Forged in Blood I

Chapter 4

Sicarius slithered through the warm dusty ducts, as soundless as a snake. As he approached the imperial suite, a sprawling complex of rooms large enough to accommodate a family of multiple generations, the resiny scent of Nurian rek rek teased his nostrils again. He stopped at the vent leading to the master bedroom. The grate had been removed. The screws had been knocked out from within-warping and destroying them-the culprit obviously not caring if his presence was detected after his deed was done. And the deed was what? An assassination. It had to be. If another had come to assassinate Ravido, perhaps it’d be best to let the man do his work. Sespian might object, but Sicarius refused to rescue Maldynado’s rogue relative simply so Sespian could kidnap him.

Unlike Hollowcrest’s suite, these rooms had seen recent occupation. Though Sicarius didn’t spot anyone at the moment, the lamps burned, a fire crackled in the hearth, and the sheets and furs on the bed had been turned down. In addition to the Nurian smoke, he smelled the leather of bookbindings, the tang of weapons cleaning oil, and the potato-based starch officers employed for pressing their uniforms.

Sicarius remained motionless, waiting for Ravido to come in and listening for the breaths of someone who might already be hiding in the suite. Nothing stirred. The fire in the hearth burned down.

He would need to return to the others soon. It would not prove propitious if they grew restless and started wandering the Barracks on their own.

A series of resounding clangs thundered through the building, echoing through the ducts with the force of a great bell’s reverberations. Sicarius recognized the cacophony instantly. The Imperial Barracks alarm.

Doors banged and shouts echoed in the hallway. The team must have been discovered, or perhaps security had stumbled upon evidence of the other intruder’s presence. Either scenario would be problematic.

Sicarius backed away from the vent opening, intending to return to Hollowcrest’s chambers, but a figure sprinted through the doorway, veering straight for him. He had a glimpse of black clothing, a dark topknot of hair, a dagger clenched in hand, and a silver medallion on a leather thong flapping against the man’s chest. Then the figure was diving into the vent, and Sicarius had no more time for observation, no time for thought; he could only react with instincts honed since birth.

His black dagger had already found its way into his hand. Like a viper waiting in a rocky hollow, he waited until his prey was least prepared. The man had thrust himself halfway into the duct and was turning on his side to yank his legs in when Sicarius attacked. Though his target’s body blocked all the light, he saw with his other senses, his instincts. The man didn’t know he was there until the dagger dipped into his throat. Metal clattered on the porcelain duct tiles-the assassin’s own blade dropping.

Throughout the building, the alarm bells continued to clang. Knowing the imperial suite would be searched soon, Sicarius left the dead man’s legs dangling out of the duct. Finding the intruder wouldn’t delay security for long-they’d assume he had a partner who’d betrayed him and was still in the Barracks-but they’d have to pause to investigate. He hoped that’d give Sespian and the others time to escape without being noticed. Ideally, they weren’t waiting for him and had already left.

He backed to the first intersection, using the extra space to turn around, and glided back through the ducts to Hollowcrest’s office. The room was dark, though the scent of a recently snuffed wick lingered in the room.

Shouts and heavy footfalls pummeled the hallway outside of Hollowcrest’s suite. Inside, it was silent, but Sicarius sensed he was not alone.

Starlight filtered in through a window in the sitting room outside of the office. Still poised by the vent, he picked out a dark figure in the room at the same time as a whiff of Akstyr’s hair concoction reached his nose.

“There was an istapa,” Sicarius said, using the Nurian term for those assassins trained not only to fight but to resist mental attacks from practitioners.

Akstyr twitched. “A wizard hunter? Really?”

“Yes.”

“He got away?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Akstyr sounded disappointed, though less for the loss of the man’s life than for the fact that he’d missed meeting a wizard hunter.

“The others have gone ahead?” Sicarius asked.

“Yup, back to the furnace room. I stayed behind to warn you. There’s a practitioner, the one who installed the wards, I bet.”

“He’s here,” Sicarius said, guessing the reason for the alarm. If the practitioner lived in the Barracks, he would have sensed that one of his wards was no longer working. The disarming of one might not have alerted him as dramatically as one being tripped, but if he did a nightly check…

“She, I think,” Akstyr said.

“We’ll seek to avoid her then. Come.”

Akstyr clambered into the duct after Sicarius. “If she’s checking where that one ward was, we’ll go right by her.”

“There are other ways out. Alert me if you sense a freshly laid trap.”

Akstyr grumbled under his breath, but the continuing alarm clamor drowned out the words.

Long ago, Sicarius had trained with a Nurian wizard hunter, one of Hollowcrest’s carefully selected tutors. He had never expected to see another one in the Imperial Barracks. Was his original theory correct? That the man had been an assassin sent to kill Ravido? And if so, why? If Nurians were here, did they simply want to create chaos, more than there already was, or did they have a different candidate they intended to back, another puppet, this one loyal to Nuria instead of Forge?

