Forged in Blood I (29 page)

Sicarius stared at them briefly—this caused defensive shrugging, then squirming from Maldynado—before returning his attention to Sespian.

“I’ve volunteered myself for the mission too,” he said.

Maldynado gaped at Sespian. “You did what?”

Though also surprised, Sicarius kept his face neutral. “You wish to go on a dangerous mission with me?”

Sespian grimaced. “I’m not sure
wish
is the word, but I sense that this might improve General Ridgecrest’s opinion of me. He hasn’t been rude, but from a few comments… I had the impression he doesn’t have a lot of respect for… what did you call me?” He glanced at Maldynado. “Bookish?”

“Bookly.”

Basilard signed,
Is that a word?

Maldynado pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you start. I get hounded about words enough from Books.”

“Bookly, yes,” Sespian said. “I don’t think Ridgecrest respects bookly types as much as warriors.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Maldynado said, dropping his goofy expression in favor of a more serious mien. “He came by the house some when I was a boy. He’d served a few years on the west coast and was a contemporary of Lord Admiral Starcrest. He had all sorts of respect for him, and by all accounts Starcrest was on the bookly side. But he used his smarts to succeed in war, and the stories say he was the type to lead men into battle, a cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other.”

Sicarius had wondered if Ridgecrest had ever met Starcrest. If the two had a past bond, it could prove useful if—

“Perhaps I should have been asking you for cutlass- and pistol-wielding lessons these last weeks,” Sespian told Sicarius with a sigh.

Sicarius refrained from pointing out that he’d been available and that if someone hadn’t been sulking someone could have had as many lessons as he wanted. “We can begin anytime you wish.”

“Can we gather intelligence for Ridgecrest first?” Sespian asked. “Everything Maldynado said makes me believe my impression was correct, and that Ridgecrest might respect me more—no, be more willing to
ally
with me—if he saw that I’m capable of the sorts of physical feats that Turgonian emperors have always demonstrated. He needs to know that I’m a man who’s not afraid to walk into danger; I won’t simply hide in the Imperial Barracks and send others out to die for me.”

Normally, Sicarius would approve of this line of reasoning, but the earlier howl of the soul construct concerned him. If the creature was, as he suspected, after Sespian, he’d be safer inside these walls and surrounded by thousands of people. Heroncrest might be the man who’d allied with the Nurians. If Sespian walked into their camp and was captured… Heroncrest would get rid of him in a second to make his own route to the throne simpler.

Sespian cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen upon the clock tower. “I know I’ll slow you down, but I thought… maybe you could show me a few things out there—the things you do so well. Less the throat-cutting ideally. Amaranthe said… I mean, it seems like you want to. Show me things, that is.” He gave a self-deprecating eye roll at the awkwardness of his words. This must mean much to him—perhaps he saw Ridgecrest as his only chance.

Basilard and Maldynado’s heads swung toward Sicarius. He sensed that they were enjoying the chance to see a side of him that was more than the assassin. Sicarius, however, didn’t care to share that side with anyone except Sespian. And Amaranthe. He did his best to ignore them.

“I thought you were more interested in fishing,” he said.

Sespian managed a wan smile. “Wrong time of year for that, I fear.”

“Are we coming too?” Maldynado asked.

“As I recall, you’re here to spread rumors about Ravido,” Sicarius said.

“Preferably not through Ridgecrest’s daughters,” Sespian added.

“They’re absolutely no fun, either of them,” Maldynado muttered to Basilard.

Basilard ignored him, signing toward Sicarius,
And me?

Sicarius considered the question. He’d prefer to take no one and gather intelligence on his own—or simply eliminate this Heroncrest—but if he had to take someone, he’d rather have the more proven Basilard than Sespian. Practically speaking. But if he went with his heart, something Amaranthe would doubtlessly encourage, he’d take Sespian and Sespian alone. How could he refuse to do so when Sespian had finally asked for it? He’d made no mention of taking Maldynado or Basilard.

Hoping this decision of the “heart” wouldn’t get his son killed, Sicarius said, “Keep watch from in here, Basilard. If an alarm is raised or if we’re captured—” or killed, he added silently, thinking of the soul construct, “—let Amaranthe know what’s happened.”

