Blood and Betrayal (13 page)

“Hm.” Pike strolled out of sight, then returned again, this time with a fat book in his hands. “How’s the vision? Blurry? Or can you still read?”

Being lippy would only get her in trouble—he’d proven that a number of times already—but it seemed important to let him know he hadn’t cowed her, not yet. So Amaranthe summoned enough strength to say, “I’m always… up for a good book… Don’t suppose… you’ve got the… latest… Lady Dourcrest novel?”

“I don’t read that drivel.” Pike hefted the thick tome, slipping it into view between the claw pincers that pinned Amaranthe’s left wrist and shoulder to the table.
The Imperial Army Torture and Interrogation Methods Technical Manual.
Lovely.

“Should you be conscious when Ms. Worgavic returns, I’d like for you to verify that I’ve been operating by the book, as she requested, and not taking too many liberties. She specifically asked, for instance, that you not be raped.”

Gee. How thoughtful. Horrible maiming and permanent disfigurement were fine, but no cavity penetration, please. “And here I just thought you preferred boys.”

Pike’s jaw clenched. Bringing up the man’s past might not have been the best idea. He laid his three-edged blade across her collarbone. The cold steel chilled her bare skin. Rape might be off the table, but he had cut off her clothing first thing, spouting a lecture about people feeling armored and secure beneath their layers of garb but vulnerable when naked. Being nude bothered her less than being peeled like an orange. She kept waiting—hoping—to reach of a point of numbness, where the pain blurred into one horrible experience and she no longer cared about particulars, but it didn’t happen. Every touch, whether with flesh or blade, stirred agony afresh.

“Why this loyalty to Sicarius?” Pike murmured. His gaze roved from her toes to lips, as if her battered and bleeding body might hold the answer.

Amaranthe hadn’t been saying anything in response to his questions—unless one counted the involuntary gasps that came out when injury accompanied inquiry—but this was the first time he’d asked this one. The other fifty times, he’d simply wanted to know what the emperor meant to Sicarius.

“I know the boy,” Pike went on. “He’s attractive enough, I suppose, but I can’t imagine he’s a passionate lover or one to cater to your whims.”

Hearing someone call Sicarius a boy was strange, but Pike had to be close to sixty, and if he’d known Sicarius as a youth, it made sense that he’d remember him that way. Thinking of a young Sicarius spending time with this man, learning his trade, made Amaranthe’s insides clench. She supposed it was horrible of her, wishing someone had shared the fate she was experiencing now, but she hoped he’d been more of a victim to Pike than a student. Especially a willing student. The main reason she could, at least somewhat, accept Sicarius’s occupation was the machine-like way he pursued it, treating everything from training to killing like a necessary task to be completed, not something he relished.

The point of Pike’s knife dug into her flesh, finding a sensitive spot and shattering her thoughts.

“Why the loyalty?” he repeated.

After mulling over whether giving an answer would matter, Amaranthe decided this one probably wouldn’t. Pike already knew she was loyal, as attested by the suffering she continued to endure. “He’s saved my life,” she said. “Many times.”

“Ah, so it’s a soldiers’ bond.” Pike nodded. “That makes more sense, though it’s still surprising. He always worked solo. You’ve never screwed him then?”

What an idiot. “No, have you?”

The question seemed to surprise Pike. Amaranthe had asked it reflexively, not out of any real desire to know, but when the surprise faded into a smile, she got her answer. And promptly wished she hadn’t.

“Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest insisted that his pupil endure every likely torture he might expect to suffer should he be captured by enemy troops. He had to learn not to give any information away. Hollowcrest didn’t even want him to flinch. We began by making him hold burning brands when he was six or seven and, as he grew adept at handling that pain, progressed to—” Pike’s smile broadened, “—more advanced techniques.”

Amaranthe closed her eyes. A vision crashed into her mind of Sicarius as a sandy-haired boy, locked in a dungeon with this monster, helpless to escape, knowing worse punishment would come if he fought. Hollowcrest and Raumesys watched on, making sure their pupil learned his lessons well, probably enjoying the show, the perverted bastards. Amaranthe choked, anger surging through her body, her own pain forgotten. She wanted nothing more than to grab Pike’s knife and ram it into his heart. No, not his heart. His gut. So he’d die slowly and suffer for a long time first. But, trapped by the table and those all-too-efficient pins, she couldn’t do anything more than clench her fists and glare.

