The borer had crunched into the carapace of the spider, leaving a massive concave dent. The snout and pincers were missing, fallen to mingle with wreckage from the vehicle: shards of metal and broken drill bits. The construct was not dead yet though. It wobbled to the side as the borer, despite a snapped tread, continued to advance.

Books jumped to his feet and sprinted back to his vehicle. He ducked his head to avoid the newly warped frame of the cab and grabbed the levers, turning the machine to angle for the spider again. Even damaged it might be able to hobble back up to deliver a message to the shaman.

He braced himself and rammed the construct again. The collision jolted him, but he hung on. He pushed the spider before him, steering it toward the pool.

Even headless and eyeless, the creature seemed to sense its trouble for it tried to shamble sideways. Books kept it pinned and pushed it ruthlessly over the tracks and into the water. Once it was immersed to its carapace, he backed up and rammed it again. After three heavy jolts, it finally stopped moving. It slumped, smoke pouring from cracks in its seams.

Books backed the borer away. A cloud of black smoke swallowed the cab and made him cough. His own exhaust. Operating a steam vehicle in closed confines was probably not wise, but he did not plan to linger.

He veered toward the lower tunnel. The borer limped and lurched, and metal rattled with each chug of the pistons. He held his breath, not positive it would fit into the passage without having to drill, a task it was no longer fit for.

The borer knocked a few stones loose, but it squeezed into the tunnel. It smashed light orbs on the walls, causing blinding flashes that made Books’s head ache. When he made it to the smaller cavern, he aimed for the pumping machinery with single-minded intent. He enticed every bit of speed he could get from the borer as it plowed into the deeper water.

Again, Books jumped free before the crash. This time he expected the screech of metal and the flying parts, but something heavy fell on him from above.

He staggered and lost his balance. He tried to catch himself, but the weight drove him down, forcing his face into the water. Not metal but a hand pressed on his back.

Shocked, Books spun onto his back and kicked out with his legs. His boots collided with flesh. He struggled to lift his head out of the water, but a solid grip held him. Water flooded his nose, burning his nostrils. He grabbed his assailant.

A shout sounded, distorted by the water. The hands let go.

Books came up sputtering—and swinging. His fist smashed into someone’s abdomen. Water streamed into his eyes, but he glimpsed his opponent grunting and bending over. From his knees, Books drew his arm back for another blow.

“Books!” a familiar voice cried.

Books froze. He dashed water out of his eyes and gaped at the array of men before him. Basilard, Akstyr, and—

“Emperor’s balls, Booksie, haven’t we told you not to wander around with your shirt off?” Maldynado asked, a hand to his stomach. “Nobody wants to look at that hairy rug of yours.”

Books groaned and climbed to his feet. “Good to see you too, you fodder-for-brains ignoramus.” He peered about, confused as to where they had come from, then gazed up at the shaft. A rope dangled from the shadows. “You climbed down here?”

“We’re here to rescue you,” Akstyr said.

It was an obvious statement, but Books found himself surprised by it—by their presence here. That they actually cared enough to climb down that long shaft, risking a drop to their deaths, to get him…

“Though it looks like you started without us.” Maldynado pointed at the smoking borer and the smashed pumps. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had a knack for destroying things.”

“You should see the spider,” Books muttered. “Where’s Amaranthe? Is she…doing all right?”

“Uhm.” Maldynado traded uncertain looks with Basilard and Akstyr.

“She’s not…” Books swallowed.

“Dead?” Maldynado asked. “No, no. At least, she wasn’t when we parted ways, but she…”

“Has an infection I couldn’t cure,” Akstyr said. “So she’s going to ask the shaman to heal her.”

“Ask the shaman?” Books stared at them. “You did tell her he’s the villain, right?”

“She has a plan,” Maldynado said.

“Her plan is walking in with Sicarius and asking the shaman for help? That’s not up to her usual creativity level.”

“Actually, Sicarius isn’t with her.”

