Forged in Blood II (29 page)

The light level changed above, and her already rapid heartbeat jumped into triple-time. It wasn’t bright enough to suggest a lantern, but some faint variation had occurred up there, beyond the grate.

Struggling for the calm precision she needed, Amaranthe stretched up again. Her fingers gave way in the same second that the shank threaded the hole.

An involuntary gasp escaped her lips as her top arm dropped, leaving all the weight hanging from her other hand, from the precarious grip she had on the lock. Fearing that noise had betrayed her position, she gave up on caution. Shoulders burning, she gritted her teeth and flung her free arm up, catching the grate. From there, she was able to find the leverage to push the shank into the lock. A soft click sounded as it caught.

Overhead, a boot came to rest an inch from her fingers.

She’d known he was up there, but it startled her nonetheless, and she let go, as if he might stab down with his dagger should she move too slowly. Her other hand slipped off the lock at the same time. She skidded down the wall and, unable to judge the distance in the inky blackness, hit hard on her heels. Pain lanced up both ankles, but she’d barely registered it before they were sliding out from beneath her. Her butt struck next, followed by her back and shoulders. Not only was the ground icy and slick, but it sloped downward. She skidded several feet before coming to a stop on her backside with her knees scrunched up to her chin.

High above, a second boot had joined the first. He must not fear that she had a weapon with which to shoot him. Or did he know it was she and that she wouldn’t hurt him, no matter what the wizard commanded him to do?

Of
course
he knows it’s you, she snarled to herself, he can identify you from thirty paces by the shampoo you use.

The boots shifted. For some reason, she could see well enough to know he had gone from standing to crouching. The light was so faint as to be barely distinguishable, but it was more than the pitch darkness that had surrounded the factory earlier. Or was it that she’d simply gone into a deeper level of darkness and it seemed light up there in comparison?

That sounded logical, and she might have believed it, but his face came into view with the crouch. He wore a black knit cap, but a faint glow seeped through the fabric at his temple.

Oh. Right. The stone.

“You are alive,” Sicarius said.

His tone was flat and emotionless—that lack of any sort of feeling shouldn’t have surprised her, but it dug into her heart like a dagger nonetheless. He knelt at the edge, most of his body out of sight, but his hands slipped through the grate to check the latch.

Amaranthe needed to get him talking, to slow him down from… whatever it was he intended to do to her. “Yes, I’m alive. I’d like to think you have an interest in keeping me that way.”

He didn’t reply. Not promising.

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been for
days
.” She didn’t have to feign the anguish in her voice. “The last I heard you’d gone after that soul construct. Maldynado said—”

His hands froze. “Who?”

“Maldynado,” Amaranthe said. “Tall fellow. Broad shoulders, handsome face. Ridiculous hat. His current one has tentacles sticking out in all directions. You couldn’t miss it, even at a distance.” She regretted her flippancy immediately. Of course, he must have thought Maldynado had been killed along with everyone else in Fort Urgot. She had, too, until he, Basilard, and Sespian had showed up at the factory. Oh, she realized with the certainty of a gut punch, Sicarius would have thought Sespian dead too.

Dear ancestors. She dropped her face into her hand. Had he thought
everyone
was dead? That he was the lone survivor? That might explain how he’d stumbled into this wizard’s clutches. He might have been grieving or stunned or running around heedless of his safety, in some crazed vengeful state.

“Sespian is alive,” she said, then wondered if she should have. Did the wizard hear everything he heard, know everything he knew?

Sicarius’s hands hadn’t started moving again. That was good, anyway. As long as he was here, he wasn’t serving as bodyguard for the Nurian. She felt certain he had come alone to the factory—surely someone less stealthy and less comfortable with moving around in the dark would have insisted on a light or made some noise.

“Where is Admiral Starcrest?” Sicarius asked. There’d been a long gap between her statement and his next words, and she imagined some conversation going on between him and the wizard. Or perhaps some battle of wills. Maybe Sicarius had given in before because he’d had nothing to live for, but might he fight harder now that he knew his son was alive?

“I have no idea,” Amaranthe said.

“You will tell me.” Sicarius’s voice was icier than the frozen sludge pressing against her back.