Either way, Amaranthe would want this information. It would add further complications to her plans, plans she’d not fully revealed to him yet, a fact that concerned him. She’d used him often as a confidant in the last year, and the only reason he could see her withholding information was because she knew he wouldn’t approve of what she had in mind.

“Hst,” Akstyr said, the sound somewhere between a grunt and a warning.

Sicarius halted. They’d dropped down to the subterranean level, and the intervening tons of rock were muting the alarm clangs. “Problem?”

“I’m not sure. I thought I felt… I don’t know. Something like power being unleashed. It’s gone now.”

“Understood.”

Sicarius hastened forward, winding through the wider ducks of this level, and heading toward the furnace room from whence they originated. A string of pain-filled curses came from somewhere ahead. Books?

Sicarius turned the last corner. Hot air blown from the furnace pushed against him. Light flowed through an access panel in the ductwork, one they’d removed earlier. Earlier, the furnace room hadn’t been illuminated. Now, orange and yellow firelight flickered beyond the open panel.

Though Books clearly sounded distressed, Sicarius didn’t rush his approach. He wanted to assess the situation before bursting into it. He listened as he continued forward at his same steady pace. Metal clacked twice-a dagger hitting a wall, then dropping to the floor. Boots stomped about, more than one set.

Sicarius drew his own dagger, using his ears to pinpoint the likely location of the nearest attacker.

“Look out!” Sespian barked as Sicarius flowed out of the duct.

The warning almost made him pause, for he thought it was meant for him, but he went with his instincts, hurling his dagger before visually taking in the scene. He trusted his senses.

His black blade whistled through the air and smashed into the chest of a black-haired woman. Instead of piercing flesh and organs, it ricocheted off with a twang and landed on the floor.

“She’s a wizard!” Books blurted from where he hid behind the furnace, flapping his jacket to put out flames crawling up his sleeve.

Sicarius was too busy racing across the room to respond to the obvious comment. He took in the winking light of a square box hanging from the woman’s belt. It must indicate an armor tool similar to the ones he’d encountered earlier in the year, amongst the practitioners in the underwater laboratory. This woman appeared Turgonian, though. Odd.

The thoughts in his head did not slow the pace of his legs. The woman saw him coming and spread an arm toward him, fingers stretched outward. A hint of concern widened her eyes, but he wouldn’t bet on it being enough to disrupt her conjuring. Anticipating an attack-similarly to a warrior about to strike a blow, wizards tended to tightened their diaphragms, exhaling as they released their mental energy-Sicarius threw himself into a roll.

Yellow flames burst from the woman’s fingers, the intense light blasting the shadows from the room. Heat seared the air above Sicarius’s back, but the fire didn’t touch him as he somersaulted along the floor. He came up by the woman’s side, his elbow glancing off the invisible shield encompassing her. It sent a cold numbing tingle up his arm, but he ignored it, instead lashing toward her eyes with his dagger. The shield would protect her, he knew it, but her instincts might instruct her to retreat.

It worked. She backpedaled three steps, crossing the threshold and stumbling into the whitewashed stone corridor outside. In the ideal situation, she would have bumped the artifact off her belt-he couldn’t physically harm her so long as her shield remained in place-but she didn’t lose that much composure. Indeed, she recovered quickly, righting herself against the wall and glowering at Sicarius.

He shut the door in her face. It didn’t have a lock. He grabbed a half-empty coal bin and dragged it over, the squeal of metal scraping across stone deafening.

“That’s not going to stop a practitioner.” Akstyr stabbed a finger at the blocked door.

Sicarius gave him a flat look as he picked up his black dagger. Akstyr wasn’t doing anything better, and Books and Sespian had taken refuge from the flame-flinging woman by hiding behind the furnace door.

“A delay will be sufficient.” He jerked his head toward the open duct panel. “We’ll find another way out.”

A thunderous boom came from the hallway, and the door rattled on its hinges.

“Good idea,” Akstyr blurted and raced for the duct.

Sicarius, his dagger in hand, cut off a large clump of Akstyr’s hair as he passed. His blade-work was swift enough that the boy didn’t notice, though Sespian gawked in disbelief.

“Follow him,” Sicarius told Books and Sespian. He’d explain later if they insisted.

Books gave his jacket a final flap, stirring smoke but not more flames, and hustled after Akstyr. The fistful of hair in hand, Sicarius strode toward the furnace.

“You should go next,” Sespian told him. “They don’t know where they’re going.”

“I’ll follow and direct from behind.” Sicarius grabbed a shovel, flung open the furnace door, and used the tool to close the flue. “Go with them.”

Shouts filled the hallway outside, male and female voices raised in an argument. Sicarius sensed the Science being used again and glanced back. The door hinges glowed cherry red; they’d expand and snap soon.

Sicarius tossed the clump of hair onto the flames.

“What are you doing?” Sespian asked.

“Creating a malodorant.”

With the flue closed, smoke flowed out of the firebox and into the room. Sicarius pushed Sespian toward the duct as the stench of burning hair oozed out with the smoke. Sespian coughed and sprinted the last few paces for the opening. Finding the sulfuric scent equally unpleasant, Sicarius dove in behind him.