Books spent more time staring, then said, “Tell me what’s going on.”

They plodded out of the water while Maldynado shared the past day and a half’s events and detailed as much of the overall plan as he grasped. Books had a feeling he was missing some insight into Amaranthe’s thoughts, but, either way, the scheme did not sound promising.

“Let’s go help her,” Books said. “Anyone bring me a weapon?”

“We figured you could just run in bare-chested,” Maldynado said, “and the shaman would think you were some sort of deranged furry predator and flee the other way.”

Akstyr snickered. Basilard lifted his hands and mimicked a roaring bear.

“I’ll take that for a no,” Books said. Had he actually been feeling grateful that these louts came to rescue him? It had been far more peaceful with the malevolent machines. “This way. Follow me.”

“You got it, Booksie.”

•  •  •  •  •

An hour after the men left, Amaranthe headed up the hill toward the mine. A damp breeze tugged at her clothing, and the hem of her jacket flapped against her thighs. The noise did not matter, she reminded herself. She was not trying to sneak in.

The mechanical sentries waited, unmoving, on either side of the tunnel entrance. Their red eyes stared outward, burning into the night. Moisture gleamed on their metal shoulders. She supposed it was too optimistic to hope the rain had rusted the constructs’ innards, and they would fall over when they tried to stop her.

Amaranthe approached slowly with her arms away from her sides. She had a knife tucked into her boot, but otherwise carried no weapons.

When she closed to within ten steps, the constructs stepped forward as one to block her route into the mine. Each lifted a right arm, and gleaming harpoon heads pointed at her chest.

“I need to see your…” Boss? Creator? The Mad Shaman who had crafted them? She was not sure what title they might understand. She settled on, “Maker.”

They stared at her, inhuman eyes searing holes into her chest. At least the constructs were not shooting. Cold inhuman stares she could deal with. Thanks to Sicarius, she had all sorts of practice. She pushed him out of her thoughts.

“I have information your master will be interested in.” Or so she hoped.

One construct returned to its place beside the entrance while the other rotated and strode into the mine.

“Uhm?” Amaranthe pointed at its back. “Am I supposed to follow?”

The remaining construct did not move. She shrugged and eased past it. It did not halt her.

“Guess I’m invited in.”

Small, white globes hanging on support posts lighted the way. An ore cart track ran down the center of a rough-hewn tunnel high enough for the ten-foot-tall construct to walk without hunching. If it could hunch. Its broad, barrel chest did scrape the walls from time to time, causing a trickle of dirt to crumble free.

Other dark passages veered away at points, but her guide continued down the main, lighted tunnel. It sloped downward, and Amaranthe soon lost sight of the entrance. Eventually they turned into a side tunnel that dead-ended at a shiny copper door. It reflected the construct’s crimson eyes.

When several heartbeats passed with nothing happening, Amaranthe edged closer. Maybe she was expected to knock.

She lifted a hand. Before she touched the copper, the door swung open silently. Amaranthe followed the construct into a long rectangular space that resembled a room more than a cave. A room filled with workbenches and machines.

A row of sleek, metallic creatures stretched along one long wall. Some were bipedal, some animal-shaped, and some vehicular, though none had the size or mass of a steam carriage or lorry. They must have been built to navigate these tunnels. Tables, shelves, and desks lined the opposite wall. They housed a variety of smaller devices, some with glowing orbs. How many of those contraptions were weapons? Was this some stockpile that could be used against the empire?

Busy gaping at the devices, Amaranthe almost missed the blond man leaning against a desk near the far end of the room. He wore factory-weave wool garments and practical boots typical of the style sold in Stumps. If not for his long blond hair and fair skin, he might have passed for an imperial citizen.

“Have you come to bargain for your man’s life?” the shaman asked.

“Actually, I came to bargain for medical attention,” Amaranthe said. “Your monsters tried to lunch on my insides, and it appears they didn’t wash their paws before dining.”

