He swiped at her with the knife.
Or not. Amaranthe evaded him again. He had reach with those long arms, but his size stole some of his speed, and she read the attacks easily. He lacked the practiced moves of an experienced fighter, so she decided not to reach for her pistol or signal Sicarius. Not yet. The bowmen were watching, but neither had an arrow nocked.
“To keep people like you from nose about,” he answered.
“Nosing,” Amaranthe said.
The shaman grumbled under his breath in a different language. He stopped advancing and lifted a hand toward the bowmen.
“Are you sure I can’t interest you in coin?” Amaranthe said, meeting the bowmen’s eyes. They seemed more likely to be persuaded by money. “Five thousand ranmyas if you simply tell me what it is you men are doing up here. Offer open to anyone.”
Snaggletooth grew thoughtful.
“Enough,” the shaman said. “Shoot her.”
“Wait.” Amaranthe lifted a palm toward each bowman. “You’ll be dead if you try it. Do you think I’d come out here alone?”
The shaman snorted and waved for his men to carry out his order.
Amaranthe touched her forehead.
A rifle shot rang out from a high ledge overlooking the canyon and the campfire. Snaggletooth flew backward, landing spread-eagle, a bloody hole in the center of his forehead.
“Cursed ancestors,” Amaranthe breathed. She had told Sicarius to fire a
warning
shot.
The dead man had a salutary effect on the remaining two. The second guard lunged behind a boulder. The shaman’s knife drooped, and he gaped about, searching for the source of the shot. Rock and scrub brush dotted the top of the ledge and provided copious hiding spots. Amaranthe saw no sign of Sicarius.
“As I was saying, I did
not
come out here alone,” she said.
The shaman muttered something under his breath. His eyes grew glazed.
Afraid he meant to hurl some magic at Sicarius, Amaranthe stepped forward, hand slipping inside her jacket for her pistol. The shaman snapped out of it and stopped her with a glare.
“
One
man,” he said. “Only one man.”
“Only one, yes, but he’s very good. He can pick your people off one at a time from up there.”
“Not if I kill him.” The shaman turned his gaze toward the ledge again, focused, then sucked in a startled breath. “The assassin! Sicarius!”
Uh oh. How could he know that? Sicarius was under cover.
“He’s here,” the shaman breathed. “I didn’t think…I mean, they say at the end, they would show us where he was. That if we cooperate we could—” He snapped his mouth shut and glared at Amaranthe.
Though she had not yet removed the pistol, her hand gripped the butt, and her finger found the trigger.
“You work with this monster?” Accusation—almost a look of betrayal—hung in the shaman’s green eyes.
“If your people are responsible for Lord Hagcrest’s death, then you’re no better than he. What killed the old man anyway? Did you make that device under his skin?”
His stare did not waver. “Fifteen years ago, you know news? You know what happens in our country?”
“Kendor?” Amaranthe still did not know where the man was from.
“Mangdoria! Chief Yull unite tribes, make plans to negotiate for lands back from your empire. Your people think him a threat. Chief Yull was peaceful! Your assassin—that
monster
—kills royal family. All family. Mother and children also. He cuts off their heads to deliver to your emperor.” The shaman pointed a finger at Amaranthe’s chest. “For much time we no know who responsible. He enter and leave without nobody see. Like ancestor spirit. But we know truth now. Partners tell us, promise help us get his head. Even if we fail, now all Mangdorians will know this monster, what he do.”
The loathing in the shaman’s eyes stole any rebuttal Amaranthe might have made. If she could come up with one. She knew what Sicarius had been and what, in many ways, he still was. Just because he was nominally
her
monster now did not make him less of one to the rest of the world.
“Your
partners
told you?” she asked. “Partners who wanted you for some ends of their own? Like to kill Hagcrest and claim this land with your magic? How can you rely on their word? They could simply be using you.”
“That man is monster. You work with him, you must die.”
“I thought Mangdorians were pacifists.” Amaranthe slid the pistol out of its holster a couple of inches.
“Chief Yull was pacifist, and it get him killed. Old religion no good when empire for neighbor. You help Sicarius? Slay our chief? His family?”