Pike, curse the twisted ancestors that had spawned such a bastard, smirked. “Did you think he would have become such a skilled assassin, with such an impressive record, not only of kills but of acquiring necessary information from people, had I not taught him well? To truly understand agony one must experience it oneself. You can guess at the pain of a technique based on another’s reaction, but only when it’s used on you do you truly understand what is effective and what is not. His training was necessary.”

The bastard’s smirk deepened. He had to have loved what the emperor and Hollowcrest had deemed “necessary.”

A realization popped into Amaranthe’s head. Maybe Pike was lying. Maybe he knew this would hurt her in a way his knives couldn’t. Especially considering… “He didn’t have any scars when I met him,” Amaranthe said.

“No,” Pike said without hesitation, “and you won’t have scars either. Aside from the ones you came in with.” He waved to her bare abdomen, forever marked after her encounter with the makarovi. “Despite his distaste for the mental sciences, Hollowcrest knew it would be useful to employ a shaman to educate Sicarius on matters of magic and also to heal him after I worked him over. We could train day after day that way.”

The prompt answer, the matter-of-fact way he spoke… Pike wasn’t lying. As much as Amaranthe wanted to believe otherwise, she couldn’t. With no outlet, her rage faded, replaced by the prick of tears as she thought of the never-ending cycle of pain Sicarius must have endured. To be tortured to within an inch of death, brought back to good health, and then tormented again.

Focus on yourself, girl, spoke a practical voice in the back of her head, on the here and now. On escape. That’s what Sicarius would want you to do.

“When do I get to meet my healer?” Amaranthe asked. Pike had showed no sign of melting beneath her charms, but maybe another would prove more pliable. Afraid he might guess her thoughts, she added, “I don’t suppose he’ll supply water and a steak in addition to doctoring? I’d dearly love some baked apple pudding, too, if you’re taking requests.”

Pike dug his fingers into an open wound on her inner thigh, and Amaranthe gasped as fresh agony shot through her.

“No one else will be intruding upon us, my dear,” Pike said. “When last I was in Kendor, I had a shaman make me a powerful salve with healing capabilities, so there’d be no need to bring an assistant along on… sessions.”

Amaranthe gritted her teeth against his intrusions and hoped he brought out the salve soon.

Pike chuckled. “Oh, the relief that sprang to your eyes. It’s premature though. In truth, all the salve means is that I can torment you for longer since I needn’t worrying about losing you. I can take you to the brink of death again and again. And again.”

“As you did with Sicarius?” Amaranthe asked.

“As we did,” Pike agreed. “You’re fortunate though. He had to be tempered for the life he would lead, so there was no chance of an early reprieve. You, on the other hand, need only tell me one thing. Why is he protecting the emperor?”

Amaranthe turned her face away, weariness plastering her body to the table. “I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Pike’s blade burrowed beneath flesh again. “Then we’ve more work to do.”

•  •  •

Maldynado, sitting on an upturned crate, tossed his twentieth or thirtieth pebble into a rusty tin can. Had anyone been around, he might have had something to brag over, but, under the circumstances, the demonstration of his rock-throwing prowess failed to alleviate the glum attitude that had settled around his shoulders.

After driving all night, the team had found a way into the city and parked in a large junkyard on the outskirts. Nobody had been manning the gate, and the lorry had rolled inside before dawn. After dressing in his new clothes, Sespian had left, announcing that he’d return later with the team’s funds. He’d refused to take anyone with him. Soon he’d leave the group permanently, and, short of tying the youth up, Maldynado didn’t how to change his mind. He didn’t know who to ask for advice either. Books, Basilard, and Yara were snoring in the back of the lorry, as if they didn’t have a concern on their minds. Because Sicarius hadn’t threatened
them
.

Those parting words echoed in Maldynado’s thoughts.
Don’t lose him
. He didn’t know why the emperor mattered to Sicarius, but, since that moment, it had been clear that he did. Maldynado eyed the broken logging machinery, metal scrap, rusted and warped beams, and demolished military trampers and wagons piled all about. The junk hid the lorry from anyone who might wander past the yard, but all the debris in the empire wouldn’t be enough of an obstacle to keep Sicarius from finding him if he lost the emperor.

