Emperor's Edge Republic (63 page)

“The what?”

“The hotel exploded like a big fiery ball of naphtha,” Maldynado said.

Sespian swallowed. “Were... a lot of people in it?”

“Some,” Dak said, “but we warned everybody to get out before the bomb went off. Most did.”

“Bomb?”

“That’s my surmise. The fire brigade and the rest of my men will investigate when the flames are out.”

During the discussion, the corporal continued to fire. A few robed men jumped out of the cabs, but more seemed to be hunkering down, enduring the barrage. Or they were until a cry of “Look out!” came from two-dozen meters ahead.

The sky lit up in a white flash at the same time as another explosion roared, this one closer than the others. Sespian squinted and looked away. Debris rattled against the glass front of their lorry and clanked and thudded to the street all around them. Something smashed into the top of their cab and bounced off. Sespian gaped up at the dent in the roof, then, still gaping, watched as a tire thunked down beside them.

“That... wasn’t our cannonball, sir,” the corporal said.

The entire lorry on the right had disappeared, leaving nothing except a few pieces of twisted, smoldering metal in its wake. Sespian had no idea where the
rest
of the tires had gone.

“It was Father,” Mahliki cried, pointing to the warehouse, which, with the lorry gone, was now visible.

The wooden walls were singed and littered with holes, and beams had been knocked or burned down so the roof sagged in places, but the soldiers remained on top with their rifles. In addition, President Starcrest knelt in the back with some kind of hastily made apparatus for launching blasting sticks farther than a man could throw. The lorries that had been barricading the building from the other end of the street were also gone, with nothing except rubble where they had been.

“Watch it.” Dak gripped the back of the corporal’s seat. “He’s turning around.”

The remaining lorry on their side of the street was on the move—sort of. The tires wobbled—one was flat—and the whole vehicle looked like it could tip on its side at any moment. In addition to the flak from the explosion right next to it, it had been the recipient of more than one cannonball.

“Shall I fire again, sir?” the corporal asked.

Up on the rooftop, a soldier pointing at the lorry seemed to be asking the same question. President Starcrest lifted a staying hand and set down his apparatus.

“We’ve had enough blood here. Let him go,” Tikaya said, “so long as they aren’t preparing any parting shots.”

“How... would one know?” the corporal asked. “They’re wizards.”

“Someone raising a hand with flames dancing on his fingers will be a clue,” Mahliki said.

Sespian grimaced, their encounter with the fire-slinging practitioner fresh in his mind. Dak grabbed a rifle and raised it toward the driver’s seat—the vehicle had managed to turn around and clearly wanted to limp past them. He jumped out, and Sespian frowned at this countermanding of Tikaya’s and the president’s wishes.

The driver, the only person visible in the cab, ducked and tried to charge past them. His wobbly vehicle lurched into a pothole made by the explosions, and when the man swerved in the opposite direction, it went up on the curb. Metal squealed as the lorry raked against a brick wall. With the vehicle limping along at three miles an hour—and hitting everything in its path—Dak had no trouble jumping into the cab. He pointed the rifle at the driver and barked an order. Sespian couldn’t make out the words over the bangs and clunks of the vehicle. A moment later, the man stepped out, his hands clasped behind his head. He twisted his ankle on the uneven pavement and nearly pitched into a pothole himself. When he recovered, he trudged down the street away from the warehouse, his hands still locked behind his head, his gait as lopsided as the vehicle’s.

Dak searched the rest of the lorry, but nobody else remained. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and strode back to Sespian and the others. When he hopped into the cab, he met Tikaya’s inquiring frown without flinching.

“Those are
our
vehicles,” Dak said.

Maldynado looked at the lorry, which was currently parked half in the street and half on the curb, like Dak had just fought off the vultures for a particularly old piece of roadkill for the stewpot. “Would have been a shame to lose such a fine conveyance.”

“Rias can fix it,” Dak said.

“In his copious free time?” Sespian asked.

“He’s only in office for five years.” Dak waved at the vehicle—it had started smoking alarmingly from numerous orifices. “He’ll need hobbies to keep him busy after he retires.”

“Have I mentioned,” Tikaya asked, “that you’re not a very nice man, Colonel?”

