Emperor's Edge Republic (76 page)

“You cursed bitch,” he snarled, stumbling back. He snatched at a jar on the table and threw it at her.

Amaranthe ducked it easily and stabbed him again, wanting him incapacitated enough that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on magic. When he grabbed for something else, she kicked him in the shin. He pitched into the table. She jumped over the fallen box—and its gruesome contents—to land behind him. She grabbed him by the shoulder and laid the blade on the side of his neck.

“Time for you to lead me out of here,” she said. “And why don’t you show me where you dropped that pile of rocks on the way out?” She wouldn’t believe Sicarius was dead until she dug his cold body out herself.

He snorted. “I don’t think so. You’ll die with the thousands of others who have died down here.”

“You’re awfully confident for someone whose pistol is...” Dear ancestors, it had fallen in a pile of brains that had tumbled out of the box. Amaranthe clenched her fist. She wanted to ram the sword right through Serpitivich’s back and out the other side. “Start walking.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Amaranthe pressed the blade harder against his neck. He tried to jerk away, but she still held him with her other hand, so she dug her thumb into the pressure point between the tip of the shoulder and the spine. He flinched, pulling in the other direction, toward the blade. Skin tore, and blood dribbled down to his collarbone.

“I’ve had a long, rough night,” Amaranthe said, “and it’s making me crabby. Start walking
now
.”

This time, he complied. He walked slowly toward the door, and Amaranthe didn’t let him out of sword’s reach, though she did grab the open book in case Tikaya could read it and find anything useful within. Since she needed to carry the lamp as well—and keep Serpitivich from making trouble—she stuffed it into her shirt. Sicarius’s shirt actually, which was fortunate, because it was baggy on her and had room for fat musty tomes that made her skin itch. She needed a bath badly. And another vacation.

Serpitivich walked through the door and started up the tunnel. After only a few feet, he halted so quickly Amaranthe almost jabbed him with the sword again.

“What—” she started, then stopped, her jaw descending.

Sicarius stood in the shadows, a robed figure draped over his shoulder. Dust made his blond hair a shade paler, and a few scrapes were visible on his face and hands. He must have been caught at least partially in that rockfall. He hardly appeared
dead
though, something Serpitivich clearly deduced as well, for his shoulders slumped. Had he been hoping that the other robed fellow would come help him?

“You did not wait at the appointed location,” Sicarius said.

Though she’d had a good reason not to wait, she blushed at his statement, nonetheless. Amazing how a man speaking in an utter monotone could convey that he had, in exasperation, walked all over a crypt with an unconscious enemy slung over his shoulder to find her.

“Sorry,” Amaranthe said. “I was being chased by a headless corpse.”

He gazed at her, his face expressionless.

“It’s true,” she said, though if he hadn’t seen the corpse himself, she could understand where skepticism would arise... “Who’s your friend?”

“The practitioner,” Sicarius said.

“Oh? I thought
he
was the practitioner.” She nodded toward Serpitivich. And if he wasn’t, Amaranthe had poked him full of holes unnecessarily. Oddly, she couldn’t manage to feel bad about that.

“He Makes artifacts; I make poisons,” Serpitivich said.

“Do you also make antidotes to poisons?” Amaranthe asked.

“No.” The bastard sounded smug. He knew he had won, that he had succeeded in having Starcrest poisoned. He must. Maybe he had some plan that he thought would continue on even if he were jailed or killed.

Amaranthe would make sure it didn’t happen, whatever it was.

“Serpy here is about to show us the way out,” Amaranthe told Sicarius.

“I have no wish to leave,” Serpitivich said. “You will have to torture me before I’ll show you how to open the door from within.”

Sicarius stared at him, his eyes appearing black in the dim lighting. Black and hard like chips of obsidian. “Good.”

• • • • •

Tikaya was tinkering with combinations of symbols while Mancrest sat at a hallway table, diligently scribbling his notes. With the prisoners taken out, the house had fallen quiet.

“A typical Turgonian safe uses how many numbers?” Tikaya asked. “Three? Four?”

“Three,” he said.

“All right. I have a few ideas here. I’m going to start trying them.” She headed for the vault door.

“Are you warning me in case you trigger a trap, and an explosion shoots out of the wall with enough force to burn us both to cinders?” Mancrest asked.

