guess Maldynado’s thoughts, Basilard nodded slightly.
Maldynado wished he’d been working at his own bonds while the women were talking to him. If Basilard freed himself, he’d have to handle six men with repeating firearms, along with whoever had come to the door.
A potted tree blocked Maldynado’s view of the entrance. He squirmed to the side, trying to see the door. A guard standing a few feet away patted the stock of his rifle. Maldynado gave him an I’m-harmless-and-not-doing- anything-besides-being-curious look. The man snorted. Maldynado decided not to push things with further movement. Besides, he could see enough.
Mari had opened the door, and a tattooed man wearing buckskins had come in. Brynia watched from a few steps back as Mari questioned the newcomer-a shaman, Maldynado assumed. He tried to eavesdrop, though the gurgling fountains made it difficult.
“… get him?” Mari asked.
A pang of unease struck Maldynado’s gut. Him? Him, who?
Maldynado didn’t hear the shaman’s response, but a nod accompanied it.
“You’re certain?” Mari asked. “For a bookish boy who mastered the art of escaping weapons practice as a child, he’s proven surprisingly adept at eluding us in the field.”
The unease in Maldynado’s gut turned to dread. The emperor.
The shaman’s chin came up. “Thanks to my abilities-” he lifted his hand and flexed his fingers, “-their boat was incontrovertibly destroyed. Three bodies floated away from the wreckage, and the men you sent with me shot them full of holes. Your emperor is fish food on the bottom of the river now.”
No. Books was too smart to let some brute blow him up. And Akstyr would have sensed a shaman coming. It had to be a ruse. Because if it wasn’t… their deaths would be Maldynado’s fault. Everything that had happened tonight was his fault. He closed his eyes and wished he could melt into the floor, never to be seen again. But that wasn’t going to happen. And he wasn’t going to give up on Books and the others until he’d seen the dead bodies himself. He gritted his teeth and, while most people were focused on the conversation at the door, wriggled back to the bench. If Basilard could scrape his ropes off, maybe Maldynado could too.
“The captain says the steamboat is ready for departure if you wish to leave tonight,” the shaman said. “He is concerned tonight’s activities will draw enforcer interest to the island.”
“This is a private island,” Mari said. “Enforcers have little power here. We’re not leaving until I know who’s dead at the bottom of the river. Did you retrieve the bodies and verify their identities?”
Maldynado didn’t hear the answer, but he sure hoped it was no.
“Brynia,” Mari said, “can you tell where the knife is?”
Maldynado had been rubbing his ropes against the bench edge, but the question made him pause. The knife? Sicarius’s knife? It was the only one he could imagine being referred to as the knife. Maldynado assumed Sespian still had it. Rust-for-luck, had Forge figured some way to track the weird metal?
“Give me a moment.” Brynia withdrew a black oval from her pocket.
Maldynado couldn’t make out the details, but it appeared to be made from the foreign material he’d been seeing far too much of lately.
He rubbed his ropes harder. If he managed to free himself, he’d want a weapon. His were missing, so he’d have to borrow one. He eyed the guards, seeking one with the attentiveness of a sock. Nobody quite that likely presented himself, but one thick fellow with more fat than muscle might make a good shield while Maldynado wrestled his rifle and sword away.
After a long moment spent staring at the black egg, Brynia lifted her head. “It hasn’t moved much. It’s still near the docks.”
She was tracking the knife. How long had she been in town? Since the attack in the park? That would explain how those thugs had known where to find the emperor. Maybe she’d been the one to send Cousin Lita to that antique shop. Brynia was probably roaming around the satrapy, collecting all sorts of handy heirlooms with secret powers. Ah, maybe that was how they’d found themselves the monstrous aircraft as well. Though, where, he wondered, had they found the tracking artifact to start with?
“Near the docks?” Mari asked. “Is it in a boat or at the bottom of the river?”
“I can’t determine location with that kind of accuracy,” Brynia said. “Retta was busy learning how to fly the Ortarh Ortak and couldn’t spare much time to explain how to use this.”