“Not since the day before yesterday.” Dak prodded the corporal. “Take us over to that warehouse. I hope that blasted submarine has fared better than the rest of the vehicles on this street.”

“Me too,” Sespian murmured.

Mahliki came over to stand next to him and eyed his chest. Since he was covered in soot, blood, and grease, he doubted she was admiring his fashion sense—or his physique—but he wouldn’t have minded a feminine compliment.

“Do you still have the blasting sticks in your shirt?” she asked.

Not a compliment so much as a reminder about his foolish storage system. Sespian had left the one he had been about to light in the lorry—in fact, it had probably lent itself to that first stupendous explosion—but one did indeed remain nestled against his breast. He fished it out.

“Careful there, boy,” Maldynado said. “Sicarius put a lot of effort into keeping you alive against all those villains trying to oust you. He’d be disappointed if you blew yourself up of your own accord.”

“Yes, I would feel foolish if that happened. Or rather my eternal spirit would.”

Mahliki smiled and leaned against his arm. That was even better than a compliment about his physique. Something about their closeness made Maldynado smirk.

Sespian cleared his throat. “Speaking of foolishness, why are you only wearing one shoe?”

Maldynado wasn’t even wearing a sock on the unprotected foot—the textured metal floor of the cab had to be cold. Not to mention there were crazy people waving blasting sticks around. Footwear had to be considered wise.

Maldynado lifted his bare toes. “It’s still waiting for the attention of a medic.”

His foot
did
have a red and swollen aspect to it.

“What happened?” Sespian asked.

“I saved your building,” Maldynado said smugly.

“You did?”

“I thought you said Sicarius killed the assassin,” Dak said.

“Yes, but
I
talked him into coming with us,” Maldynado said. “I set up the whole trap. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“You better tell him about the other thing first,” Dak muttered.

“Oh. That should probably wait until... later. For Sicarius. Yes, this is definitely the sort of talk one should have with one’s father.”

“Uh, all right...” Sespian frowned around the cab, wondering who besides Dak knew about... whatever this was. Tikaya wore a thoughtful expression. Sespian thought about pressing the matter, but the vehicle had stopped, and Dak was hopping out. Maldynado hustled after him. “In the meantime,” Sespian said to Tikaya, “how alarmed should I be?”

“It will depend on what you do with the information,” she said. “Parenthood is a tremendous opportunity, but a life-changing choice as well.”

“
Parenthood?
”

When Sespian climbed out of the lorry, he wobbled and stumbled as much as the priest Dak had ushered down the road. Parenthood? He hadn’t even... Could they be talking about his cat? That was the only thing he could think of, that Trog had been... cavorting in the neighborhood.

Chapter 25

“D
eret?”

Amaranthe paddled around the icy cider-filled tank, groping in the darkness. He had been shot
and
hit his head falling in; she didn’t know if striking the liquid would have revived him—or not. She also didn’t know if those priests would open the hatch and start firing at them from above. If so, they would be easy targets. The darkness might cloak them somewhat, but it wasn’t if they could
go
anywhere. They could duck into the six feet of cider in the tank, but she doubted the liquid would stop a bullet. It would only be a matter of time before someone’s shot hit...

“Here,” Deret said from one side of the tank. “I’m sorry. That was idiotic.”

“Getting shot or falling in? Or hitting your head as you fell in?”

“Dear ancestors. Don’t remind me. I used to be... maybe not an elite warrior, but I could hold my own on the battlefield. You’d think I would know how to compensate for the cursed leg by now.”

Something thunked hollowly against the side of the tank. At first, Amaranthe thought it was the hatch being opened, but it had come from below. Deret bumping the wall with his elbow. Or maybe his head.

“It takes a while to reteach muscles that have memorized moves a certain way,” Amaranthe said, wishing she could touch the bottom and didn’t have to tread water—cider. Just because she could do it—with a ten-pound brick over her head—didn’t mean she preferred to. “How often have you had to fight since you received the injury?”

“Oddly it only happens when you show up.”

“It’s clear you need more practice being shot at. I’ll have to come by more often.”

“That would be nice. The coming by, that is. Not the being shot at.”

“I understood,” Amaranthe said.