A scrape sounded behind him. Maldynado rested a hand on his rapier, but it was merely Books. His unwashed hair hung in limp strands around his unshaven face, and smudges beneath his eyes did little to improve his haggard appearance. He hadn’t changed into the clothes Maldynado had risked much to retrieve, though Maldynado silently admitted that such a dirty body shouldn’t sully fine garments anyway. The entire team needed a stay at a decent hotel with heated baths.

Books squinted at the afternoon sun and sat on the end of a rusty beam.

“I think we’re going to have to tie him up and force him to stay with us,” Maldynado said.

“The emperor? There’s a law against that. Eight actually.” Books yawned and dug crud out of his eye. In a quieter tone, he said, “I dreamed about Amaranthe. That she was being tortured by that deviant interrogator, Major Pike.”

Maldynado’s dreams had revolved around Sicarius strangling him, which probably meant he was more self-centered than Books, but he worried about Amaranthe too. “I wanted to go along to get her. I don’t…
not
care about the emperor, but if I had to choose who to help… ”

“I know. I’m trying to console myself with the knowledge that nobody is better qualified to find and retrieve her than Sicarius.”

“But Sicarius might give up when we wouldn’t. Tracking that aircraft, if he can do it at all, isn’t going to be easy. He seemed conflicted about who to go after, too, like picking between Amaranthe and the emperor wasn’t an easy choice.”

Books gave him a sharp look. “Is that so?”

“Yes. What if he only hunts for her for a while, then comes back to help Sespian?”

“I don’t think he’ll give up on her.”

“You don’t? Why?”

Books lifted his eyes skyward. “How can a self-professed romance expert fail to see evidence of a relationship between people he’s around every day?”

Maldynado sat back so quickly he fell off his crate, upending it and sending a cloud of dust into the air. “What are you talking about?
Romance
? A
relationship
? With
Sicarius
?”

“You’re a self-absorbed idiot, Maldynado.”

“An idiot who saved your life last night. You could show a little gratitude.” Maldynado rearranged his crate and sat on it again.

Though Books didn’t apologize, a slightly admonished expression crossed his face. That was something anyway.

“You’re wrong,” Maldynado said. “I pay attention to those things. They never touch or share any of those little looks that lovers do.” He almost choked at linking the word “lover” with Sicarius. A mechanical reaper would be more likely to develop feelings for someone. “They never come back from their outings with their clothes disheveled or a speck of dirt on them. I know they’re both fastidious, but you can’t catch
every
smudge of evidence.”

“Maldynado,” Books said in the tone of one dealing with a slow child, “not all relationships revolve around coitus.”

“Yeah… but those that don’t are called friendships. Like you might find between two mercenaries who respect each other, but don’t dream of cavorting between the sheets. I’ll allow that
may
be they’re friends.”

“You didn’t see Sicarius’s face when he thought Amaranthe was dying last spring,” Books said. “After the makarovi got her. I don’t know if the man is capable of love, but he cares about her. He won’t give up on finding her, not as long as there’s hope that she’s still alive.”

The reminder that Amaranthe might even now be under some torturer’s knife sobered Maldynado and dashed worries of who was romancing whom from his mind. He picked up a few more pebbles to throw at the tin can.

“Maldynado,” Books said quietly, “Basilard told us what happened last night. I do appreciate that you risked yourself to come for Akstyr and me.”

Instead of saying good or making fun of Books for being ensnared in the first place, Maldynado tossed a pebble. The fact that his teammates were suspicious of him of late left him feeling subdued, that he had to be careful about what he said. At the same time, he knew he needed Books on his side if he was going to talk the emperor into sticking with them. Sespian seemed to, if not value Books’s council, at least find his knowledge useful. They’d spent a lot of that drive trying to decode that message and blathering about monetary systems from around the world.

“I wouldn’t do anything to endanger anyone on the team,” Maldynado said. “Amaranthe knows that. I thought… I thought you did too.”

Books’s lips pursed, and he studied the ground.

“I know we’ve always argued and called each other names,” Maldynado went on, “but have I ever
not
been there when you needed me?”