She swallowed, thinking of Pike and imagining… She squinted her eyes shut. No, she didn’t want to imagine something like that. Not with Sicarius holding the knife. He was her best friend, curse it, and… more. The idea of being tortured by the man she loved, it was too horrible to dwell upon.

She didn’t have the exact information he wanted anyway. They’d decided it would be best that she not know, in case the team couldn’t get to the wizard in time.

Time. Sicarius’s fingers were probing the latch again, feeling around the lock. He knelt back. Pulling out his picks, she wagered.

Amaranthe patted around, looking for a stone or something she could throw. She had a knife, but she didn’t want to hurt him. That was why she hadn’t brought a pistol. But she needed a way to keep him from thwarting that lock. Once he opened that grate, he’d jump down, and his fingers would be around her neck faster than she could duck or dodge, and there’d be nothing she could do about it. On Darkcrest Isle, there’d at least been a hope of escaping, but where could she go from here?

Wherever the sewage goes, she admitted. An unappealing thought, but if there were a large enough pipe or duct…

Sicarius’s hands came into view again. It was too dark to see any tools in his fingers, but she could hear the soft scrapes of metal on metal. Applying those tools through a grate wouldn’t be easy, but she had no delusion of that simple padlock defeating him for long.

Amaranthe shifted about, patting beneath her, trying to find the hole through which sludge could escape. Given the sticky gooey nature of the residue, it couldn’t be a small easily clogged drain… right?

She chanced across an egg-sized stone, or chunk of some hardened residue perhaps, on a ledge beneath her. While she wouldn’t fling knives at Sicarius, a rock that might cause him to drop one of those tools? Absolutely. Knowing she wouldn’t find many projectiles down there, she shifted around and lined up the throw carefully. Sicarius would hear her, she had no doubt, but doubted even his eyes could pierce the darkness at the bottom of her pit.

Trying not to make noise and give away her intent, Amaranthe hurled the chunk. Her aim proved accurate, and it should have smashed against the lock or his fingers, but he anticipated it somehow and caught the rock without dropping any of his tools.

“I prefer dealing with soul constructs to you,” Amaranthe muttered. “At least those things are dumb enough to hurl themselves out windows. I’m fairly certain they’re not well trained in lock-picking techniques either.” Though the one she’d dealt with might have been strong enough to tear the grate off the hinges.

Sicarius set the stone on the floor beside him—how unsporting of him not to toss it back down so she could try again—and returned to work. Since her commentary wasn’t distracting him, she went back to groping around for that drain.

Ah, there. The ledge covered a vertical hole about a foot in diameter, maybe a foot and a half, but narrow enough that her guts clenched at the idea of squirming into it. There weren’t any bars blocking the opening—no excuses not to shift her body around and attempt to crawl inside. Except that she might get stuck. Her breasts and hips weren’t huge by feminine standards, but she gauged that they’d get in the way for this task, or that there’d at least be a lot of uncomfortable squishing. And what if the drain narrowed before it reached the lake or sewer or wherever the sludge dumped? What if there were bars or a grate at the other end? If she were stuck, there’d be no way to turn around. Would she even be able to back out the way she’d come?

A soft click came from above. Curse his nimble-fingered ancestors, he’d already thwarted the lock.

Amaranthe had to contort herself into something approaching a U to lever her body under the ledge and into the hole, but, motivated by the knowledge that Sicarius’s master wanted her tortured for information, she found the agility to do so. Hands leading, she scrabbled at walls bathed in variegated lumps of mold and less identifiable grime. If not for the winter temperatures outside, the clumps might have torn off when she gripped them, but they were frozen to the sides, hanging on with the tenacity of warts, and she used them for handholds to pull her body fully into the hole.

To say it was a tight fit would have been a supreme understatement. The lumpy walls scraped at her hips, and she couldn’t bring her knees up to use her lower body to propel herself along. Her movement relied fully on her arms, and her shoulders bumped against the walls too, limiting her upper body’s effectiveness. She couldn’t lift her head without cracking it on the top, nor could she glance over her shoulder to check behind her. The air was close and stale, the scent of some animal’s scat lingering around her.

