Lindsay Buroker - Conspiracy

“Let’s get this door open,” Amaranthe told Basilard.

“While we’re flying?” Books asked. “Is that wise?”

“Wiser than lighting a blasting stick in a room without an open door.”

Amaranthe unfastened a safety latch and tugged at the unlocking mechanism. It took several tries before she could muscle it loose. A smack sounded, as suction was broken, and the door dropped outward. It happened so abruptly that she might have followed, if not for Basilard. He grabbed her by the back of the shirt and kept her from falling.

Wind tore at her hair and clothing. The black craft loomed closer than ever, blocking out everything but a sliver of the ground where a swath of flames burned, devouring trees and undergrowth. The stink of smoke filled the cargo hold, and Amaranthe stumbled back, coughing.

Basilard waved at Books for one of the blasting sticks and pulled the slingshot back until his arms quivered. He nodded for Books to light the stick and place it in the center of the pouch. Books lit the fuse, then fiddled with the placement of the stick for so long that Amaranthe feared it would go off in the cargo hold. Basilard swatted his hand away and released the slingshot in time.

The blasting stick sailed through the doorway. With the black craft so close, it would have been hard to miss, but Amaranthe held her breath, not knowing what to expect.

The explosive disappeared in a starburst that filled their view and made her squint. She lifted an arm to protect her eyes from the brilliance.

“Get another one ready,” Amaranthe said before the smoke cleared. She doubted one would be sufficient.

The wind shredded the black-powder cloud. Nothing had changed. The great craft was still closing, with no hint of damage marring its inky hull.

“Did we hit it?” Books asked. “The stick must have exploded too early, before it struck the craft. We’ll try to time it better with this one.”

Amaranthe nodded, waving at them to ready another attack, but a heavy feeling plagued her gut. The blasting sticks might not be enough to damage the other craft.

Though Akstyr kept his eyes closed, he could feel Sicarius watching him with the intensity of a starving wolf. A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of Akstyr’s face and dripped from his chin. He chastised himself for noticing. Concentrate, he told himself. He had to block out Sicarius, and block out the awareness of his body if he hoped to find the artifact.

It had left its spot beneath the emperor’s knot of scar tissue to burrow deeper. As Books had said, it was designed to hook to the jugular to deliver its poison if tampered with, so that must be where it had gone.

Akstyr imagined his senses were blood cells, able to navigate through the body with ease. Slowly, his consciousness drew closer to that main artery. Something alien brushed against his awareness. The device. Yes, it was there, attached to the jugular.

As he had started to do before, Akstyr coiled his mental energy, preparing to hurl an attack. He dared not loiter, because that thing must have already sensed a threat. One chance. That was all he had.

“It’s on his jugular,” Akstyr whispered without opening his eyes. “Right here.” He pointed at the emperor’s neck, directly over the artifact, and was careful not to touch the skin. “You’ll have to slice deep to get it out, but not too deep.”

“Understood,” Sicarius said.

Sespian heard, and he had to be terrified, but he kept his breathing calm. He continued to lie still, though his knuckles tightened where his hands gripped each other across his belly. A detached part of Akstyr observed that it was interesting that he could sense all of that with his eyes closed, but he forced the thought away, turning his concentration again toward the artifact.

He summoned all of his mental might into a tiny ball, targeted the artifact, and unleashed the coiled energy in a single blow.

At that moment, the dirigible shuddered, as if they’d hit something-or something had hit them. The disturbance affected Akstyr’s aim, and his mental blow glanced off the artifact instead of hitting it squarely. He kept his concentration and eased in closer, prepared to hurl another attack, if he had time. The artifact was frozen though. His blow must have been enough to stun it.

“Now,” Akstyr said, his eyes flying open. “Get it out.”

Sicarius gave him a hard, appraising look-it only lasted a half a second-but his hesitation filled Akstyr with alarm.

“I swear,” he blurted. “It’s stunned, but only for a…”

Sicarius’s hands blurred into motion.

Sespian stiffened, and tried to pull away, but Sicarius held him down with one hand while the other…

Akstyr started. It had happened so quickly, he had missed Sicarius switching tools. He already held the artifact aloft, captured in a pair of tweezers. Sicarius dropped the small sphere to the floor and smashed it beneath his boot.

The emperor sat up, a hand clasped to his throat, his eyes wider than gold coins. Blood spilled between his fingers, but not a lot. Sicarius hadn’t nicked the artery.

“He got it.” Akstyr handed the emperor a thick cloth from the table. “You’re not bleeding a lot, but you can use that to stop it.”

A resounding thud sounded, and another quake coursed through the dirigible. What was Maldynado doing? Mowing down trees?

Sespian took the cloth with his free hand and pressed it to his throat. Blood dripped from the palm of his other hand, joining spatters on his shirt. “What do you people consider a lot?” he asked, though there was relief in his eyes.

“Depends on who you ask,” Akstyr said. “Basilard and Sicarius probably wouldn’t blink unless they had a leg fall off. Maldynado’s been known to complain about splinters.”

“I will suture your wound.” Sicarius picked up the needle and spindle of thread Amaranthe had laid on the table earlier.

The relief faded from the emperor’s face. He watched Sicarius thread the needle with concern. Akstyr wouldn’t be thrilled about Sicarius being his surgeon either.

“I can fix him up with the Science,” Akstyr said. “The way I did with Am’ranthe that time. It’ll probably leave less of a scar than the needle and thread.”

Sicarius looked Akstyr in the eyes, and Akstyr forced himself to hold the stare. He had a feeling there was some measuring going on in there, measuring that went beyond whether or not he was qualified to mend a cut.

When Sicarius gave one firm nod, Akstyr knew it applied to more than the doctoring. Akstyr had passed the test, and Sicarius was giving him another chance to do right by the group. Akstyr nodded back, the same single nod.

“You do not mind?” Sicarius asked the emperor.

“Oh, no.” Sespian blew out a slow thankful breath. “That’s fine by me.”

“Lie back down, Sire,” Akstyr said, remembering to add the honorific this time. “Here, I’ll hold the cloth there while I work.”

He thought of telling Sicarius that he could leave to help the others-at the least, someone needed driving assistance-but the way Sicarius folded his arms over his chest said he wasn’t going to leave the emperor alone. He might be willing to forget Akstyr’s past transgressions, as he called them, but that didn’t mean he trusted Akstyr. Oh, well. It was a start.

“It’s getting closer,” Books said. “They’re bound to figure out how to aim that beam sooner or later.”

He was stating the obvious, and Amaranthe bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. She pointed toward the horizontal bank of windows-at least they looked like windows-near the top of the dome. The feature was the only thing on the craft that wasn’t made from the black material. “Aim for that, Basilard. Maybe it’s something like glass and isn’t as-”