Sespian smothered a cough. “Well, that would keep me out of the room anyway.”

“The scent is not dissimilar to burning coal gas,” Sicarius said, watching over his shoulder as they crawled through the passage, making sure nobody was following them. “The gas table for the lighting for the Barracks is two rooms down. If we are fortuitous, they may believe there’s a rupture somewhere.”

“Ah, a rupture that would take priority over intruders, due to the flammable nature of the gas.”

Sicarius tried to decide if Sespian’s words carried a hint of approval. It had been years since someone’s approval meant anything to him-Raumesys and Hollowcrest’s had stopped mattering long before the emperor’s death-and he suspected it a sign of vulnerability on his part. Still, he acknowledged that he wanted Sespian’s approval nonetheless. Odd. Weren’t sons supposed to seek the approval of their fathers, and not the other way around?

Footfalls hammered the floor somewhere above the duct. Sicarius let his fingers brush Sespian’s boots, encouraging greater speed. Possible gas leak or not, with so many people searching the building, it would be best to escape quickly, especially given that they’d have to get past another ward due to their change in route. This one wouldn’t be deactivated. If Akstyr couldn’t equal the wizard hunter’s skill, and accomplish the same feat with the ward, they’d be in for a long night.

“I think I’m stuck,” came Akstyr’s voice from ahead, barely distinguishable from the still-clanging alarm bell.

“I told you not to go that way,” Books said.

“No, you told me to wait. I thought it’d be smart to wait out of the way.”

“Not if it involved getting your elephantine head stuck.”

“It’s not my head that’s stuck. It’s-ow.”

“Continue forward,” Sicarius said, “choosing the passage that angles to the right at approximately thirty degrees from the intersection.”

“Thirty what?” Akstyr asked.

“Degrees, you dolt,” Books said. “A degree is a unit of measurement for angles on a plane, each representing one three-sixtieth of a full rotation.”

“What does that have to do with ducts?”

“How can you possibly be our expert on the Science?” Books asked. “Or anything?”

Sicarius tapped Sespian’s boot again. They needed to keep moving. He decided not to voice his agreement on Books’s assessment of Akstyr’s brightness. Akstyr could prove his intellect on the ward. Or not.

Sespian moved forward, passing Books and Akstyr who’d squeezed into ducts on either side of the five-way intersection.

“Angles weren’t real important on the streets,” Akstyr muttered, continuing the argument as Sicarius and Sespian passed.

“Without angles, a proper understanding of geometry if you will, the buildings on those streets would have collapsed,” Books said.

“That happened sometimes.”

“Follow,” Sicarius said, letting an icy tone creep into his voice. He wondered if Amaranthe knew how much of his respect for her came from her ability to harness these lunkheads to a cart and get them all moving in the same direction. Basilard was the only one who might have lasted more than three days as a recruit in the army.

“I can’t go any farther,” Sespian said after a few moments of crawling. “The duct curves upward and stops at a vent in the floor. If my nose isn’t failing me-and it was somewhat damaged by that hair stunt-we’re near the kitchens. We don’t want to come up in such a busy area, do we?”

“No.” Sicarius pulled out his dagger again.

If he remembered his map of the Imperial Barracks correctly-and Hollowcrest had once insisted he be able to draw it from memory-the old dungeons lay below them, a section that had not been modified or modernized. Though he did not expect anyone to be down there, Sicarius pressed an ear to the warm tiles anyway. Books and Akstyr caught up, their breaths stirring the hot, dry air behind him.

Satisfied nobody awaited below, Sicarius chiseled into the bottom of the duct. The black dagger made quick work of the tile mortar and also that of the bricks below. Stale, cool air wafted up. As soon as he’d removed enough bricks, he dropped through, landing in a crouch fifteen feet below, his fingers touching down beside his foot, resting upon the porous stone floor. That floor had been carved from rock long before the original barracks building had been built. Darkness filled the space, but he could tell they were alone. The cool draft brushing his cheeks carried the scent of earth, rock, and mildew, nothing of people or other creatures.

“It’s safe,” Sicarius said. “Come.”

Clothing rubbed and a soft thump sounded as the first person dropped down-Sespian. The second came with an, “Ooophf.”

“Can’t see a thing,” Books muttered from above. “Probably fall on my-” He dropped, landing softly beside the others and making less noise than Akstyr.

“This way.” Sicarius led them out of the stone room, following the draft into a passage.

“Can we risk a light?” Sespian asked.

“Once they realize the intruders are attempting to escape down instead of up and out, they’ll start searching in here,” Sicarius said.

“Was that a no?” Sespian asked, his tone light.

“We’ll be faster if we aren’t groping our way along the walls in the dark,” Books said. “Besides, we have a head start, right? You’re taking us directly to a secret passage, aren’t you? We’ll be out of here soon.”

“Not quite.” Sicarius rounded a bend and stopped. “Akstyr.”

“I feel it.” Akstyr came up beside him.

“What?” Books asked.

