Deadly Games (38 page)

Basilard dropped his hands so he could sign,
What now?

“Back up plan,” Sicarius said over the
grinding and chugging of the engine. “If we can’t steer to the
surface, we may be able to float there.”

Float?
Basilard stared at him. He
could not imagine this sprawling maze of tunnels and chambers
moving at all, much less bobbing about at the surface of the
lake.

“The air you’re breathing would typically
make us buoyant,” Sicarius said, “so this craft must have ballast
tanks.”

Basilard occasionally found Books too verbose
for his tastes, but he wouldn’t have minded more of an explanation
just then. Sicarius turned his back to study symbols on
panels—writing presumably, but not in Mangdorian or Turgonian, the
only two languages Basilard could read.

He walked about, in part to see if he could
find some way to help and in part to distract himself from the
metal ball grinding against his shoulder blade.

He found a storage locker holding a pair of
flintlock muskets that appeared only a model or two up from the old
matchlocks. More weapons that would prove useless against
practitioners who could generate shields. There were a couple of
axes, too, and he suspected this was a supply the engineer and his
mate were supposed to use to defend their station.

Which raised a question: where
was
the
engineer?

Had he fled the room at the sound of the
alarm? It still throbbed in the corridors outside, along with a few
bangs and scrapes. The practitioners up to something, no doubt.

Basilard took one of the axes—they had a
satisfying heft, and he imagined smashing some of the machinery
with it. If Sicarius could not find these ballast tanks, perhaps
they could convince the structure to rise to the surface by
destroying the engines. At the least, they could make sure this
vessel never navigated into imperial waters again to harass its
citizens.

That thought made him freeze mid-step. When
had he come to care about the empire and its citizens? This place
had done little enough for him, and the old emperor had been
responsible for the ruthless assassination of Mangdoria’s
rulers.

But Amaranthe, Maldynado, and Books were
Turgonians and they were the first friends—the first family—he had
been allowed to have in years. He wished he could see his daughter
again someday, but, coward that he was, he feared her reaction. She
would see his scars, know the violence he had been involved in, and
would condemn him. She had to. That was his people’s way. It pained
him to think that he might have more in common with these
warmongering Turgonians these days than his own kin.

He flexed his fingers around the axe haft,
bringing his attention back to the moment. This was no time for
daydreaming. He prowled around the flywheel to consider an angle of
attack and almost tripped over two bodies in Turgonian army
fatigues. Their throats were slashed. Basilard glanced at Sicarius.
He supposed it had been a matter of defense, but if they were
alive, they might have been coerced into helping with the engines.
Basilard shrugged and stepped past them.

A glint of light near the ceiling caught his
eye. A small, transparent cylinder floated in the air beneath a
grate—no, a vent. It was filled with something yellow. The same
stuff that had incapacitated him in the stadium?

Basilard crept closer. It hung in the air for
another moment, then dropped, as if the invisible hand holding it
let go.

He dove for it, hitting the deck chest first.
A fresh wave of pain erupted from his shoulder, but he flung his
arm out and caught the vial before it smashed to the floor. He
opened his fist, worried he might have cracked the glass. It
remained intact but now what was he supposed to do with it? For all
he knew, the practitioner who had levitated it in could snap the
glass with his mind.

“What is it?” Sicarius asked.

Basilard showed him the vial, then pointed at
the furnace.
Should we burn it?

“That’ll release the fumes, and the furnace
isn’t airtight.”

Sicarius found a flat sheet of metal, then
fished in the toolbox again and pulled out a screwdriver. He held a
hand out for the vial. When Basilard gave it to him, Sicarius slid
it back into the duct from whence it had come and screwed the metal
sheet across the vent to block it.

They’ll try again,
Basilard
signed.

“Yes. Continue to stand watch while I
read.”

You’re welcome,
Basilard signed.

“What?”

For saving you—both of us—from a trip back to
the laboratory tables.

“At this juncture, it’s more likely they’d
kill us.” Sicarius bent his head over a manual he had found.

