Blood and Betrayal (38 page)

Ah, the severed head thing again. Amaranthe chose not to imagine
that
scenario.

“Do you want to scout around when we get to town?” Amaranthe asked. “See if you can find sign of the party’s passing, in your own assassinly way? Meanwhile, I’ll look for someone who will chat with me about the weather, the crops, and if they’ve seen any strangers wander through recently.”

“I will stay with you,” Sicarius said.

“That’s not necessary.”

“You find trouble when you
chat
.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His grunt said more than his words ever did.

Again, Amaranthe didn’t mind that he wanted to stay with her, but she hoped he wasn’t going to develop a permanent over-protective streak. Maybe he simply sensed that she wasn’t comfortable in her skin just then.

They reached the shoreline where the road branched to go separate ways around the lake. Signposts proclaimed the right headed north, to Sunders City and Armelion—the name for Stumps that nobody except cartographers and sign-makers used. To the left, Markworth was visible through the trees. Docks of all sizes and a few buildings, none more than two stories tall, lined the bank.

Along the lake, more traffic traversed the road, if one could call old, dented bicycles and mule-pulled wood carts traffic. The passing people wore homespun cotton and wool clothes in utilitarian styles. Amaranthe’s purloined military fatigues, with the cuffs rolled up, drew more than a few second glances, or maybe it was the rifle she carried. Even if it wasn’t forbidden for citizens to own firearms in rural areas, the way it was in Stumps, women certainly didn’t tote such things about in the empire. Not women who didn’t want to be gawked at and forced to answer questions, anyway.

“I may need to acquire a costume to better fit in.” Amaranthe handed Sicarius the rifle. The sleek, repeating weapon would draw looks no matter who toted it, but it fit him more. “Right now I look like… ” She eyed her oversized, wrinkled, blood—and dirt-stained clothes.

“Someone who fought with a soldier and stole his garments?” Sicarius suggested.

“Someone who fought
poorly
with a soldier and stole his garments. Either way, I’d prefer not to be the topic of the chats I intend to have with folks.”

“I will find something.” Sicarius took a step toward the woods, no doubt already having someone’s clothesline in mind.

“Farmer-ish, I think,” Amaranthe said. “Maybe a straw hat too. In fact… ”

He stopped, a hint of wariness on his otherwise expressionless face.

“If you’re going to stick with me, maybe we should have you reprise your role as Pa, the farm dis-ci-pli-nar-i-an.” Amaranthe smiled. “I’ll be Ma. Rural accent and everything.”

Sicarius stared at her.

“It’s not too late to change your mind and scout about from the shadows,” she said.

Sicarius sighed. “You want me to acquire two farmer costumes.”

“And two hats.” Amaranthe winked, but then blurted, “Wait,” as a new thought occurred. “Maybe not. I forgot how I look.” She pointed at her face and neck to indicate the bruises. “We better not make you my husband. People will think you, uhm, you know.”

“Beating your wife is not illegal out here.”

That didn’t surprise Amaranthe—laws against striking wives and children had only been on the books for twenty years in Stumps, a change lobbied for by one of the early female entrepreneurs—but that wasn’t her reason for bringing it up. “Lovely fact, but I don’t want people to believe
you’d
do it. They’ll think you’re an… ” She decided not to use any of the epithets that came to mind.

Sicarius’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Does it matter?”

Given the number of people he’d killed in his life, being upset over the notion of spousal abuse might be silly, but Amaranthe lifted her chin and said, “It does to me.”

“Propose an alternative.”

“All right, you can be… ” Amaranthe grinned as a new idea came to her. “You can be the handsome stranger who was passing through the rural village where I live with my brutal husband. It was an arranged marriage, of course, thanks to my parents being disillusioned with my adventurous streak and wishing to force me to settle down, for my own good. But
you
came along and saw how poorly… Millic, yes,
Mean
Millic was treating me, and you stepped in, giving him a taste of his own… fist.” Amaranthe smacked hers into her open palm for emphasis. “You promised to show me the world if I ran away with you—” she stretched her arm toward the horizon beyond the far side of the lake, “—and I, being left breathless by your ardor, naturally threw myself into your arms and agreed wholeheartedly.”