Understood
, Basilard signed.

“A word,” Sicarius said, waving for Sespian to join him to one side.

“Yes?”

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the logic of assassinating your rival instead of spying on him,” Sicarius said.

Sespian sighed. “I knew you’d bring that up. We’re not killing anyone.”

“It’s unlikely we’ll make it in and out without casualties.”

“I thought you were better than that—in and out without anyone knowing you’re there. Or are you worried I’ll be the one to snap a twig and alert someone of our presence?”

Yes, Sicarius thought, but he didn’t say it.

He didn’t need to. Sespian sighed again. “If that happens, just knock the person out or otherwise subdue him. I know you can do that. We don’t need to kill anyone.”

“You’re being optimistic.”

“Better than pessimistic.” Sespian set his jaw.

Sicarius flicked away the argument—the guards were inconsequential anyway—but he wasn’t ready to concede on the enemy commander. “If we’re going through the effort of sneaking past the perimeter, which won’t be easy because they’ll be expecting spies, it’s logical to kill Heroncrest while we’re there. If these two armies clash, he’ll be a target in the battle anyway. You or Ridgecrest will be standing on the wall, directing artillerymen to shoot rounds at him. He’s someone who is plotting to take the throne. With you still alive, that’s treason, punishable by death. Getting rid of him in the beginning could save lives later. Further, there’ll be a headless army out there without a candidate to back. If you show your face, you’ll be their logical leader. You could have thousands of men, at which point Ridgecrest might be more likely to back you as well. The combined forces would rival those Ravido can claim.”

Sespian shook his head and walked to the window. He gripped the sill, hands tight on the cold snow and stone. Sicarius didn’t know if that was an utter rejection or not—Amaranthe was always more vociferous about her rejections. He went to stand beside Sespian, curious if he’d be pushed away.

“I understand your logic, and I won’t try to pretend that it’s false,” Sespian said, “but you can’t always use logic when it comes to human beings. There are methods that are honorable and others that aren’t. I won’t win Ridgecrest’s respect by sending in an assassin to kill my competition in his sleep. And I won’t… respect myself either. I refuse to believe that a man has to give up his self-respect, his sense of honor, to rule a nation.”

Sicarius doubted many leaders of nations, especially ones not born into the position, had reached such lofty heights without trading their honor for gains somewhere along the way. For good or ill, Hollowcrest and his tutors had chosen to instill practicality into him, not honor. If he saw an opportunity to assassinate Heroncrest, he’d take it. Sespian’s honor need not be besmirched if he wasn’t a part of it.

Out loud, Sicarius said, “Very well. I will not mention it again.”

“Thank you,” Sespian said. “Do we go tonight?”

Sicarius gazed out the window, back toward the city. As much as he’d like to return to the factory—to Amaranthe—he doubted it would happen soon. “The night is already half-spent, and many will be alert still. We’ll go tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“As will I,” Sicarius said and pulled out the sharpening kit for his knives.

Chapter 11

E
vening approached as Amaranthe strode down the nicest part of Waterfront Street with Books and Akstyr at her side, though, thanks to the gray sky and snow, it had never truly felt like daylight. She’d spent the afternoon studying Suan Curlev’s book and watching the windows, hoping Sicarius and Sespian would walk into the factory. With the news of Fort Urgot being surrounded, she wasn’t surprised they hadn’t returned, but she’d hoped anyway, wanting to see Sicarius again before her mission. If things didn’t go well…

No thinking like that, she told herself. Things
would
go well.

With her shoulders back and her head lifted, Amaranthe was trying to appear confident as they walked, or at least like someone who believed her plan had a chance to work. But every time one of her newly blonde locks flopped into her line of sight, it gave her a start—and reminded her that she wore a costume, a costume that was nothing better than a guess at what a woman returning from Kendor might look like. A tintype in the back of Suan’s book had shown her wearing half-frame reading glasses, often pushed up into her shoulder-length hair, but the rest of the outfit was a guess.