“First off, it doesn’t sound like you have any proof that he did it. Second, I was a child then, so, no, I couldn’t have helped. Either way, this is history and has nothing to do with what’s going on here.” She hoped. “Unless you’re here as part of some revenge attempt on the Turgonian government.”
She watched the shaman’s face, but he did not seem to hear. His gaze had returned to the cliff top.
“Did they tell you to kill Hagcrest?” she asked, trying to draw his attention back to her. If he could detect Sicarius with his power, he might be able to attack him with it too. “To get his land? You must know you’ll be hunted for that. The emperor doesn’t appreciate foreigners coming in and killing warrior caste veterans.”
“They handle your emperor. They say—” The shaman snapped his mouth shut, eyes narrowing. “You a nose woman.”
“Nosey,” Amaranthe said. “I’m nosey, not a nose.”
“My people never want to fight. Only to find way to get land back. Hard life in mountains. Seasons too short for farming. Long winters. People hungry. Always hungry.” The shaman clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke, oddly unconcerned over his dead man or the weapon Sicarius likely had trained on him. Perhaps he could deflect a rifle ball, as the Nurian wizard Arbitan Losk had deflected crossbow quarrels and daggers. “Our people never want fight, but they are fools. Many have mastered the Science. Many could kill with a thought.”
“Or with a tiny device that burrows beneath a man’s skin?” Amaranthe asked.
“We will avenge the royal family’s death.” He said it calmly. His rage and his desire to kill her seemed to have vanished.
Amaranthe kept an eye on the canyon entrance and the second man, who still hunkered behind the boulder. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if the shaman might be stalling while someone crept up on her. Had he signaled to his workers when she had not noticed? Nothing moved behind her.
But she was not the main threat. It was Sicarius the shaman needed to worry about.
Her heart lurched. Did he have some magical attack planned for Sicarius?
Amaranthe stepped forward. “Perhaps Sicarius is not responsible for what you think. Why don’t we discuss things in your camp?”
“Yes.” The shaman lifted a finger. “You
will
come my camp.”
A boom thundered through the valley and echoed from the mountaintops. The earth rocked beneath Amaranthe’s feet. A cloud of dust mushroomed into the air on the plateau where Sicarius waited.
“No,” she whispered.
The ledge crumbled. Earth and rock sloughed down the cliff side, throwing more dust into the air at the bottom. Debris hurtled from the explosion, clacking to the stones around Amaranthe. A shard of rock struck her cheek. Blood trickled down her face, but she barely noticed. All she could do was stare at the cliff top, waiting—hoping—for some movement when the dust cloud dissipated. If her idiotic plan had gotten Sicarius killed…
The shaman lunged, reaching for her.
Acting on instinct, Amaranthe jumped back. She yanked the pistol free and fired. The ball thudded into his shoulder.
She whirled and sprinted toward the trees. Scree shifted and flew beneath her boots. She zigzagged and ducked around boulders, fearing an arrow would land between her shoulder blades any second. The bowman would not be worried about snipers on the ledge any more.
Something snagged Amaranthe’s legs, constricting them like a rope wrapping around her ankles. She pitched forward. She tried to turn the fall into a roll, but something rooted her feet. The ground came hard and fast. She barely managed to keep from smashing her nose against a rock.
Amaranthe shoved herself upright and scrabbled at her ankles. Nothing visible or tangible bound them.
The shaman strode toward her, pain and fury contorting his face. He gripped his shoulder with his free hand, and blood ran through his fingers.
The bowman followed. He stopped a few paces away, nocked an arrow, and pointed it her direction. Amaranthe gave one last yank to her legs, but they remained rooted.
“We talk now.” The shaman grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet.
The pressure wrapping her ankles disappeared, but it was too late to do anything. The shaman had an iron grip, and the bowman appeared competent.
Amaranthe gazed up at the cliff top to the destruction left by the shaman’s magic. If Sicarius had survived the explosion, it seemed he had no means to help her at the moment. If he had not survived…it was her fault.
T
he first drops of rain spattered, leaving wet stains on the rocks. Wind whistled through the canyon, tugging at Amaranthe’s clothing and battering the tents surrounding her. The moist air smelled of burning coal and a coming storm. The approaching clouds were almost as dark as the black plumes wafting from a pair of steam shovels working on either side of the camp.