It was amazing that a man could wear such a bland expression in the face of such infectious enthusiasm. Amaranthe thought it was infectious anyway. Sicarius merely looked at her forehead for a moment before meeting her eyes again.

“What?” Amaranthe asked.

“Do you house a mental filing cabinet full of ideas in there, or do you come up with all of them on the spot?”

“Yes.” Amaranthe grinned, delighted to use his own question-answering strategy against him. “Now, do you agree to play the role, or not?”

Sicarius lifted a hand in acceptance—or resignation—and resumed his walk toward the woods. He paused before slipping into the trees. “What sort of costume does a ‘handsome stranger’ require?”

Amaranthe almost told him he was wearing it, but his black was too signature Sicarius. Even down here, they might run into someone who had seen his wanted poster. She ought to give him honest advice, but she couldn’t help but smirk and say, “Yellow or orange. Floral, perhaps.”

The unwavering—and un-amused—stare he gave her implied he did not find her suggestion helpful.

“Just get something different from what you usually wear,” Amaranthe said as he strode into the woods.

•  •  •

The wise thing to do would be to wait for Sicarius to return with costumes, but enough people were passing along the road that Amaranthe felt conspicuous standing there in the grimy fatigues. She slipped between a few trees and down to the beach, figuring she could be useful and search for a rowboat they could borrow if necessary. Sicarius would have no trouble following her trail.

A few green islands of various sizes dotted the blue water, though Amaranthe couldn’t begin to see all seventy-three. If she remembered her useless trivia correctly, the lake had been given its unimaginative name not only because of the number of islands but because it was a seventy-three mile walk around it. On maps, it appeared long and narrow with more bends than a drunken snake.

Surprised there weren’t any fishing boats out on the water or anglers on the shore, Amaranthe tried to remember if some imperial holiday had been looming. The town seemed quiet, too, what she could see of it.

“Off season,” she supposed, though, now that her mind had started to ponder oddities, she realized all the people who had passed her on the road had been on the quiet, even glum, side. Sicarius’s presence often deterred conversations, but even after he’d disappeared, nobody had stopped to ask who she was and why she wore oversized men’s clothing. It had been some time since she’d seen a newspaper. She hoped nothing had happened back in the capital.

“Don’t give yourself extra reasons to worry,” Amaranthe commanded herself. As usual, herself wasn’t good at taking orders.

She followed the shoreline past a couple of cabins, then picked her way down to a sandy beach, intending to fill her canteen and wash up. When she dipped her hand in, she let out a surprised mew. It was warm. Not steaming, like the public baths in the city, but warm enough to invite one in for a dip on a cool day.

“A bath, now there’s an appealing thought.”

Amaranthe supposed the spot was a tad public for disrobing—she hadn’t come
that
far from the road—and, besides, Sicarius would return soon. If she were going to set the stage for him to accidentally wander in on her bath, she’d make sure she was looking vibrantly sensuous rather than wanly bruise-covered.

Still, Amaranthe found herself looking up and down the beach for witnesses, thinking she might get away with a quick dip. The sight of industrial-sized piers and a wooden warehouse perching waterside disavowed her of the thought. Though she didn’t see anyone outside, it looked like a place of business, something that would be occupied during mid-morning. What type of something she didn’t know. Not a cannery, she didn’t think, and there were no boats tied, though a dark dome nestled in the water between two piers. She couldn’t tell what it was.

As long as she was waiting, why not check it out?

Amaranthe had gone less than ten meters down the beach when a “No trespassing” sign came into view. The fine print at the bottom piqued her curiosity. “Barcrest Military Academy Research Center.” Disobeying the sign might not be a good idea, but she wanted to know what that dome was. For some odd reason, black objects had developed a tendency to bestir wariness within her.

Amaranthe strolled down the beach, hands clasped behind her back. She kept her face down, as if she were picking a careful way along, oblivious to her surroundings, but she surreptitiously watched her surroundings. Though the sign hadn’t promised trespassers would be shot, as other signs she’d encountered had, one never knew with military facilities.