A faint whisper of power brushed Sicarius’s senses, senses that had nothing to do with sight or sound or smell, and the hairs on the back of his neck wavered. Several paces ahead of him, a soft red light appeared, emanating from a fist-sized octagonal spot on the chiseled stone floor. It was strong enough to illuminate old shackle holders on the walls and rusty torture tools leaning in nooks.

“That’s the ward,” Akstyr said, his voice full of concentration. “I lit it up so we can see. I’m going to have to figure out…” His nose wrinkled, then he grunted and took a step back. “Yup, I’m going to have to figure out something.”

Prepared to wait, Sicarius put his back to the wall so he could see in either direction down the passage. The cacophony of noise continued in the building above-it wouldn’t be long before someone thought to check the dungeons.

“What happens if we walk past it?” Sespian asked. “Does it warn that wizard? Or… more?”

“More,” Sicarius said.

He’d attempted to infiltrate the Barracks the summer before, when Sespian had first sent a note to the team asking to be kidnapped. He’d tried three different approaches, including an above-ground climb over the walls. Humans he could evade, but he hadn’t been able to get past the wards.

In the face of Sespian’s curious look, Sicarius tossed a pebble into the air above the glowing octagon. A sheet of red sprang into existence, blocking the route and hurling heat down the passage. Prepared for it, Sicarius merely turned his cheek. Sespian and Books stumbled backward, lifting their arms to protect their faces. Akstyr grimaced, but seemed too focused on his task to bother moving.

“So, we get incinerated if Akstyr can’t disarm it?” Sespian asked.

“Or we go back and face the practitioner,” Sicarius said.

“I bet she’s in an amiable mood after you slammed the door in her face.”

Sicarius said nothing. Best to be quiet and let Akstyr concentrate. This night had proved pointless thus far, unless Books had found something useful in Hollowcrest’s archives. It mattered little to him. Any curiosity Sicarius might have had as to his parents’ identities had been lost long ago. As a boy, he’d occasionally wondered about such things, especially insofar as they might involve escaping his rigorous training and living a different life, but at this juncture, the die was cast.

Books must have felt his gaze, for he looked at Sicarius. Sicarius waited for him to say something-if there was something to say. Dust and cobwebs clung to Books’s scruffy brown hair and wariness edged his eyes, but that wariness was always there when he regarded Sicarius. A new emotion seemed to lurk there was well. Sicarius didn’t read such things as intuitively as Amaranthe did, but, given the context, knowing what those files had contained, he could guess. Pity. Sicarius stared back, willing Books to look away, to forget such ridiculous feelings. He wanted pity from no man. Not even Sespian. From Sespian all he hoped for was… understanding, for it would be useful in establishing a relationship.

While he considered these thoughts, Sicarius’s subconscious mind remained alert, detecting a faint scuff and placing the source. He spun, flinging a throwing knife down the tunnel before his conscious mind fully registered the danger. His blade thudded into the neck of someone who’d been leaning around the bend. A man in a black uniform made a choked, gurgling sound and toppled. A pistol dropped from his fingers, clattering onto the hard stone floor.

Sicarius sprinted toward the bend, assuming there’d be others. Before he reached the spot, footsteps started up-running footsteps-and he picked out three distinct patterns. Two men on the right side of the tunnel, one on the left, all fleeing. In case anyone might be waiting, unmoving, Sicarius feinted, dipping his shoulder around the corner to draw fire if it came, then pulling back. No one attacked. Sicarius risked enough of his body to pump his arm three times, hurling three more throwing knives down the hall. The blades thudded into the backs of the men he’d been picturing in his mind. Before they finished toppling, he was crouching, scouring the tunnel for threats with his eyes and listening for any sign that more enemies were on their way. A whimper and gurgle came from one of the fallen men, but nothing else moved.

Sicarius chastised himself for missing his mark by half an inch-the death should have been instant. When he was certain there weren’t any other immediate dangers, he rose and collected his knives. He swiped a blade across the throat of the dying man to ensure he’d pose no further threat. As he cleaned his weapons, he noted the silence in the hallway, though the alarm gongs continued in the building above.

For a moment, Amaranthe intruded upon his thoughts-would she have objected to the killing of these men? They could not have been permitted to run back for reinforcements, and attempting to subdue them would not have allowed him to bring them down as efficiently. It was possible one might have escaped to warn others. Yet the dead men wore the uniforms of Imperial Barracks security and were quite possibly the same guards who’d once worked for Sespian. Simply people doing their jobs, being caught in the middle, Amaranthe would have said.

Sicarius pushed the thoughts aside and rose, sensing Books had come up behind him. He was staring at the dead men. Sicarius walked past him without a word.

Sespian remained with Akstyr. His face was grim, but otherwise difficult to interpret. Good. A man should not be as readable as a book.

“This licks street,” Akstyr grumbled after a time, making a crude gesture at the ward.

“That would be an impressive feat,” Books said, having rejoined them, “given its lack of a discernible tongue.”