“Er, no. I just talk aloud sometimes when I’m working.” Tikaya had her hand up, ready to try the lock, but she paused. “Is that... a common thing here? Booby-trapped safes?”

“It was a joke, sorry.” He yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Though... I suppose it isn’t
un
common. Foreigners have told me before that we’re a paranoid people.”

“Yes, I’ve told my husband that as well.”

“That he’s paranoid or that Turgonians in general are paranoid?”

“Yes to both.” Tikaya smiled and returned to the safe. She would risk trying the combinations she had strung together. It would irk her to no end if she had possible solutions to a problem and
didn’t
try them.

She was on the fourth or fifth one when heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. One of the soldiers, she assumed, but glanced back to make sure. Some of those priests might have eluded their pursuers.

Dak strode toward them, an unwieldy long metal tool with a giant wheel balanced over his shoulder. He had donned a padded vest and thick gloves.

“That’s... big,” Tikaya observed as he set it down on the floor.

“An Aspencrest hand power drill,” Dak said. “It’ll cut through granite. I’m not sure about steel, but we can try. There’s no way we’re getting a water- or steam-powered drill up the stairs.”

“That door has to be six inches thick,” Mancrest said.

“I just need to drill through the lock face to get to the lever or drive cam.”

“So, what? Through three inches of steel?”

Dak waved Mancrest to the side. “Sit over there and write your words, newspaper boy.”

Mancrest lifted his hands and returned to the desk.

Tikaya eyed the drill. Dak sounded like he knew what he was doing, but... drilling into the lock might render the door inoperable—permanently—if it were done wrong. “Let me try a few more combinations.”

She expected an argument, but Dak extended a hand toward the door. “As you wish, my lady.”

“You Turgonians can be quite polite when you’re not being brutal.” Tikaya tried the sixth combination on her sheet of paper.

“We can also be polite
while
we’re being brutal,” Mancrest said. “Those of us with proper warrior-caste upbringing anyway.”

“I saw that look, Mancrest,” Dak said. “My upbringing was fine.”

Tikaya continued trying combinations, running down her list. She was aware of the men watching her and the time bleeding past. She wondered where Rias was and if his condition had grown worse. Did the others in the submarine know he was sick? Should she have warned someone? Mahliki? Sespian? A surge of guilt flooded over her. She hadn’t checked the communication sphere since leaving the lorry. There had been so much going on that she hadn’t thought of it. What if he had sent a message and she hadn’t responded? She vowed to run out to the lorry and dig it out of her pack as soon as she ran out of combinations to try. Dak could drill.

“Last one,” she murmured.

Dak and Mancrest leaned in her direction, watching with intent eyes. The dial spun, left-right-left, and landed on the last symbol. She tried to pull open the latch and... nothing happened. The same as with the other twenty attempts.

Tikaya sighed. “Sorry, gentlemen.”

“That Serpitivich is a crafty bird,” Mancrest said. “He seems like a nice scholarly fellow, but underneath... he’s plotting the president’s death. And starting a Kriskrusian cult.”

“Oh,” Tikaya said, an idea sparking in her mind. “A cult. So he would be the cult leader? He has probably read the holy texts then, right? And is familiar with the animal symbols that represent leadership?”

Mancrest and Dak shrugged.

“I wonder...” Tikaya didn’t bother putting her idea down on paper. She simply tried the symbols for the lion, the wolf, and the dagger-toothed lizard. They were all on the dial. “Not that order. Only six options though...”

On the third try, the lock emitted a soft click.

“Hah.” She kneeled back, stretching legs that had started to ache from their long crouch.

“I don’t have any idea what you were just talking about,” Dak said, “but that click sounded promising.” He grabbed the wheel and pulled.

The vault door swung open.

Dak pulled out a pistol and pointed it at whatever lay inside. He didn’t fire though. His brow furrowed and he uttered an, “Uh?”

Not sure whether that signified something good or an impending explosion, Tikaya wasn’t sure if she should look or not. Her curiosity took over though, and she stuck her head around the edge of the door.

Serpitivich himself faced her, standing at the top of a stone landing surrounded by old brick-and-mortar walls. Tikaya noticed the architecture first—and that it didn’t fit in with the style or age of the house. It took her a moment to spot the blood trickling down Serpitivich’s neck and the sword pressed against it.