She reached the piers without seeing anyone. Water lapped at the black dome. She still couldn’t identify it, though she was close enough to see that it was simply iron that had been painted black, not another piece of ancient technology. Some upturned boat? No, a handle and hinges protruded from the top. Huh.

When Amaranthe reached the base of the first pier, more of the body came into view in the clear, shallow water. An entire sphere lay beneath the surface, supported by caterpillar treads resting on pebbles below. Two sets of varying-length articulating arms stretched out from either side of a glass porthole in the front of the craft. The entire structure was no more than six or eight feet in diameter and might have room for two people to sit inside.

Amaranthe envisioned herself and Sicarius cruising around the lake, checking out the islands. After another glance about to ensure she didn’t have company, she hopped onto the curved hull and tugged at the hatch. Locked. She returned to land and headed toward the building, hoping she’d find it abandoned with a set of keys hanging somewhere accessible.

The windows were too high off the ground to peek through unless one happened to climb the firewood conveniently stacked at one end of the structure. Amaranthe scrambled up the log pile and found glass panes so dirty they served as a greater deterrent to spying than the no-trespassing sign.

Copious amounts of spit and sleeve wiping created a peephole. The diffused sunlight struggling to pierce the windows didn’t brighten the dim interior much, but she made out piping and pumping equipment in one corner, along with rows and rows of objects in display cases. Each one housed small collections or single specimens of… She squinted. Fish? Eels? Maybe the facility was simply there to research the local flora and fauna. By why would a military academy care about—

The grass rustled with the sound of footsteps.

Amaranthe spun and hopped from the woodpile, hoping she could flee around the corner before anyone saw her.

But
anyone
was already there, standing a few feet away and holding a musket.

“The sign said no trespassing,” the man said, his voice rougher than the pockmarked skin on his face. Though young, he already had lines etched at the corners of his mouth, probably from glowering often. The way he was now.

“Did it?” Amaranthe asked, mustering her most innocent expression. “I didn’t see it.”

“Them.”

“Pardon?”

“
Them
. The signs. There are fifteen or twenty around the property.”

“Oh.” Amaranthe smiled. The fellow didn’t look like the type to be impressed by her smile, but at least he hadn’t shot her yet. That was something to feel cheerful about. “Do you work here? Doing research?”

His thick eyebrows drew together, forming a V. “What did I say that could possibly be construed as an invitation to ask questions?”

“When you didn’t shoot me, it was assumed. I’m the curious sort. Aren’t you? You must be if you’re collecting all those specimens in there.” Amaranthe hoped her chatting—burbling, Sicarius would call it—made her seem innocent and innocuous. “Is that what the underwater cart is for?”

The man’s head drew back. “
Cart?
”

“Yes, that black ball on the treads.”

“Woman, that is a UWMTV, a research vessel equipped with the latest imperial technology for underwater maneuverability. A sophisticated wind-up mechanism allows one to turn human energy into ten times the amount of stored energy, sufficient to propel the craft around the lake shallows. It has dual-articulating arms with mechanical hands, suitable for gripping and clipping foliage or scraping samples into bottles. A shock stick holds an electric charge for stunning and collecting ambulatory specimens. It
can
be applied on nosey trespassers as well.” The man’s glower promised severe repercussions if Amaranthe dared to call it a “cart” again.

“That’s impressive,” Amaranthe said. “Can you truly power something so big with a clockwork mechanism? No furnaces and boilers?” She decided not to mention magic, as that would truly set this man on a rampage, and, from his pride, she could already tell nothing but imperial technology powered the vessel.

“That’s right.”

“How do you transfer the energy? Through a crank?”

His eyebrows rose. “I’m not going to give you instructions on how to steal it and crash it. That’s happened often enough already. Thrice-cursed kids.”

Amaranthe chuckled, though it was a nervous chuckle. After all, she
had
been thinking of stealing, er, borrowing it herself. “Is that the reason for the signs?”

He grumbled an affirmative under his breath. “Emperor knows, these rural clods wouldn’t be interested in our research.”