The faintest of squeaks sounded—the oiled hinges of the grate opening. Amaranthe pulled herself along faster.

Something brushed the sole of her boot. She yanked her leg away from the touch, banging her knee on the wall. She pulled herself along with her hands, scooting as quickly as she could.

Sicarius. Unless there were rats down there, that had been he, reaching his hand in after her.

“Like there’s room for rats,” she muttered.

As she clawed her way deeper into the drain—she couldn’t see any light ahead, no promise that an end awaited her—she wondered if Sicarius would be able to follow her. His extra six inches of height would make it harder for him to lever himself around the ledge and into the hole, and his shoulders were broader than hers, but his hips were narrower, and hips were the main thing giving her trouble.

She kept pulling herself along, though she tried to listen over the sound of her own breaths and of her clothing scraping and tearing against the frozen sludge lining the walls.

If he
did
succeed in slipping inside, and if he caught up with her, would he be able to kill her from back there? Crawl up as close as he could and drive his dagger into her femoral artery, so that she’d bleed to death? He wouldn’t get his information about Starcrest then. No, he’d probably have the strength to drag her out of the drain backwards, with her fingernails snapping off as she tried to retain a hold on the walls.

Your imagination is worse than reality, she told herself. He might not even be back there. What if he’d decided, upon realizing he couldn’t squeeze in, to wait for her on the other side? She’d see the exit ahead and lunge for freedom, only to tumble into his grip.

Stop that, she snarled at herself and her all too frisky imagination.

It
would,
however, be useful to know if he’d managed to enter the drain or not.

Amaranthe licked her lips and called, “You know… when I imagined us getting horizontal together, this isn’t at all how I thought it’d go.”

She didn’t slow down to wait for a response, but she did listen intently, ears straining to hear any sign that he was behind her.

A startled squeak came from the other direction, followed by something scampering away. So. Room for rats down there after all.

“I,” Sicarius said, but that’s all he managed. Even that syllable broke off with a grunt of exertion.

Amaranthe renewed her efforts, pulling herself along as fast as she could. He might be fighting the wizard, but he wasn’t winning, not if he was that close behind her.

The blackness ahead seemed to lessen in intensity, fading to a dark, dark gray. The exit? Or some storm drain in a nearby street? Either would work, so long as she could escape through it.

A hint of a breeze brushed her cheeks, carrying the fresh scent of snow, of the outside. Her situation might be improving.

Her fingers smashed into fresh rat droppings.

Right. She’d better wait to see what lay ahead before wasting her energy on optimism. If she ran into a dead-end…

The sound of breathing reached her ears. It was strained, like Sicarius was trying to fight the wizard, but
trying
wouldn’t help her. He was close on her heels.

The tunnel curved slightly, and Amaranthe’s hips caught in the bend. The dark gray turned to a less dark gray circle ahead. An exit. There were bars across it, but only two and widely spaced, relatively speaking. She might be able to squirm her way between them. She grunted.
If
she could escape the cursed bend. Extra sludge had accumulated on the walls in that spot.

“Should have grabbed some lubricant before thrusting myself into a tight space,” she muttered, scraping and clawing, trying to find a larger handhold, something to offer her a good grip. There. She caught some nodule on the ceiling and twisted, using it to pull. The fresh angle let her shimmy free. The escape sent a surge of exhilaration through her, and she brazenly called, “
That
, on the other hand, might have been appropriate for our first horizontal meeting.”

She didn’t know if he’d heard her first mumbled comment, but somehow hoped he had and that he might find the notion amusing. She didn’t know the secret to breaking that hold, but figured displaying her personality, however quirky and inappropriate it might be at times, would remind him of his fondness for her and give him ammunition to continue to fight against the wizard. In lieu of that, she’d be fine with him getting stuck in the bend.

Amaranthe squirmed the rest of the way to the exit and to the two vertical bars, both coated with so many layers of frozen grime that they were twice their original size. She pressed her head into the gap between the two—that would be the sticking point. If she couldn’t get her head through, she wasn’t going anywhere. If she could, she figured she could twist and gyrate enough to wriggle the rest of her body out.