Amaranthe sat on her knees before an unlit fire pit. Ropes bound her ankles to her wrists, which were pulled behind her back, making her shoulders ache. The shaman had marched her past piles of limestone on the way in, but she still had no idea what the men sought. Surely not the rock itself.
The shaman strode out of a tent with a slight wiry man at his heels. The attendant clutched scissors in one hand, tweezers in the other, and a bloody rag dangled over his arm.
“Please, wait, sir. I’m not finished.”
The shaman snarled a chain of words in his tongue. The attendant, who had the darker skin and hair of a Turgonian, lifted his arms in bewilderment. “If you would just sit down for a moment…”
The shaman stopped before Amaranthe. From her knees, she had to crane her neck back to find his eyes.
His bone-blade knife came out, and he rested it at her throat. “Before you die, you will speak to me all you know of Sicarius. All weaknesses, all everything.”
She sat straighter. “Does that mean you didn’t find his body? That he’s still alive?”
The shaman had dispatched a team of men to check, but they had not returned yet.
He scowled. “Much rubble. Probably he dead and buried. You tell me his weaknesses anyway.”
“If he has any, I don’t know them.” She shrugged, deciding on a casual response rather than open defiance. She would tell him nothing, but it would be foolish to declare that and imply there was no point in keeping her alive. “Though he is a poor conversationalist. I don’t know, can you use that?”
The shaman glowered. “You are no funny.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Sir,” the attendant said. “You’re bleeding all over camp. Shall I get that pistol ball out first?”
The shaman returned his knife to his sheath. “Yes. Mundane weapons no always best way to get answers, and I must have concentration for other ways. No pain.”
They strode into a nearby tent together, leaving Amaranthe wondering what non-mundane interrogation methods he might subject her to. Best to escape and not find out.
The camp lay deep within the canyon. To escape she would have to run past several pickaxe-wielding workers as well as the ambulatory machinery. One step at a time, she told herself. Hands first.
The bowman sat on a boulder, oiling the limbs of his weapon, glancing at her from time to time. She shifted slightly to keep her hands hidden behind her back while she worked at the ropes, trying to dig a thumbnail into a knot. Inside the tent, the shaman spoke to someone in a language she could not understand. He wasn’t conversing with the Turgonian surgeon. So, who was he talking to?
She had encountered a communication device before, in Larocka’s basement, and wondered if the shaman had one inside. Though he had not asked Amaranthe her name, someone, maybe a lot of someones, would soon know Sicarius was up here. If he wasn’t dead.
Amaranthe did not want to consider that possibility. He was too aware; he would have seen or sensed the attack coming. Even if it was magical. He would have run off the ledge before it collapsed. But, if he
was
alive, wouldn’t he be doing something to help her escape the camp? And to get rid of the shaman before he could report Sicarius’s whereabouts?
Maybe he was injured and needed her help.
Amaranthe doubled her efforts on her bonds, scraping skin raw, but loosening them infinitesimally. She eyed the camp as she worked. If she managed to free her hands, she would need a distraction, a big one considering the shaman could immobilize her from a distance.
Wind battered the tents framing the fire pit, though not enough to blow open flaps so she could see inside. A crate sitting beside one caught her eye. A faded stamp read,
Blasting sticks
. That, not magic, must be what someone had thrown at Sicarius. She grimaced. It made little difference.
Pained curses came from the shaman’s tent. His assistant must be pulling the pistol ball out. Little time left.
A young man Akstyr’s age jogged into the camp. He paused to eye her curiously before angling toward a tent. Dirt smudged his cheeks, and stubble fuzzed his chin, but neither hid the handsomeness of his face.
“Afternoon,” Amaranthe said as the youth passed her.
He twitched in surprise and glanced behind him, as if checking to be sure she was addressing him.
“I’m Amaranthe,” she told him. “What’s your name?”
“Er, Dobb.”
Her guard kept sliding a rag along his bow, but his eyes lifted, tracking the exchange.
“What’re you doing working up here?” she asked the youth.
Dobb shrugged. “Need the money.”
“Looks like hard work. Hope it pays well.”