Basilard remembered how he had not thought of
him as one of the people he considered friends or family. No
mistake there.

You’re an ass, you know that?
he
signed, sure Sicarius would not see with his head bent over the
book.
I can’t believe I’m planning on not killing you when you
are so deserving of being killed.

Basilard scowled at himself. That didn’t even
make sense. Before he could stalk away in disgust, Sicarius
spoke.

“What changed your mind?”

Basilard froze. Er. He lifted his hands, but
hesitated. Trying to explain his emotions would be futile. Sicarius
had saved his life in the corridor, and possibly on the laboratory
table as well, but Basilard did not want to admit to any feelings
of gratitude, not to someone who would brush them aside. He signed,
Because Amaranthe would never forgive me if I was
successful.

“Huh.”

With that, Sicarius went back to reading.
Basilard sighed and found a spot where he could watch the duct and
the door. He wished Amaranthe were there with them. If nothing
else, she would have convinced Sicarius to find clothes by now.

There was water in Amaranthe’s boot. With
every step, her toes sloshed about in it. At least she could
take
steps. The size and heft of the suit on dry land had
worried her, but the air inside her pack and helmet made her
surprisingly light as she walked—
sloshed
—down the lake’s
steep slope. Indeed, the suits required weights to keep one from
floating to the surface.

Maldynado, Books, and Akstyr strode at her
side. Well, it wasn’t “striding” exactly. Between the swords belted
at their waists and the harpoon launchers in their arms, they were
not the most agile creatures moving about in the lake. Books
carried his keg instead of a launcher, but that was just as
awkward, and he had already stumbled twice. Each time somebody
slipped, Amaranthe’s heart jumped into her throat. If anybody cut
themselves on the harpoon tips, the poison would kill them as
quickly as it would kill a kraken—much
more
quickly in
fact.

The helmets made it difficult to speak to
each other—though sometimes a muffled curse reached her ears as
someone slipped on the seaweed-slick lake bottom—but they were
managing with Basilard’s hand signs.

When they reached the cliff, Amaranthe crept
to the edge. A dark expanse yawned below. She had little feel for
how far the viewer had dropped, but no hint of the orange glow she
remembered seeped up from below. Since these suits were
self-contained, there was no tube connecting them to the surface,
and the idea of stepping off and falling a hundred feet or more
made her hesitate.

Four hundred feet
, Books signed.

To the bottom of the lake?
Amaranthe
asked.

It’s a thousand at its deepest, but this
first ledge has been measured as a three- to four-hundred-foot
drop, depending on where you step down.
He tilted his head.
We’ll be fine, but we should go slowly to acclimate our bodies
to the pressure change.

I was more worried about coming back
up,
Amaranthe signed.

Just remove the weights when it’s time, and
you’ll float up.

If there wasn’t a kraken waiting in the
middle to eat her.

Amaranthe took a deep breath and stepped off
the ledge. She kept her gloved fingers near the cliff, using the
rough stone to slow her descent.

Time trickled past, measured in the soft
inhalations that echoed in her ears. Fresh air whispered into the
helmet, brushing her cheek, while her used air escaped through an
exhaust vent, creating tiny bubbles that floated away. Her ears
popped, and pressure built in her sinuses. Had this been a trip for
mere fun or adventure, she would have turned back.

An orange glow grew visible below, and she
exhaled in relief. They were getting close.

She touched down in a bed of silt, stirring a
cloud of fine dust. The strange, two-story fortress waited some
twenty-five meters away. Translucent fish still swam about the
perimeter, but Amaranthe did not see the kraken. With luck, it and
the crew of the vessel had turned their focus toward the
Saberfist
.

Something ticked against the back of her
helmet. Maldynado. He pointed overhead.