Mari pointed to the shaman. “Take some men and dredge the river. I want to know for certain that Sespian is gone.”
The shaman stood straighter and flicked a long braid of auburn hair over his shoulder. “I am not your lackey. When I agreed to work with you, it was because you said she’d lead me to the assassin.” He pointed at Brynia, more specifically the oval device she still held. “The boy emperor has never wronged my people. Sicarius has.”
“I don’t care about your revenge dreams,” Mari said, not backing down from the shaman’s glower. You’re being paid for your assistance, and you’ll continue to give it. Besides, we thought the knife belonged to Sicarius and that he’d be with the emperor.” She tilted her head, as if some new thought had popped into it. “Perhaps this signifies that Sicarius died in the crash and that the emperor grabbed the knife, simply because he did not want to leave a valuable tool behind.” As she spoke those last words, she faced Maldynado. “What happened to the assassin?”
Maldynado ceased his manipulations of the rope. “No idea. He was too busy hunting down Forge people to come along with us.”
Brynia waved the oval device. “His knife was on that train and then on the dirigible.”
Mari tapped her chin. “Perhaps he is dead, and we’ve been worrying for nothing.”
“Think whatever you like,” Maldynado said. “Just know that your actions have condemned the Marblecrests as well as Forge. Sicarius never stopped working for the Savarsin family, and he’ll kill anyone who opposes Sespian.” Probably not, but it sounded like a good threat.
With a quick wave, Mari dismissed the shaman. She and Brynia started toward Maldynado. He grimaced. So far all his scraping at the bench had done nothing more than rub his skin raw. He needed more time. He needed-
Basilard sprang to his feet. He sprinted ten feet and bowled into an armed man before anyone reacted. The startled stillness from the guards didn’t last. A shot rang out from someone stationed by the window. Two guards by the door pushed the women behind potted trees for protection.
Maldynado flexed his arms, trying to muscle his bonds apart, but he hadn’t made enough headway on the cutting.
The guard closest to Maldynado raised his rifle, but by then his comrade was on the floor, entangled with Basilard. Instead of shooting, the man yanked a knife from his belt and sprinted toward the fray.
Maldynado judged his path, then hurled himself into a clumsy sideways roll. The guard saw him and tried to adjust, but it was too late. His foot caught on Maldynado’s hip, and he tumbled. The guard turned the fall into the roll of a practiced warrior, but his shoulder clipped one of the big, heavy pots, and his knife flew out of his grasp.
The blade clattered to the floor and skidded toward the bench. Before it stopped moving, Maldynado was rolling back toward it. He managed to grasp it, but, with his hands still behind his back, maneuvering it proved more awkward than sex in a closet. Nearly dislocating his shoulder, he slashed the rope securing his ankles to his wrists, but his limbs were still bound to each other, and cutting his hands free proved a tougher task. At least most of the guards were busy with Basilard who’d freed Yara as well.
Gunshots rang out, and Maldynado didn’t have time to feel indignant that he’d helped her first. He started to go for his ankles, but the guard who’d inadvertently provided the blade leaped to his feet. Though he’d lost his rifle in the fall, too, it only took him a split second to spot it. Maldynado saw it too. He hurled himself into another clumsy roll, angling toward the weapon. The knife blade sliced into his forearm, but he couldn’t slow down or worry about it. The guard sprang for the rifle. Maldynado reached it first and smothered it with his body. The guard pounced, landing on top of him.
With his wrists and ankles still bound, Maldynado couldn’t kick or punch. He did manage to get his knees up defensively. More by luck than design, he caught the fellow in the groin. Shock and pain contorted the guard’s face. Before he recovered, Maldynado whipped his head off the ground, smashing it into his assailant’s nose. With a buck that would have impressed an irate mule, Maldynado heaved the man off him.
Frustrated at being tied, and determined to get his hands in front of him where he could use the knife more
