Forged in Blood II (52 page)

“You were thinking of
all
that when you wrote that letter? I had… no idea you cared as to who ended up on the throne.”

“I did not foresee Sespian winning the position when word of his heritage got out. I thought he would approve of this alternative.”

“All along, I thought I was running things,” Amaranthe said, “and here it turns out you’re the mastermind.”

Sicarius touched his chin. “Here.”

“Pardon?”

“Your gaze of adoration. It’s focused on the window currently.”

She grinned and gazed at
him
. “I apologize.”

“Accepted.” He rattled the paper. “Do you wish me to continue?”

“Yes.”

“You may be further disturbed.”

Amaranthe’s grin faded. Her team hadn’t been mentioned yet. Would it be mentioned at all? Would that be so bad? She’d longed for a place in the history books once, but she wasn’t sure how history would see her at this point. “Go on,” she said.

“Admiral Starcrest, with family in tow, has not commented on whether his return to the empire will be permanent or not. Many pundits are tossing his name about as a logical leader for the new government that’s being bandied about.” Sicarius lowered the paper to say, “They’re relying heavily on Books’s constitution. Mancrest, Starcrest, and many top officers, professors, and notable non-warrior-caste citizens are being consulted and amendments are being made, but his work will not be forgotten.”

Tears welled in Amaranthe’s eyes. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Sicarius lifted the paper again. “The missing food stores that were a concern have been restored, and Admiral Starcrest admits he made the aqueducts appear to be damaged as a tactic to force the hands of those illegally vying for the throne. In fact, the water supply was never in danger and full service has been returned to the city. Starcrest, injured in the action, is grateful for the support from the city and trusts no further military actions will be required to ensure peace.”

Amaranthe snorted. Sespian had been so worried that they were treading a questionable line, but in comparison to the makarovi and the bombings, Starcrest’s tactics were so insignificant that everyone would doubtlessly forget them. Some historian would praise them for turning the tide in the skirmishes.

“Also,” Sicarius continued reading, “Admiral Starcrest wishes to make known the role Amaranthe Lokdon and a team of wrongfully-accused outlaws, including the assassin Sicarius and the deceased professor Marl ‘Books’ Mugdildor played in saving the city and himself from tragedy. Though they had no hope of reward for themselves, they fought the makarovi toe-to-toe and ultimately came up with the tactic that slew the vile creatures. In addition, they rid the city of much of its criminal element, sending the looting gangs to a similar fate as to the makarovi.”

“The assassin Sicarius,” Amaranthe said. “It sounds strange without the usual adjectives in front of it. Nefarious. Insidious. Cowardly. Does this mean people will stop trying to shoot you?”

“Doubtful. Starcrest wasn’t able to convince the two remaining curmudgeons on the Company of Lords to remove my bounty. He said he’d try again when the new government has taken power. Your bounty has been cleared though.”

“Oh, good.” She ought to feel more jubilant, she supposed. Hadn’t all of this started because she’d wanted to clear her name? She’d always imagined that victory would be more… triumphant. And less bloody. Why, she didn’t know; it wasn’t as if Turgonia had a history of bloodless victories. “What about Maldynado’s bounty? I know that two hundred and fifty ranmyas bothers him terribly.” Though the paucity of the amount had always bothered him more than the fact that it was being offered for his head.

“It remains.” Sicarius opened to the second page and pointed to the continuation of the front-page story. “I won’t read it all to you, but the Marblecrests are all being regarded with suspicion due to Ravido’s choices. The family has been tasked with funding the rebuild of the new government headquarters.”

“It’s not clear that Maldynado was disowned and didn’t have anything to do with the rest of his family’s scheming?”

“He is trying to make it clear. There is resistance.”

“The poor fellow is never going to get his statue,” Amaranthe said.

“He’s lobbying Starcrest now.”

Amaranthe chuckled. “No shame at all.”

“Now that I have read for you, I would request a favor.” Sicarius touched the scissors beside him on the bench.

“A… haircut?” Dared she hope he’d finally let her tidy that blond nest?

“You have not been answering your door. I believed it might take a long-coveted prize to convince you to rejoin the rest of the world. And me.”