His eye twitched when she called them his monsters.

“Though I’m pleased to know Books is alive,” Amaranthe said. “Thank you for that.”

He snorted. “I didn’t spare him for you. Where is the assassin? Mounting a rescue while you distract me?”

“Rescue? Sicarius? He’s not that sort. Get yourself captured, and he’ll be the first to let you know you were an idiot for not paying attention. He’ll leave it in your hands to escape—or not. Good training or the last lesson you’ll ever learn.” She wished she was lying, but after Sicarius’s words outside, the statements were easy to make.

“Where is he? I want him.” The shaman walked to the wall and placed a hand on a black metal machine that seemed inspired by spiked maces and flails.

Amaranthe leaned against the closest workbench. Usually she enjoyed talking to people, even the dastardly types who teamed up with the other side, but weariness dragged at her muscles. She would love to lie down somewhere.

“Listen, Mister…?”

“Tarok.”

“All right, Mister Tarok. I’m told I’m going to die if someone with magic fingers doesn’t tend me. I’m willing to do…quite a lot to ensure I wake up tomorrow. Sicarius has been a useful member of my team when he’s bothered to do what we want him to, but life is life. I can tell you where he is if you help me.”

“Perhaps—” Tarok strolled her direction, hands clasped behind his back, “—if I take you prisoner, he’ll come to visit me. You’re much prettier than the man.”

Amaranthe rubbed her face. “As you said, he’s an assassin. This is not the sort of person to develop attachments to others. He doesn’t care about people beyond their ability to be useful to him. He’s not going to rescue Books, me, or anyone else.”

Tarok stopped and studied her, a crinkle to his brow. She was surprised he was having trouble believing this. Most people who had met Sicarius, or heard about him in passing, assumed this to be the case.

“I can tell you where he is,” Amaranthe repeated. “I’ll even take you to him, but I’ll need some magicky medical attention to be fit for the climb.”

“Magicky.”

“We don’t have a lot of words to describe magic in Turgonian.”

He grunted. “On that you don’t lie. You’re ignorant barbarians. I pity you.”

“Do you pity me enough to heal me?”

“Heal you? You’ve been a wart on my toe since you stumbled onto their plot. Your man nearly destroyed the amaskort beyond repair.”

She did not like that he said “nearly.” If there was hope to fix that thing…

“You can’t blame me for that,” Amaranthe said. “You’re harming imperial citizens, and my group works for the emperor.”

Tarok’s blond eyebrows arched.

“Sort of,” she amended. “The emperor doesn’t actually know we work for him, but… It’s a long story. You’re Mangdorian, right? Doesn’t your religion posit the virtues of love for one’s fellow man? And, er, woman? Even if I wasn’t prepared to help you find Sicarius—which I am, remember—wouldn’t you find it a noble choice to heal me?”

She watched his face, trying to determine if he was buying any of her spiel. His lip curled in a sneer. Guess not.

“Have you forsaken your people and your religion then?” Amaranthe asked. “You must have if you’re willing to build devices that can murder people from a distance. And collars to capture horrible creatures that’ll do the same up close.”

His sneer faded. “You are right about our religion, and I would not have chosen to create devices that kill of my own volition. But sometimes…a great good, a victory for a nation, outweighs lesser evils.”

“And you believe that victory is killing Sicarius?” Amaranthe asked.

Tarok lifted his chin. “I will bring his head to my people just as he took the heads of our beloved rulers. That will inspire them, show them that we do have the power to take back what was once ours.”

“If what you want is Sicarius’s head, why the plot against the city?”

“My cooperation in this matter was the price for information about Sicarius. All the information I would need to thwart him.”

Amaranthe wondered what else those spies had pulled out of the files in Imperial Intelligence. “Well, I was kind enough to bring him to your mountain, so there’s no need for you to continue working with Forge.”

Since she did not know for certain Forge was the group behind everything, she watched him to see if he would deny association with the organization. He did not.