Akstyr gave him a withering glare. “I can’t concentrate with all that noise going on.” He made another crude gesture, this one involving the forearm as well as the fingers, aiming it at the ceiling this time.

“He has quite the non-verbal repertoire,” Sespian noted.

It seemed to be a comment aimed at the group, rather than anyone specific, but he glanced at Sicarius. Checking for a reaction? Did he expect disapproval? Or maybe it had been an invitation to comment. And join in the… did this qualify as banter?

“Yes,” Sicarius said, but his thoughts scattered after that, and he couldn’t think of an appropriate addition to the conversation. “It is unfortunate he does not apply his finger dexterity more assiduously to his blade training.”

The three men stared at him in unison, then exchanged those looks with each other that implied his ore cart was, as the imperial saying went, missing a wheel.

“Just what this group needs,” Sespian muttered, “another expert knife thrower.” He gave the bend, beyond which the dead men lay, a significant look.

For Sicarius, trained so long to hide his emotions, the sigh was inward. “I will stand watch.” Before he headed for the bend, he told Akstyr, “If you cannot deactivate it, see if you can move it out of the way.”

Sicarius retreated-he reluctantly admitted that retreat was indeed the correct word-around the bend and stood with his back against the wall, out of sight of the others. He wondered if he’d ever be able to talk to his son without a sense of awkward discomfort cloaking them. Perhaps he shouldn’t try when Amaranthe wasn’t around. There was still discomfort when she was part of the conversation, but she didn’t seem to mind filling it with the sort of ambling chatter that put Sespian and the others at ease. He admitted it put him at ease as well. He couldn’t remember when that had started happening. When they’d first met, he’d merely thought her overly gregarious.

“I think… Did that work?” Akstyr’s voice floated down the tunnel.

“I don’t know,” Books said. “We can’t see it any more.”

“Oh. Here.”

A renewed red glow filled the hallway. Sicarius returned to the group. Instead of floating in the middle of the tunnel, the ward was now wedged into a crevice near the ceiling.

“It looks like it was protecting a flat area, rather than a whole chunk of the tunnel.” Akstyr pinched the air with his fingers, then spread his arms to demonstrate.

“A plane,” Books said, perhaps intending to sneak in another geometry lesson.

“What?”

“A flat area is-never mind.”

“I turned it, so the plane thing is along that wall now,” Akstyr said. “We should be able to walk by if we stay by this wall.”

“Should?” Books asked.

“We can. I’m sure of it.”

Books and Sespian looked to Sicarius. For advice, an order, or because they wanted him to go first and be the one incinerated if it came to that? Whatever the reason, it made Akstyr scowl and stick his fists on his hips.

Sicarius closed his eyes for a moment, sensing the ward instead of seeing it. Yes, Akstyr had succeeded in moving it. Thinking of the bodies in the tunnel behind them, he realized he should have made that suggestion earlier.

“It is safe.” Sicarius led the others through the tunnel and toward another secret doorway that would let them out into the night. They’d gone perhaps half of the distance, when a startled wail came from behind him.

“Blood-thirsty butchering ancestors, what happened to my hair?”

• • •

Sicarius wondered at Amaranthe’s choice of a meeting place. The alley behind Curi’s Bakery? The establishment was frequented by enforcers with no less than three different patrol routes crossing through the intersection out front. Normally, it wouldn’t matter this late at night, but these weren’t normal times. With the university only a few blocks away, this was a likely area for dissent to arise, and pairs of uniformed men trod the streets, enforcing the curfew. In addition, squads of soldiers marched through from time to time, ensuring civilians were inside where they should be, and subdued.

To avoid the patrols, Sicarius led Akstyr, Books, and Sespian across the rooftops for the last half mile. Though the gangs weren’t traditionally active in that part of the city, Akstyr stuck close and kept his complaints to himself when they were shimmying up drainpipes and ducking under clotheslines. Despite the unique route, they startled a few thieves and other miscreants seeking refuge from the enforcers. Most were young, but youths could send messages to bosses as easily as adults. Sicarius suspected it would soon be common knowledge that Amaranthe’s team was back in the city.

They reached Curi’s Bakery, hopping across a four-foot gap between it and the next building, to land on the flat roof. Sicarius jogged to the back corner so he could check the alley for the others. The delays in the Imperial Barracks had caused him to miss the midnight meeting point by twenty minutes.

Nothing stirred in the narrow back passages. He would have expected Amaranthe to wait, but perhaps she’d left a message somewhere with directions to the new hideout. He was on the verge of checking when two figures turned off the street and into the alley. Though darkness hid their features, he recognized them by height, build, and gait, Basilard with the stocky form and short steps-along with occasional glances at weeds growing from crevices-and Sergeant Yara with longer legs and steps influenced by broader hips.

“I can barely understand your signs in the daylight,” Yara whispered, “but if you’re wondering where everyone is, I’m with you.”

Basilard’s response was indiscernible from the rooftop.

Sicarius was of a mind to wait a moment before revealing himself, and make sure nobody followed the pair into the alley, but Sespian had joined him at the edge of the rooftop and he waved and whispered, “We’re up here. Some of us anyway.”

