“Listen,” Akstyr said. “What’re you people-”
The dirigible lurched again, and Akstyr stumbled back a step.
The man used the distraction to jerk his arm downward, his hand darting toward a dagger. Akstyr tried to whip his sword back into place, but the tilting floor unbalanced his swing, and his blade bit into the man’s jugular.
“Donkey balls,” he muttered. How was he supposed to get answers from a dead man?
Remembering that Books might need help, Akstyr kicked the trapdoor shut again and ran past it. Sword at the ready, he sprinted into the navigation cabin.
Books knelt, a knee in Harkon’s back, while the tattooed man struggled, attempting to escape. The ivory- handled pistol lay on the floor a few feet away. Blood trickled from Books’s nose, but he wore an expression of smug triumph. Until the vessel tilted again.
The floor sloped downward, and Akstyr almost tumbled into the control panel. He gripped the doorjamb for support. Enough daylight remained that he had no trouble seeing the rocky hillside straight ahead of the dirigible. They were close enough that he could also see a goat lift its head to stare at them.
“Akstyr.” Books lifted his head to study the control panel. “I need to-”
“Yes, do it.” Akstyr scrambled across the tilted floor, grabbed the pistol, and pressed the muzzle into the back of the pilot’s neck.
Books leaped up and yanked a lever. The floor leveled, but the vessel was too low, and they were veering straight toward a mountainside.
“You did watch him for long enough to learn how to fly this thing, right?” Akstyr asked.
“I watched him, but it’s unlikely the intricacies of aviation can be mastered in such a short time.”
“That’s not your pompous way of saying we’re going to crash, is it?”
“Actually, we’ve reached our destination, so I was hoping to land.” Books’s eyes searched the control panel.
“I hope there’s a difference.”
The goat had faded from view when the ship leveled, but another one scampered into sight. Brilliant, their crash was going to be the evening entertainment for the mountain critters.
Books tapped an altitude gauge, mumbled something, and finally seemed to spot what he wanted. He spun a wheel. At first nothing happened, but then the goat slipped out of view to the side of the glass shield. The dirigible was slowing turning to fly alongside the mountain instead of toward it. Too slowly. A jolt ran through the craft, and a squeal of metal arose from outside.
“That didn’t sound good,” Akstyr said.
“We’re fine,” Books said. “We glanced off a boulder.”
A thump reverberated through the dirigible, and an ominous crack came from below.
“What was that?” Akstyr asked.
“It was a tree.”
An image flashed through Akstyr’s mind-a giant hole being torn in the bottom of the dirigible and the engine falling out. No, he told himself. The hull was metal. It was sturdier than that.
Another thump battered the ship, this one hard enough to send tremors through the hull. Harkon’s muscles bunched, as if he were preparing to try something. Akstyr pressed the pistol into his skin.
“I already killed the two stowaways down below,” he growled, doing his best to sound menacing. “I have no problem shooting you too.”
“Do it then,” Harkon snarled.
Akstyr thought about obeying the man. Sicarius would. Hostages were more likely to be trouble than not, but they might yet need help flying-or landing.
Books’s fingers gripped the wheel so hard the tendons on the backs of his hands were trying to leap out of his flesh. The craft shuddered again, and the quietness of the fancy engine meant Akstyr had no trouble hearing cracks and thunks from outside-rocks sheering away from the mountainside and bouncing into the depths below. Beads of sweat rolled down Books’s temples and dripped onto the control panel. Finally, the dirigible veered far enough from the rocky slope that the scrapes and squeals faded away.
Books wiped his brow. “Two stowaways?”
“They tried to shoot me when I went to look at the engine,” Akstyr said. “How’d we end up so close to the mountains anyway?”
“We heard you fighting, and the pilot decided it’d be a good time to attack me as well.”
“Oh.” So Akstyr’s investigation had started things. Oops. “Any idea who those blokes were?” Akstyr glanced at Harkon, but he didn’t look like the sort to be intimidated into sharing information.
Books hesitated. “No.”
Akstyr wondered if he had an idea, but wasn’t going to share in front of the pilot. Before he could ask further questions, Books pointed at something outside.
“What?” Akstyr didn’t want to step away from the prisoner to peer through the window.
“There’s a road below that leads into a large, fresh landslide. I do believe we’ve reached our first destination.”
“Good. Now what?”
“Now, we figure out how to land. Any chance you can convince the pilot to instruct me on a way to accomplish that maneuver?”
“Lick my right sack,” Harkon said.
“That’s a no,” Akstyr said.
“I’ll admit I’m not as versed in Stumps’ street vernacular as you are, but I did deduce his meaning.” With rocks and trees no longer assaulting the dirigible, Books relaxed enough to turn around and check on Akstyr and their prisoner. “What is that smell?”
“Am’ranthe’s smoke grenades work real good,” Akstyr said. “What’re we going to do with this thug?”
Books rubbed his lips. “Did you find any closets during your explorations?”
The first two days on the train passed without incident. Basilard and Maldynado played dice while Amaranthe nibbled her fingernails down to nubs and wondered if she was flexible enough to start in on her toenails. She hadn’t spoken to Sicarius. That first morning, he had slipped out to find his own berth and had not returned. In truth, she’d been relieved. When he’d killed the men on the farm, it had arguably been in self- defense, or at least in her defense. With these assassinations… he’d gone out and, in a premeditated manner, killed more than twenty men and women. Even if they’d all been Forge loyalists involved in plots against the city and the emperor, they still would have deserved a chance to face the magistrate and explain themselves. For Sicarius to execute them based only on the fact that their names appeared in Books’s journal…
Amaranthe could forgive Sicarius for his past crimes; when he’d worked for the throne, he’d been raised- indoctrinated — to obey Hollowcrest and Raumesys. But he’d chosen to assassinate the Forge people of his own volition. It was murder, through and through. Even if it’d been born of frustration and a need to protect his son, it upset her. That she could care for someone capable of cold-blooded murder made her question her own integrity.
They were in the middle of a mission, though, and there wasn’t much she could do about the choices Sicarius had made. She still needed his help. At sunset on that second day, she talked herself into seeking him out to make sure he intended to give it.
Amaranthe slid the freight door open and eased outside. As she climbed the ladder toward the top of the car, cold wind whipped at her clothing. They were passing through the same mountains where they had run their exercises the week before. Snow now blanketed the craggy hills. The train was approaching the Scarlet Pass, which meant they were five thousand feet above sea level, and up there it already felt like winter. When she reached the top of the rail car, a dusting of snow coated it as well. She glanced skyward, wondering if she might glimpse Books and Akstyr, but, if they had gone east to check on the shaman’s mine, they would be behind the train. Nothing more interesting than an eagle glided through the air.
Prepared to have to search each car to find Sicarius, Amaranthe was surprised to find him sitting cross- legged in the snow near the head of the train. His back was to her as he faced the mountains, a small black figure surrounded by a white world. Something about his posture made the word “forlorn” come to mind. She shook her
