Lindsay Buroker - Forged in Blood I

“You helped the boss last winter,” the second speaker said. “You and that girl. Lokdon, wasn’t it? She was nice.”

“Isn’t he an assassin?”

“Yes, but he was on our side that night when… well, the boss said not to talk about it, but we all would have died if not for him and his friend.” He wiped his rough coal-smeared hands on his trousers and stuck one out toward Sicarius. “I’m Wodic. This is Mederak.”

Sicarius walked to the closest workbench while keeping the men in his peripheral vision. He believed them innocuous, but one didn’t survive years of having a million-ranmya bounty on one’s head by putting beliefs ahead of vigilance. For men like these, such money would change their lives.

“I require a steel trap approximately eight by eight by eight feet joined with the strongest welds possible. It will have two hatches, one on the top and a smaller one on the bottom or side. The walls must be thick enough to withstand the pressure of-” Sicarius noticed the men staring blankly at him. One, Wodic, still had his hand out. “Here. I will draw it.”

Wodic looked down at his hand, shrugged, and walked over to the table.

“He wants us to use the boss’s materials for her new holding warehouse?” Mederak whispered to his comrade while Sicarius was drawing.

“Ssh, it’ll be all right. We’ll tell her it’s for Ms. Lokdon. She won’t object. Not after the…” Wodic lowered his voice. “Not after the mare-cats and that… that evil spirit thing. Did you hear about that?”

“Just stories.”

“They’re true,” Wodic said.

Sicarius finished his drawing without comment. It seemed odd that these men were willing to help him without the application of threats, but he was not surprised Amaranthe had left that feeling of indebtedness behind. She certainly had a knack for winning over allies. Not all of them remembered her so fondly later on, when the heat of the moment passed, but the situation had turned out in these people’s favor.

“Here.” Sicarius pushed the sketch in front of the two men. “It must be assembled outside, so it can be moved.”

“Moved where?”

“Into the lake.”

Wodic and Mederak scratched their heads. “The lake?”

“The obvious trap does not catch the fox.” Sicarius realized he’d quoted one of Basilard’s grandfather’s sayings. In this case, it was apt. “It must be assembled today.”

“ Today ?” Mederak blurted.

Still rubbing his head, Wodic stared at the sketch. “I don’t know if that’s possible, Mr. Sicarius. There’s just us two and our driver out here this week. Until the ice freezes-”

“It will be done today,” Sicarius repeated. “I will assist you.”

They looked him over. Yes, his black clothing was adorned with knifes rather than smith’s tools, but he was a capable worker.

“All of our lives depend on it,” Sicarius said.

They considered the sketch again, perhaps for the first time considering why Sicarius might need such a trap.

“Today’s good,” Mederak said at the same time as Wodic said, “We can do today.”

Amaranthe alternated between yawning and nibbling on her pinkie nail while Akstyr paced around the section of floor that hid the lift. She’d lost all sense of time, but they’d been locked in the control room long enough to share some of Sicarius’s travel bars. Retta had known where to find potable water, though the secret cabinets could not, alas, supply more appealing meals. Amaranthe was too anxious to digest properly anyway.

Retta, her shoulder healed, was moving from floating map to schematic to knot of runes, portions of the three-dimensional images brightening or pulsing when she touched them. Hands clasped behind his back, Books walked behind her, watching her every finger swipe. The knocks and clunks had stopped emanating from below, but every now and then Amaranthe heard a scrape or a thump; people were moving around down there, probably with their weapons drawn as they waited for the assistant to figure out a way to let them charge inside.

“How long will it take to get the Behe -the Ortarh Ortak moving?” Amaranthe asked.

“We’re getting close,” Retta said. “Perhaps an hour now.”

“An hour ?” Akstyr asked. “Hasn’t it already been four or five days?”

“Not quite that long,” Amaranthe said, though she commiserated with the sentiment.

Retta had been poking images for a long time. Even a giant boiler could be heated and a steam engine brought to readiness in less time than this was taking.

“A course must be entered into the navigation system, the engines must be brought on line, the current human population density around the lake must be calculated so we can leave the area in a way that we’re least likely to be seen, and…” Retta frowned as a blue blip on the image in front of her pulsed and a couple of runes formed in the air. “The civilization that created the Ortarh Ortak would have had an entire crew of people working in this room. That we- I -have been able to get it working at all is amazing.”

“Yes, sorry, continue on, please. We’ll keep our mouths shut.” Amaranthe wasn’t going to argue about Retta’s amazingness, not at this point, though she lifted a hand to stop Books the next time he drew near. She lowered her voice to ask, “Now that you’ve been watching her, do you think you could operate the craft if something happened?” She tilted her head toward Retta.

The South Pole plan was workable, she supposed, but she’d still feel better if this thing was forever buried somewhere that people couldn’t find it, especially Forge people. With the money that organization had, arranging an expedition to the other side of the world to continue research would be entirely feasible.

“Dear ancestors, no,” Books said. “She’d have to instruct me on the language and how to operate everything. Right now, it’s a miasma of confusion. The utter alienness of it… I’m sure it’d take months, if not years. Were I to attempt to pilot it, or even open a door, I’d be like a lizard beating its tail against levers on a control panel, hoping for the best.”

Akstyr snickered, but paused mid-laugh. “Something’s happening down below. I can feel-they’re getting ready.”

At that second, a square of the floor rose.

Books and Akstyr leaped back, landing in crouches, their daggers ready. Amaranthe jumped on top of the moving square. The ceiling was so high she could barely see it up there, and she didn’t think the lift had risen that far when it delivered her team to the room.

“Retta,” Amaranthe blurted as a rifle poked through the growing opening between the top of the lift and the rest of the floor. “Door lock’s broken!”

Amaranthe dropped to her belly and snatched the barrel of the rifle. She tried to rip it from its owner’s hands, but, though obviously surprised, the man didn’t let go. She did, however, pull it far enough out to reveal the hand holding the bottom of the barrel. She swiped at it with her dagger, drawing blood. The owner cursed and let go. This time, she succeeded in pulling the rifle away, but three more took its place.

Books and Akstyr, in far more vulnerable positions, ran to the sides of the lift, trying to use them for cover. With it being open on the front and the back, that was a challenge. Gunshots rang out.

“Cursed Mia.” Retta left her work and darted for one of the image banks that displayed internal maps. The lift halted, halfway up, but it didn’t go back down.

Still on her stomach, Amaranthe risked scooting close to the edge, lining the side of her body up parallel with it. Holding the rifle in one hand, her finger curled around the trigger, she lowered the barrel and angled it to shoot inside. The long weapon was heavy and awkward to wield that way, and someone grabbed the end. She fired, and whoever had it let go. Amaranthe yanked the weapon away, rolling onto her back.