“Can we come out?” a familiar voice asked from behind the politician.

“Amaranthe?” Tikaya asked.

“Yes, and I’m carrying a bunch of awkward stuff, not to mention pushing this awkward prisoner along. Sicarius is with me too. His burden is also awkward.”

“Yes,” came Sicarius’s emotionless voice.

“Is there a chance any your, ah, stuff has to do with antidotes for Rias’s poison?” Tikaya asked.

The silent moment that followed lasted far too long for her tastes.

“Has it been verified that he’s been poisoned?” Sicarius asked.

“Yes.” Tikaya swallowed. “I can verify it.”

Serpitivich smiled.

“Sicarius identified the poison,” Amaranthe said, “and says... er, he believes there might not be an antidote, but we thought Serpitivich or his practitioner friend here might have a way to cure the president. It seems they dabble in the Science.”

No antidote. Tikaya gripped the wall—it was the only thing that kept her from dropping to the floor, for her legs had grown rubbery and couldn’t support her. She heard Amaranthe’s other words, but couldn’t muster much hope. It would take a healer, and those who specialized in the arts these priests were flinging around—fire and weather manipulation—rarely put the years into master healing.

“Well, Serpitivich?” Dak asked. “Do you know a cure?”

“The ability to know a thing is not the same as the ability to execute a thing.” Serpitivich glanced at the inert man draped over Sicarius’s shoulder.

“Fine, do you know how to
execute
a cure? Your buddy there can help.”

“If I knew how once, I may have forgotten since.”

What did
that
mean? Did he know or not? Tikaya wanted to wring his neck.

“We were... Sicarius was just about to... interrogate him for information on how to open the door,” Amaranthe said. “He would probably be willing to offer his services in relation to this matter too.”

It was a measure of Tikaya’s distress that she didn’t find the notion of interrogation—
torture
—so unappealing at the moment.

Dak grunted and ripped a piece of paper from Mancrest’s pad, then took the pencil from his hand.

“You’re welcome,” Mancrest muttered as Dak used the wall to write a few lines.

Dak handed the paper to Serpitivich. “I ask again, do you know how to execute a cure?”

Serpitivich stared down at the paper for a long moment. His shoulders slumped. “I... yes.”

Hope rushed into Tikaya’s breast.

“Put him and his friend in the lorry,” Dak said.

Amaranthe pushed Serpitivich into the hallway, and two soldiers appeared out of the woodwork to add a few more weapons to the escort duty. She paused to hand Tikaya a book on her way past.

“I don’t know if there’s anything useful in it, but in case he isn’t as helpful as we hope...” Amaranthe shrugged and continued down the hall with her prisoner.

Sicarius stepped through the doorway, his own prisoner still dangling over his shoulder. “Even bound and gagged, a practitioner may prove troublesome if not watched closely,” he told Dak.

“Yes, thank you for agreeing to do that on the way back.” Dak pointed down the hallway after Amaranthe.

Sicarius stared at him for a moment, and Tikaya expected a protest or a statement that he wasn’t one of Dak’s soldiers. But Sicarius walked off without comment.

“You’re lucky he didn’t castrate you,” Mancrest told Dak. “Even Amaranthe smiles and shines her big brown eyes at him when she gives him work.”

Dak grunted. “I’m sure Rias’s right-hand man knows better than to turn his nephew into a eunuch. You better head out, too, before I give you half of this drill to carry.”

“My injury precludes such labor.” Mancrest plucked his pencil out of Dak’s grip and hobbled toward the stairs.

Dak grunted again, this time in response to picking up the heavy tool. “After you, my lady.”

Tikaya took the lead but asked over her shoulder, “What did you write on that note?”

“The address of his daughter in Port Gamouth.”

“You had it memorized?” That city was on the coast, almost two thousand miles away. Serpitivich must have believed his kin safe from his maneuvering in the capital.

“He’s been on my short list for a long time.”

Tikaya remembered Dak warning them they should keep an eye on Serpitivich several days ago, when word of the snitch had first come out. She regretted that she had treated him as a suspect rather than a confidant. They probably could have pinned Serpitivich down earlier if they had worked together. But how could she have known?