Keeping a hand on the gutter, Sespian swung down from the two-story building, landing softly on a large square trash bin, then hopping into the street. Not for the first time, Sicarius noted the boy’s natural agility. He could become a talented fighter if he ever pursued the training with any enthusiasm.

Books and Akstyr joined Sicarius at the edge of the roof.

“No sign of Amaranthe?” Books asked.

“I will check the area to see if they were here or left a message,” Sicarius said.

Books and Akstyr dropped down to the street, taking the same route as Sespian. They also made it look effortless. Neither had natural athletic aptitude, but they’d grown far more capable at physical feats in the last year. Sicarius noted his own satisfaction in regard to how the men’s training had come along. The feeling surprised him, and he decided it must have to do with his own growth as an instructor or perhaps the mere achievement of creating a more capable team to help with Sespian and Amaranthe’s goals.

Sicarius headed off to scout the streets and alleys around the bakery. At first, he was merely looking to see if Amaranthe and the others were on their way, but then he dropped to ground level, sniffing the air for the familiar scent of her shampoo, and searching the streets for signs that she’d been there. Her training had come a long way, as well, and he doubted she would have inadvertently stumbled into a squad of enforcers or soldiers, but Forge represented a unique threat, with its access to superior technology, and now they must worry about Nurians as well.

Snippets of the rest of the team’s conversation floated to Sicarius’s ears as he searched.

“…slagging cut my hair off. With that ugly black knife of his.” Akstyr’s petulant grousing rose above all the others.

“It’ll grow back,” Yara said. “Maybe you should cut off the rest of it for a disguise. Aren’t the gangs hunting you?”

“Oh, huh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“If we could discuss a more important matter,” Books said, “did you locate a suitable hideout?”

“Yes,” Yara said. “There’s a molasses factory near the waterfront that’s for sale. It doesn’t look like anybody’s been around for a month or two. Basilard said there’s some winter weather coming in, so we figure there won’t be a lot of people browsing around for new business endeavors.”

“Molasses?” Sespian asked. “Sounds… sticky.”

“I understand this team wields brooms as well as swords,” Yara said.

“Only because Amaranthe has a knack for talking people into doing things,” Books said.

Still searching, Sicarius drifted out of ear range at that point. He hadn’t seen anyone walking around, aside from a pair of yawning enforcers, but he hadn’t seen sign of Amaranthe and the others either. It didn’t seem that they’d been ensnared upon arriving; they’d simply never shown up. That implied trouble at the Gazette, or perhaps they’d gone to Deret Mancrest’s residence. If the man had attempted to trap Amaranthe again, Sicarius vowed to deal with him in, as she would say, an assassinly way. On this point, he didn’t care if she approved or not.

On his way back to tell the others of his suspicions, Sicarius’s route took him past the front of the bakery. The trays behind the large windows were empty, though etchings in the glass illustrated a wide variety of sweets available during the day. A sign beside the door, the writing visible thanks to the corner gas lamp, suggested patrons inquire about bulk orders as well as day-old pastries. Knowing of Amaranthe’s fondness for such things, Sicarius wondered if she might have led the others inside to wait-and perhaps sample some of those “day-old” sweets? Sicarius slipped out his toolkit and went around to a side door where his back wouldn’t be to the street as he worked on the lock. The others were still discussing the merits and demerits of a molasses factory as a hideout.

The streetlight’s influence didn’t reach the alley, so Sicarius had to find the door lock by feel. Scratches marred the metal around the hole, suggesting others had attempted to pick it before. Perhaps Amaranthe had gone inside. Or perhaps hungry university students had attempted infiltrations in the past.

Either way, it wouldn’t take long to check. The lock proved simple by his standards, and he entered through the side door a couple of minutes later. He tested the air with his nose again, searching for the team members’ familiar scents, but the heady smells of cinnamon, cloves, and maple overpowered lesser odors.

The light from the corner streetlamp provided enough illumination for Sicarius to glide through the interior, skirting counters and tables up front and cupboards and baking racks in the back, without making a sound. There wasn’t anybody else in the building. A pointless diversion.

Sicarius headed for the door again, though a raised glass-covered tray next to a cash register caught his eyes. It contained a tidy arrangement of pastries, including a couple he thought might be of the “Emperor’s Buns” variety. Though he could not condone the eating of sweets, he knew Amaranthe liked them. She’d risked exposing herself on that riverboat to acquire pastries from the kitchens-and gone to great lengths to try to hide those pastries from him. With good cause. Such food was hardly appropriate to one seeking to regain mental and physical stability. Sicarius took a step toward the door but paused again. Such treats did bring inexplicable pleasure to Amaranthe.

Hoping he wasn’t setting a precedent, he selected a pair of tongs, opened the lid, chose a pastry that looked like it might survive time spent in a pocket, and deposited it in one of the paper bags next to the register. Though he could only guess at prices, he left a couple of ranmya coins on the counter.