She tensed, expecting the kraken, and flexed
her finger on the trigger of the harpoon launcher. No tentacles
waved in the distance though; Maldynado was pointing to divers
descending. Six of them. Two carried waterproof lanterns and wore
swords. Two others bore weapons she could not name—they had the
appearance of arm-sized cannons, but black powder would be useless
down here. The final two carried harpoon launchers.

Did they believe us and come expecting
trouble?
Amaranthe signed. The nearby illumination provided
enough light for the hand gestures.

They’re marines,
Maldynado responded.
I bet that’s their typical underwater exploration gear.

She snorted, fogging her faceplate with the
breath. Probably true.

Akstyr came up between them and pointed at a
school of the guardian fish. Amaranthe grimaced, remembering how
one had charred some sea critter into a blackened husk. She hoped
they lacked the firepower to harm full-grown humans.

Let’s try to find a door
, she
signed.

Little seaweed grew this far down, so their
boots stirred sand and silt as they advanced. Amaranthe kept an eye
toward the ground, thinking that those fish would blend in against
the beige surface.

Even prepared, it caught her by surprise when
one swooped up from the sand right before her. Golden scales
shimmered, and an inner light pulsed, building toward a
discharge.

Figuring the poison-smeared harpoon would be
overkill, Amaranthe slid her sword free and slashed at the fish.
The water drag slowed her swipe, and the foot-long creature flitted
aside easily.

Maldynado lunged, his rapier leading. Poking
was faster in the water than swinging, but the agile fish still
slithered away, undamaged. Its tail fins fluttered, and it swam
back a few feet before facing them again. It started pulsing again,
more rapidly now.

Amaranthe pushed off the bottom, sword raised
again. She tried to be subtle, to hold the weapon back so the fish
would not see the attack coming, but it moved again. Or started
to—it froze in the middle of a fin flap.

Quick to take advantage, Amaranthe skewered
it. The fish’s inner light winked out.

You’re welcome
, Akstyr signed.

She removed the creature from her sword and
gave him a salute.
You’re turning into a useful young
man.

I know. I should get more respect.
Akstyr glowered, not at her but at Maldynado.

It’s hard to respect someone who can’t
grow a decent mustache
, Maldynado signed.

Akstyr pointed at Amaranthe and propped his
fists on his hips.

True,
Maldynado signed,
hers hasn’t
come in yet either.

I imagine you’ll stop trying to set me up
with men when it does.
Amaranthe continued forward. She left
her sword out, but she hoped no more trouble hid on the lake floor.
She would hate to admit to Sicarius a fish had gotten the best of
her.

The thought of him sent a twinge of anxiety
through her. She had missed him more than made sense these last
couple of days. It was not as if he were some cheery, warm presence
in her life. Certainly the group had survived a few adventures
without him, proof that, for all his skills, he was not some
nucleus they could not do without. Professionally, she knew they
could go on without him, but personally... Her heart cringed at the
idea of infiltrating this structure, only to learn they were too
late.

They neared one of the tunnels of the
structure, and she pushed stray thoughts from her mind. “Focus,”
she told herself.

They had no trouble creeping up to the hull
of the fortress, and Amaranthe worried that things were going too
easily. She sidled over to a porthole, pushed off the ground, and
rested a hand on the metal, intending to peer in.

Energy surged up her arm, thrusting her back
even as an electric jolt surged through her body. Spasms wracked
her muscles, she couldn’t breathe, and she swore her heart stopped.
Panic flashed through her.

The convulsions ended as abruptly as they
began, and her heart started beating again. She recovered with a
gasp, the experience leaving her shaken.

“Too easy?” she muttered. “I take it
back.”

A hand gripped her shoulder. She realized she
had fallen back to the lake floor—and that she was clutching her
chest as if to keep her heart from bursting out of it. She lowered
her arm and nodded to Maldynado before he could ask after her
health. Or perhaps after her sanity for presuming to touch
something here.

I sense energy about the exterior
,
Akstyr signed.

Now
he told her.

Amaranthe grabbed a rusty tin can sunken into
the silt and tossed it against the hull. Lightning crackled about
it as it bounced off.