“I suppose Sicarius would object to that.”

“You being shot at? No, that wouldn’t bother him.”

Deret grunted.

“How injured are you? You sound a little pained, but your voice is more even than mine.”

“I’m able to stand on the bottom. Barely. I was hit in the shoulder. It hurts, but it won’t kill me. A second shot wouldn’t feel good though. I keep waiting for them to open the hatch and finish us.”

As if someone outside had been waiting for this statement, thumps sounded on the roof of the tank, then a squeaking.

“I believe they’ve decided to lock us in instead,” Amaranthe said.

More squeaks came, this time from the other side of the tank, somewhere behind Deret. Gurgles sounded from above. Amaranthe thought of the pipe from the vat to the tank. She wasn’t surprised when cider started gushing through, splashing her shoulders as it poured down.

“And drown us,” she added.

“As the night goes on,” Deret said, raising his voice as if he expected the people outside to hear, “I’m more and more happy I didn’t vote for that smiling shrub!”

“Did you vote for Starcrest?” Amaranthe had left before the final votes had been tallied, but she remembered four people running for the office.

“Yes. I almost didn’t because I didn’t want to show warrior-caste favoritism, but I ultimately thought he was the best man for the job, and that he would usher in a period of peace and prosperity.” He raised his voice again to yell, “And I didn’t want idiotic religious fanatics in charge!”

He sputtered the last few words, not out of anger, Amaranthe realized after a moment, but because cider had flooded his mouth. The liquid level was already rising.

“How long can you tread water?” she asked, wondering about his leg. Would it trouble him as much in water—cider—as on land?

“Probably longer than it takes for the tank to fill up,” Deret said grimly. “I never thought I’d be in a position where I was hoping an assassin would come save my life.”

“In the event that he arrives late, we might want to see if we can find a way out on our own.”

“I’m open to ideas.” He hissed, then gurgled and spat. “I may have to revoke my earlier statement. The bullet grinding against my shoulder bone is making treading water very painful.”

“I’ll see if I can figure something out.”

Amaranthe didn’t think they would have many options until the cider filled enough to let them reach the hatch. Maybe she could find a way to break the seal at that point, but the priests had taken her sword and dagger, and she didn’t have any tools secreted away. Not that a lock-picking kit would work on the bottom of a hatch anyway, but her fingernails weren’t going to do the job. Maybe when they reached the pipe, she could plug it with a boot or sock and stop the flow of cider coming in. In the meantime, she ducked beneath the surface, probing the dark cold bottom with her hands, hoping to find some weakness or some fallen tool she might use to pry a way out. On the third try, she found the pistol she had forgotten about. It had flown from her hand when she hit the cider.

“Found my pistol,” she said when she broke the surface. “I doubt it’ll fire, but maybe I can bang a nice medley on the wall for someone.”

“It might,” Deret said. “That’s one of the new guns... with self-contained... bullets, right? The powder... might still be dry.”

“Well, I don’t think shooting it while we’re in a sealed metal tank would be a good idea.” Amaranthe imagined a bullet zipping all over the place, clanging off walls and finally lodging in someone’s flesh. “We’re almost up to the pipe. I’ll try blocking the outlet.”

“Good.”

With Deret’s words more labored now, his breathing ragged, Amaranthe worried about him. She swam over and caught him beneath the armpit, trying to give him some support.

“Shouldn’t you... be removing your socks... to stuff in that pipe?” Deret grumbled. He didn’t push her away though.

“I can’t reach it yet. The cider is rising quickly though. It shouldn’t be long.”

“Great.” Deret spat out a mouthful. “If we get out of here, I’m not touching this stuff ever again.”

“We’ll get out of here.”

Deret didn’t respond. It was probably wiser for him to save his energy for treading water.

As soon as the cider level rose enough, Amaranthe paddled to the pipe. It was about six inches wide. It would take more than a pair of socks to staunch the flow.

She debated on the rest of her clothing, then started unbuttoning her shirt. If this didn’t work, she would try the trousers, but those would be hard to get off without removing her boots, and she didn’t want to be running around the compound barefoot if they managed to escape. “Won’t be the first time I’ve taken off my shirt in recent weeks,” she supposed.