Before he reached the door leading to the alley, a faint noise drifted to his ears. Footsteps. Not from inside, but from the sidewalk in front of the building. Suspecting a pair of enforcers on patrol, he crouched behind the counter. A single slender figure in black came into view. Wraps covered the person’s hair and face, leaving only eyes visible, but he had the impression of a woman beneath the clothing. She looked both ways down the street, then pressed her face against the window, peering into the bakery.

Sicarius had long ago learned how many shadows it took to hide him-and his short blond hair, which he usually left uncovered-so he didn’t bother lowering his head. He knew she couldn’t see him. After taking a long look, the woman left the window and headed for the alley where the side door was located.

She would see him if she strode through the entrance that was two feet from his side. He’d locked the door after entering-one didn’t leave sign of trespass, even if one was still inside the building-but if this person had a key, she could be in momentarily.

He’d already committed the layout to memory, so he took a few steps into the half of the open room dedicated to baking and scaled a sturdy rack mounted to a wall. He climbed into the rafters, finding a spot between two parallel beams. Scratches sounded at the doorknob. Lock picks. Interesting. Feet and hands pressed against opposing beams, the shadows cloaking his body, Sicarius found a position that he could hold for hours-though he hoped she proved a more apt lock picker than that.

A few minutes passed with nothing except the soft scrapes of metal tools probing within the doorknob. He couldn’t hear the rest of the team from inside, but while he waited motionless in the rafters, he thought of Amaranthe. It had to be an hour after midnight by now. It was time to find her.

He was of a mind to hop down, open the door, and confront-or perhaps stalk past and ignore-the other intruder. That was when the lock thunked. The door eased open, and the woman’s head poked inside. Sicarius had left himself a clean line of sight to the entrance, and he could have hurled a throwing knife, even from the precarious position in the rafters, but the woman hadn’t done anything to prove herself an enemy yet.

Once she believed the building was empty, she hustled inside, heading straight for an office in the rear. She didn’t bump any of the racks or counters in the dark, so Sicarius surmised she’d been there before, perhaps at night. He remembered the scratches around the lock.

The office door was open. The woman stepped inside only for a moment, then slipped out again, weaving back through the kitchen and toward the exit. Having no reason to suspect her errand had anything to do with him, Sicarius let her go. The lock thunked again, and she was gone.

After waiting a few moments, he dropped to the floor. On the chance it was relevant, he headed for the office to see what the woman had done. Though shuttered, the wall window let in an iota of light, enough for him to see an envelope on the desk. It might have been there all along, but the woman hadn’t been inside long enough to do more than grab something or drop something off, and she hadn’t left with anything noticeable.

After taking note of its exact position on the desk, so he could return it to the appropriate spot, Sicarius picked it up and explored it with his fingers. A wax seal secured the flap, so he couldn’t break it without revealing that the contents had been read. He probed the pattern with his fingers. The elegant calligraphy style of the single letter gave him trouble at first, but he eventually identified it by touch. An F. His mind went straight to Forge. Was the owner of the bakery a member of the organization?

He thought about breaking the seal to see what was inside, but there wasn’t enough light to read by anyway. He held the envelope to his nose. The scent of the wax, freshly pressed, was the most prominent odor, but something else underlay it, something very old and distantly familiar, a unique mix of staleness and antiseptic cleanliness and-

Sicarius lowered his hand, almost dropping the letter. It was the smell of those strange alien tunnels he’d been sent to almost twenty years prior. He’d been little more than a boy, but the week he’d spent up there in the Northern Frontier was indelibly imprinted on his mind. He doubted this letter had come from there, but that aircraft Amaranthe had been in had the same scent. The smell of it had been in her hair, along with the dirt and blood, when he’d retrieved her.

He eyed the letter. This meant the craft was no longer in the wetlands, hundreds of miles to the south. It was here.

Curi, Sicarius decided, wasn’t going to get her mail. He tucked the envelope into his pocket. He’d wait to read it until he could share it with Amaranthe.

Reminded of her missing state, he jogged out of the bakery. Once outside again, with the door relocked behind him, he strode toward the others. It was time to check the Gazette.

A few steps before he reached the group, the sound of low voices drifted to his ears. Enforcers? Or the rest of the team? The voices were coming from the street on the other side of the bakery, a block away. Sicarius glided past Yara, Books, and the others without them noticing and eased around the corner.

Amaranthe led the approaching group; he’d recognize her gait at any distance. Thanks to the feminine curves that the military fatigues and weapon-laden belt didn’t quite hide, there was a touch of hip sway to her determined stride. Further bundled in a parka with the fur-lined hood pulled around her face, she spoke with the man beside her as they walked. Even without the swordstick and the confident but lopsided gait, Sicarius would have known it to be Mancrest. He refused to acknowledge any residual jealousy that stirred at seeing them together; he’d made his interests clear to Amaranthe and offered himself as a mate. When she decided she wished such a thing-not, he reluctantly admitted, guaranteed to be soon, thanks to Pike-he trusted she’d choose him.

Maldynado strolled behind them, a pistol pointed at a pair of men in army fatigues. One of the prisoners walked with a pronounced limp and had his arm slung over the other.