“As far as thwarting Sicarius goes…” Amaranthe nodded at the constructs along the wall. “You appear to be set for a battle.”

“You’re trying too hard to get me to go after him,” he said. “You’re attempting to lure me into a trap.”

She offered her best who-me expression, then said, “No, I’m trying to live. Nobody else around here is qualified to help me.”

“Unfortunate for you.” He resumed his stroll toward her. “Do you know what your assassin did to my people?”

When she had said “your monsters,” it had bothered him, and his word choice now bothered her. She did feel responsible for Sicarius, since she had chosen to employ him. “I was a child myself then,” was all she could say. “He answered to another.”

“Your emperor, I know.”

“Who told you? Forge?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Amaranthe said. “Their motivations aren’t pure. They would’ve only given you that information because they wanted something.” She nodded toward the machines.

“It doesn’t matter. They had something I wanted in return.”

He stopped two paces away from her, and she considered going for her knife.

“And you have something I want,” he said. “The assassin’s location.”

The intensity of his gaze had increased, and Amaranthe took a step back. “I already told you I’d trade you that information for my health.”

“Yes, but I can find out where he is without healing you. And, unlike what your lips are telling me, I’m sure what’s in your mind will be truth.”

“In my…mind?”

He lifted a hand toward her temple.

Amaranthe jumped back, gritting her teeth against a stab of pain from her wounds, and yanked her boot knife free. The shaman waved a hand. Heat flared from the handle, searing her palm.

Cursing, she dropped the knife and backed farther—or tried to. Her shoulders rammed against unyielding metal. Something vise-like clamped down on her shoulder.

Amaranthe twisted and tried to lunge away, but the grip held her fast. She craned her neck to see her captor. One of the humanoid constructs had left the wall and rolled behind her on wheels. She cursed herself for not hearing or sensing its approach.

Tarok grabbed her wrist with one hand and reached for her forehead with the other. She kicked him in the groin.

He staggered back and hunched over. Again Amaranthe tried to yank away. Scabs tore beneath her bandages, and agony seared her torso. She gasped, nearly pitching to her knees. In the end, her efforts were for naught: the construct merely tightened its grip.

Teeth bared, the shaman glowered at her. “Down.”

The machine forced her to her knees, and she had no answer for its power. Tarok’s hand came in again, and Amaranthe could not dodge or kick from her position.

At first, she noticed the cool, dry presence of his palm against her hot skin. Then all she was aware of was the fact that she was not alone in her head any more. Memories came unbidden to her mind. The battle on top of the dam, Sicarius’s shooting of the shaman in the canyon, his last conversation with her outside the mine.

As the shaman dug deeper, Amaranthe tried to fight him. She drove her thoughts in directions she hoped would be useless. Old homework assignments, the enforcer training manual, the—

Pain ripped through her mind, and she gasped, back arched. Tarok squashed her attempts at distraction and barreled back to Sicarius with dogged tenacity. He drew everything up from the last few days, and Amaranthe struggled to keep tears of defeat from burning her eyes. Not only would he not heal her, but she would lay Sicarius’s secrets at his feet.

For a moment, the shaman’s presence faded, and she hoped he had enough, that he would not keep going, but his hand did not leave her forehead. He merely turned toward a machine she had not noticed approach. It was the barrel-chested construct that had guided her into the tunnels.

“Deal with them,” Tarok told it, “and return to me. Take those ten.”

With her mind a jumble, Amaranthe could barely think. Only when several constructs ambled past and into the tunnel did she realize: her team had been discovered.

“It seems you are the distraction while your men break in,” the shaman said. “It won’t matter.”

Amaranthe wanted to voice a cocky retort, but her mind was working too slowly. Her stomach churned. Maybe if she smothered his boots with vomit that would annoy him as much as a cocky retort. It did not sound nearly as brave.

His touch grew firmer against her forehead, and he entered her mind again. He ripped into her thoughts, stealing everything.