“You think I’d consider cutting your hair a prize?”

“You have often expressed the desire to do so.”

“Maybe it
would
delight my… fastidious streak.” Amaranthe smiled. “You don’t have to sacrifice your recalcitrant locks for me though. As for rejoining the world, I was just waiting for the
right
person to knock on my door.” That said, she was glad that he’d waited. Two days earlier, she would have wept all over him and left snotty streaks on his pristine black sleeves. Not much of a prize for
him
.

Sicarius lifted the scissors and held them out to her. He still wanted to let her do it? Even after she’d let him off the hook?

“You wish to look tidy for the funeral ceremony?” Amaranthe asked.

“I wish to look tidy for you.”

She swallowed. “That’s… thoughtful, but I like you fine the way you are. Well, we could work on your smiles, but physically you’re very… nice.” She blushed, reminded that she was lying in his lap. And that they were alone in the courtyard.

“You do not wish to cut it?” Sicarius asked.

“Oh, I’ve
dreamed
of cutting it since I met you. I don’t want you to think it’s some kind of requirement though, that I’m only willing to be seen in public with men with tidy locks.”

“I understand. Shall we do it in your room?”

Amaranthe suspected they were talking about more than haircuts, but either way, her answer was, “Yes.”

She lifted her head, and he helped her up. He handed her the scissors and gestured for her to lead the way. She opened the door to her room and walked about, lighting lamps. It had grown dim while he’d been reading.

Though comfortable, with a large bed, a desk, and a private tub and lavatory, it was a single room, and she grew aware of the fact that the bed dominated it.

Amaranthe avoided looking at it and pulled out the chair at the desk. “Have a seat.”

Sicarius removed his shirt. The lantern light drew attention to his lean, powerful back and torso, the valleys between his muscles delineated by shadow, the bronze contoured flesh taut even when he was relaxed.

“Uhm,” Amaranthe said as he folded his shirt and laid it on the desk. “It’s not necessary to disrobe for, ah…” He turned to face her, and she found herself staring at his pectoral muscles. “Never mind,” she said. “Sit down, please.”

He sat on the chair fully, not on the edge, like an animal poised to flee. He’d once remarked that his reason for cutting his own hair was that he wouldn’t trust anyone near his neck with a blade. When had that changed?

Amaranthe moved a mirror from the washbasin to the desk. Even if he trusted her, it might make him less uneasy if he could watch what she was doing. She pulled out a comb. Its wide teeth were meant for her thick locks rather than short tufts, but it would do.

Amaranthe positioned herself behind him and tried to comb his hair into order. Though she’d touched it a few times before, for some reason she always expected it to be coarse and prickly, a reflection of his personality. It was clean and soft, though, a pleasure to stroke, even if those strokes didn’t cause it to lie down nicely. She used her hand as much as the comb, letting her fingers trail down the side of his neck to brush his collarbone and those lovely shoulder muscles.

She wondered what he used for shampoo. Nothing scented that might give him away to some enemy, but would she catch a whiff of some cleaning agent if she lowered her nose to his scalp? She imagined those soft hairs tickling her skin and had an urge to turn the imagined into reality.

Under the pretext of addressing some knot, she lowered her face as she applied the comb and inhaled subtly. It was
his
scent that filled her nostrils, not that of some shampoo. Warm skin, freshly scrubbed, without the odor of weapons-cleaning oil that usually lingered about him. She didn’t mind that smell, indeed associating it with him, but it tickled her that he’d cleaned up so thoroughly for… his haircut. Maybe he’d remembered her words about preferring her lovers to be free of makarovi gore.

“We will not be disturbed,” Sicarius said.

Startled, Amaranthe stood up straight. It was silly but she was embarrassed, as if appreciating his scent while pretending to do something else was like being caught sampling flat cakes she hadn’t paid for. “What?”

“Sespian and the rest of the team have gone out to drink to Books’s memory, and the Starcrests are retrieving their other children from the family homestead.”

“So… you’re saying we have the guesthouse to ourselves?”

“For many hours.”

“Indeed?” Amaranthe squeaked, then cleared her throat. She distinctly remembered their previous discussion revolving around the word.