The brown and tan pattern of the dress swirling about Amaranthe’s ankles had a desert feel, though the leggings and fur boots beneath were purely Turgonian and designed for winter weather. Maldynado had picked out a pair of suede wedge sandals, complete with skin-tickling tassels, to complement the dress, but she did not wish to invite frostbite to visit her toes. Nor could she imagine fighting in footgear that hoisted her heels three inches into the air and threatened to tip her nose-first onto the ground every time she took a step. Much to Sergeant Yara’s amusement, Amaranthe
was
wearing the string lingerie, if only because there’d been no time to shop for more practical underwear. Her regular cold-weather undergarments would have shown through the low-cut dress.
Not
the sexy look of an exotic globe-exploring woman, Maldynado had informed her. He refused to accept the idea that someone who explored the world could do so without being sexy. The final piece of the costume lay beneath a mink jacket, the slit-eyed medallion dangling on its silver chain.

Books was lecturing on Kendorian economics as they walked, and Amaranthe turned her attention back to his words, knowing she might need the information. Since Suan had last been traveling there, and the Forge people all had business interests, it might come up in an early conversation.

“…relatively meager gross domestic product in comparison with the empire,” Books was saying. “It’s not surprising given how much of the population is nomadic. Kendor is, however, known for a few niche industries, such as wool, copper, and sartorial crafts with their lizard-skin products being recognized all over the world. Some of the tribes also lease land to foreigners for ranching and mining, though Turgonians are not allowed, so an interested imperial entity must find a creative workaround, typically by engaging a third-party representative, to tread upon Kendorian soil.”

Books continued to speak, needing amazingly few breaths or breaks to rest his lips. He ignored Akstyr’s pronounced yawns and muttered asides. Only when Akstyr raised his voice and said, “Enforcers,” did Books pause.

A pair of patrollers had walked out of one of the steep side streets and rounded the corner onto the waterfront.

“Up the alley?” Akstyr asked.

“No.” Amaranthe touched her prosthetic nose, one that added length and a slight hawkish aspect to her face, to assure herself it was still attached; the rest of her makeup was cosmetic, and she didn’t worry so much about it, but if the nose happened to fall off at an inopportune time… She dropped her hand. It was fine and would, no doubt, be more likely to stay so if she stopped prodding it. “Let’s see how well our costumes work.”

“Looking for trouble before we reach the yacht club?” Books asked.

“If we can’t pass as non-outlaws in front of a couple of rookies, there’s no point in attending this meeting.”

“Very well.”

Books and Akstyr also wore costumes designed to make them appear traveled. Books’s long legs were clothed in sedate brown corduroy trousers, but the apricot and yellow silk “scholar’s robe” definitely bespoke Nurian origins. The lizard-skin satchel slung over his shoulder was out of Kendor, but, according to Maldynado, catching on in the capital, much like the boots she’d had so much time to study from beneath the clothes rack.

Akstyr had painted shamanic tattoos on the backs of his hand, one of which covered up his gang brand. For clothing, he wore a white shepherd’s robe, a winter-thick version of the ones the southern Kendorian nomads favored for tending bighorn desert sheep. Predictably, none of the Stumps clothiers had carried shamanic robes, but it would have been dangerous to put him in them anyway. Akstyr’s only comment had been to say that robes were stupid and his “pickaxe and diamonds” were freezing.

The enforcers traveled down the street toward Amaranthe and the others, using the same sidewalk. Once, she would have lifted a hand in a comradely wave. Lately, her instincts were to flee down alleys. This time… she kept her chin up and strode straight toward them. Books and Akstyr eased in behind her, ostensibly to make room for the enforcers to pass, but they didn’t wear any face-altering makeup or prosthetics, so they wouldn’t want to test their costumes quite as rigorously. They’d altered their hairstyles—poor Akstyr had had little choice—allowing her to clip their formerly longish locks closer to their heads. They didn’t look much like their bounty posters, but she couldn’t blame them for not wanting to test the enforcers’ observation skills. Few in Forge should be that familiar with her team’s visages, especially for the lesser known members.

Engrossed in their own conversation, the enforcers walked past without giving them more than a glance.

Amaranthe exhaled slowly and said, “A good beginning,” when Books came up to her side again.

“All you’ve proven is that you don’t look like a notorious outlaw any more.”