After the group passed the streetlight, Sicarius stepped out of the shadows, falling into place at Amaranthe’s side. Deret flinched, fumbling his grip on his swordstick. It clattered to the street, and the group paused while he muttering curses and retrieved it. Normally Sicarius thought little of it when his appearance startled people, other than that they should be more aware of their surroundings, but he admitted a modicum of satisfaction at the aristocrat’s stumble.

Amaranthe merely arched an eyebrow at him, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. Perhaps she did. That often seemed to be the case.

The group had not entirely moved out of the streetlamp’s influence, and Sicarius made a point of examining her soot-stained clothing, dirty hands, and the numerous strands of hair that had escaped her usually perfect bun. When compared to Mancrest, whose ripped garments were coated in blood as well as soot, she appeared only moderately disheveled, but the group had clearly seen action.

Sicarius heard the soft footsteps and rustling clothing of Books and the others a couple of seconds before Amaranthe’s gaze shifted in that direction. At first, she simply nodded toward them as they approached, but her eyes widened when Akstyr came into the light, revealing the freshly hacked locks atop his head.

This time, the eyebrow she arched at Sicarius rose even higher. “Trouble?”

“No.” The mild altercation at the Barracks hardly qualified as thus. Sicarius brushed some of the soot off the pale fur trim of her hood. “You?”

Amaranthe smiled. “No.”

Books looked back and forth between them, shook his head, and walked back into the alley, muttering, “Crazy. Both of them.”

Deeming the alley a more suitable place to catch up, Sicarius also strode in that direction.

“No, no,” Maldynado said, “I can keep taking care of these blokes. No need for anyone to offer to help.”

“Has he been complaining again?” Yara asked Amaranthe.

“No more than usual.”

“That much?”

“I’m not as enamored with this group now that there are two women,” Maldynado announced to no one in particular. “Too much girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” Books asked. “You’re the only one who blathers on about hair, hats, and fashion. The last chat I overheard between Amaranthe and Sergeant Yara involved plans for acquiring troops and munitions.”

“I fail to see your point,” Maldynado said blandly.

They’d reached the alley, and Amaranthe cleared her throat and waved toward the shadows, shadows she probably saw as potentially threatening, though, of course Sicarius had checked the entire area and continued to listen for the approach of others. “Perhaps,” she said, “we can head to our new hideout for further discussion.”

“I didn’t know outlaws discussed hair, hats, and fashion in their hideouts,” Mancrest said. “I’d always been under the impression that more nefarious topics were covered.”

Sicarius didn’t miss the smile Amaranthe gave him. It wasn’t flirtatious, but it was a reminder that both she and Sespian appreciated humor, something that he had a poor grasp on.

“This group talks about a wide variety of subjects, from what I’ve seen,” Sespian said from the wall he leaned against. He’d remained in the alley instead of going out with the group, and Mancrest noticed him for the first time.

“I… is that…?” Mancrest squinted. The darkness masked Sespian’s features, and the two had probably never met in person. “Sire?”

“Just Sespian. If you haven’t heard, I’m not-”

Amaranthe had taken a couple of nonchalant steps toward Sespian, and she interrupted his words with an elbow nudge to the ribs. Sicarius nodded at her. If Forge hadn’t come forth about the paternity information yet, there was no reason for them to announce it of their own accord. They could worry about being honest with the populace after Sespian had regained the Barracks and the throne-if that was what he and Amaranthe wished to do. Sicarius would prefer to see another with the responsibility and Sespian free to live a life of his choosing.

Sespian got the message, for he switched to, “Let’s just say someone else is sleeping in my bed at the moment.”

“Though it seems not everybody is happy about that,” Books said. “We stumbled across an assassin who was apparently in the Imperial Barracks to cut Ravido’s throat.”

“I hope you left him alone then,” Amaranthe said.

The two prisoners were gawking at Sespian. Sicarius wondered why Amaranthe had brought them and was speaking so openly in front of them. Had Books truly overheard her discussing the acquisition of troops? Did she intend to start with this random pair? More likely, she’d had to choose between killing them or bringing them along to keep them from tattling about the team’s presence in the city. Now they were stuck with them.

“Not exactly.” Books looked at Sicarius.

Sespian, Basilard, Yara, and Mancrest all frowned at Sicarius. Amaranthe didn’t frown, but there was a sad acceptance to her gaze. Sicarius was tempted to explain what had happened, letting her know he’d been forced to kill the other assassin, but she was right: this wasn’t an appropriate place for storytelling. Besides, he refused to get into an argument, defending his actions, with this many people looking on.

“The molasses factory on Fourth and Waterfront, is that your suggested hideout?” Sicarius asked.

“Yes,” Yara said.

“We should ascertain its acceptability and share information there instead of dawdling here.” He strode off without waiting to see if anyone followed, in part to avoid seeing further disappointment from Amaranthe and, in larger and more practical part, he told himself, to arrive ahead of them and fully scout the proposed hideout for trouble.