In the mirror, his dark eyes were intent, full of purpose. Their intensity was alluring, filling her with the heat of anticipation, but they made her nervous as well. What if, after all this time, she disappointed him?

“Let me wet down your feisty tufts then. I’m sure since you arranged so much privacy for us, you’d like me to do a good job.”

Amaranthe took a deep breath and told herself to get on with things and not burble. He was probably getting impatient. But Sicarius appeared relaxed as he watched her watching him. Even… pleased.

She retrieved a pitcher of water to dampen his defiant locks. Once she’d flattened them as much as possible, she lifted the scissors and considered where to start. The top she supposed, to even out of all those tufts. She was about to make her first clip when he spoke.

“You’ve done this before?”

“Many times,” Amaranthe said.

“On dolls?”

She smiled, reminded of the time she’d admitted that her wound-stitching skills had come via that route. “Yes, on dolls, but also on my father. He couldn’t afford the barber, so when I was old enough, I started cutting his hair for him.” She waved the scissors. “Are you ready now? Or do I need to apply for more official credentials before I can begin?”

“You may begin.”

“I’m so pleased.”

Though he’d granted his permission, Amaranthe started with a single snip, waiting to see if he’d object or perhaps critique. He did not. As she went on, alternating between clipping and combing, he closed his eyes. From someone else, it would mean nothing. But from him… It had taken a year, but he’d finally come to trust her fully. She wondered if it was strange that it meant more to her than a declaration of love would have from another. She dabbed away moisture gathering in her eyes.

“Tilt your head forward, please,” she whispered, wanting to cut a clean line across the bottom.

He did so without comment, and she let her fingers stray again, knowing she was almost done and wanting to savor the experience. All right, she enjoyed touching that warm, sleek skin as well, following the contours of the sinews beneath. The explorations were easier with his head down, without worrying about what thoughts lay behind his eyes.

“Amaranthe,” Sicarius said, “are you finished?”

“Er, almost.”

She shifted to his front so she could trim his bangs. They had to be even. Aware of his face, scant inches from hers, she licked her lips and concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking as she worked.

He watched that movement, the darting of her tongue. His eyes didn’t seem so intimidating now. She recognized his intensity for urgency, yearning. How long had she experienced those same desires for him?

“Are you finished yet?” Sicarius’s muscles might have been relaxed when she’d started, but they were alert now, like those of a sprinter poised at the blocks, ready to surge forward at the starter’s shout.

“Almost,” Amaranthe whispered. She stepped back to properly assess the evenness of the cut and noticed his hand poised in the air, as if he was merely awaiting her signal to pull her into an embrace. As eager to move on as he, she would have welcomed it, but… “Not quite.” She leaned close again. “Your bangs are still a little crooked. You wouldn’t want to—”

Sicarius stood suddenly and his lips covered hers, finally hushing her… burble, that’s what he would call it. She might have voiced an indignant—if muffled—protest, but all thought fled from her mind as his arms wrapped about her, and their bodies molded together. Her senses came alive at the feel of those hard muscles against her chest.

The scissors clinked to the floor.

After a moment, he pulled away, a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, a little breathless.

“I did not come for the haircut,” he said as if he were sharing some shameful secret.

Amaranthe kissed him on the cheek. “I figured that out.”

“You… do not mind?”

His uncertainty touched her, though she hadn’t expected it. That kiss they’d shared in the factory—there’d been no uncertainty in it. His time with the wizard had changed something, she sensed, reminded him that he did indeed possess human fallibility and… frailty. Amaranthe stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. She understood. Oh, yes, she understood.

“I don’t mind,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you, for
this
a long time.”

Relief warmed his eyes, and more… A smile touched his lips.

When she returned it—oh, how long she’d been waiting for that little gesture from him—Sicarius stepped closer again, their bodies not quite touching this time. Mirroring her, he lifted his hand to hold the side of her face and gazed into her eyes for a long moment, then let his fingers trail lower. Light as the snowflakes falling outside, they ran down the side of her neck to her collarbone, stopping at her top shirt button. Senses alight, she scarcely dared to breathe as his deft fingers made quick work of the buttons. He slipped her shirt from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.