Lindsay Buroker - Conspiracy

A whisper of cold air wafted down from the trapdoor. Maldynado had shut it most of the way, but a half an inch remained open.

A surge of anxiety swept through Akstyr. What if the men saw the open door and shut it and locked it from the outside? The rolling side door was already locked. They’d be trapped down here, in this dark hole, with no way out.

Relax, Akstyr told himself. He had the mental sciences. He might be a long way from reaching mastery at anything, but he could surely thwart a lock.

The footsteps stopped. The trapdoor scraped open a few inches. Light glowed above the crack, then descended, and a brass lantern eased into view, flame dancing behind its dirty glass panes. Stubby fingers with dirt wedged beneath the nails held the handle. The tip of a rifle edged through the opening as well.

The low roof forced Akstyr to crouch so deeply that his knees were bumping his chin and his head was brushing the ceiling, but he pressed himself against the wall, sucking his belly in and hugging the shadows the best he could. After hours in darkness, the light half-blinded him, but he didn’t see Maldynado or Basilard or anybody’s gear or blanket within the lantern’s sphere of influence. Though-Akstyr cringed-someone’s underwear lay draped across a bundle of poles near the wall.

“See anything, Rov?” a man asked outside. “It’s a might suspicious that this here door ain’t secured.”

Akstyr closed his eyes and concentrated on the flame. He didn’t know how to manipulate air or gases yet, so he couldn’t simply blow it out or suck all the oxygen from inside the lantern casing. He did know how to tie and cut things, thanks to that book Amaranthe had found him on healing. One had to do those things in the body sometimes.

“Not sure.” The lantern dropped a few inches lower, bringing a hairy wrist inside with it. “There’s something over…”

Akstyr formed a razor blade in his mind. It sliced through the lantern’s wick, extinguishing the flame.

“Emperor’s bunions,” the voice growled. “You got a match?”

“Yeah, you see anything?”

“Some underwear, I think.”

Akstyr sighed.

“Underwear! What’ve we got, some hobos down there sodomizing each other?” The man laughed at his own joke.

Akstyr’s thighs were starting to burn. If the men came down here, he was done hiding. He, Basilard, and Maldynado could take these idiots. Though, if a rifle went off, the rest of that gang might hear. And if Akstyr and the others were supposed to follow these people to their drop-off point without being seen… An out-and-out brawl with the entire force wasn’t exactly not being seen.

Akstyr shook his head. He didn’t care. It wasn’t as if there was money riding on this job.

The trapdoor scraped the rest of the way open. Light appeared again, then two figures dropped into the car, landing in crouches, their rifles raised.

Akstyr focused on the closest man. More precisely, he focused on the lantern the man held, letting his eyelids droop as he concentrated. Just before the flame winked out, Basilard leaped out of the darkness on the far side of the car and barreled toward the intruders.

Darkness fell, and Akstyr didn’t see what happened next, but the grunts of pain and sounds of flesh smacking against flesh told much. He pushed away from the wall, ready to jump into the fray, but the noises gave him little hint as to who was where.

Something banged against Akstyr’s toe. He patted around and found a rifle. The scuffle died down before he’d done more than pick it up.

“Akstyr, how about a light?” Maldynado asked from a few feet away. “It’s hard to tie people up in the dark.”

“Why not just throw them from the train?” Akstyr asked, though he closed his eyes and pictured a ball of light in his head. Creating illumination with the mental sciences involved bending and enhancing existing light, sort of like putting a mirror behind a candle to increase its output, so it was hard to do anything in extremely dark conditions, but he’d learned a trick or two in studying illusions.

“That might make more sense,” Maldynado said, “though the boss would probably be upset if we killed these thugs.”

Akstyr stretched his thoughts out, bringing the light from his head to the air in front of him. A silvery ball the size of his fist blushed into existence. Since the trapdoor was still open, he kept the intensity low. It provided enough light to see Maldynado and Basilard, kneeling on the backs of the downed men, Basilard with a knife to one’s throat, Maldynado simply applying force to twist his foe’s arms into chicken wings. Though the intruders’ faces were scrunched up in pain, their eyes bulged when they spotted the otherworldly light.

“Nobody has to tell her,” Akstyr said.

Basilard frowned at him.

“What?” Akstyr picked up a second rifle and admired the sleek barrel. He’d never seen anything like the loading mechanism. He thumbed open a latch, revealing a chamber that held a bullet, no, multiple bullets. “These are brilliant.”

“I guess,” Maldynado said in response to something Basilard signed when Akstyr wasn’t looking. “It doesn’t make sense to risk ourselves, trying to keep them prisoner all the way back to the city.”

The intruders’ eyes had been riveted to the light, but one started paying attention to Maldynado’s words, and concern crinkled his brow. “Listen, we’re just following orders. We wouldn’t have tossed you out at fifty miles an hour. That’s break-your-neck speed.”

“Shut up, Rov,” the second man growled.

“No, we like you chatty,” Maldynado said. “While your tongue is dancing, why don’t you tell us what you know about these weapons? Like who had them made, where they came from, and where they’re going.”

“Eat street,” the more belligerent man said.

That drew Akstyr’s attention, and he tore his gaze from the rifle. That saying was one common on the streets where he had grown up. Nobody had bothered putting the oldest section of the city on the sewer system, and people dumped piss pots out of their windows. Akstyr checked for gang brands on the men’s hands, but only dirt marked their skin.

“Easy, Motty,” the more talkative man said. “They’ve got magic.” Some new thought must have entered his little brain, because his eyes bugged out even more. “They must have a witch!” Though he couldn’t move his head, not with Basilard’s knife to his neck, his buggy eyes darted about like marbles in a jar.

Akstyr snorted. “There are male practitioners, you know.”

Maldynado roughed Motty up for a minute, then said, “Listen, we can drop you from the train nicely, or you can go under the wheels. Tell us about those weapons, and I’ll make sure you live.”

Blood trickled from Motty’s nose, but he managed a sneer. Since the notion of magic bothered both men, Akstyr formed an illusion, a knife similar to the solid black blade Sicarius carried. He eyed it critically as it floated in the air, thinking it could have appeared to be more realistic-he would have to work on improving his artistic talents-but both men focused on it, their belligerence fading.

“We don’t know who the guns are for,” Rov blurted. “We just got hired to deliver ’em. We weren’t told where they’re going, just to help unload them and do whatever the bloke waiting there wants.”

“Who’s paying your salary?” Maldynado asked.

Rov hesitated. Akstyr made blood drip down the knife and splash onto a box in front of the prisoners. Of course, there wouldn’t be any real moisture in the drops, but neither man was in a position to reach out and check.

“Jo-Jovak!” Rov nearly swallowed his tongue in the rush to get the name out. “He’s the foreman in the factory. I don’t know who pays him or anything else, I swear it. The money’s real good, so we don’t ask questions. Beats thieving in the Buccaneers territory.”