Forged in Blood II

Chapter 5

Amaranthe eyed the dim sky, the clouds hanging low over the waterfront. It’d be dark in another hour, and they hadn’t even left the city. Komitopis had some errand at the docks, and after that it’d be another five miles to Fort Urgot. Amaranthe wasn’t enthused at the idea of reentering the Behemoth at night, but, as the professor had pointed out, the artificial lighting inside would make the windowless tunnels appear the same no matter what time of day it was. And, as Starcrest had said, the sooner the better, insofar as getting rid of the ship went.

She caught Komitopis frowning thoughtfully over her shoulder, not for the first time.

“He’s a good fighter, Professor Komitopis,” Amaranthe explained, certain what had the other woman’s attention without looking. “Really.”

“I don’t disbelieve you-and please call me Tikaya; I was just wondering if that represented a fashion choice or if it had cultural significance. I study ancient cultures, of course, but am not abreast with current trends.” Tikaya glanced over her shoulder again.

The four guards Colonel Fencrest had detached to her command wore pressed uniforms and clean parkas, their rifles nestled into their shoulders in an identical fashion as they marched in unison. And then there was Basilard and Maldynado. Clad in unassuming brown and beige utility clothing and a bear fur coat, Basilard wasn’t a problem, but sometime during the hours that Amaranthe had been attempting to sleep, Maldynado had been shopping again. His clothing was sedate enough-a mix of black, forest green, and velvety gray-but the newest hat… it had to have been a dare. Amaranthe had been inured to tassels, so that wasn’t the problem, but the… she didn’t know what to call them. Tentacles? Tendrils? The colorful fabric appendages danced and writhed about his head with every step. There were bells at the end of each tendril, though he’d stuffed something into them to muffle the noise.

“No cultural significance that I’m aware of,” Amaranthe said, “though it does say he’s big enough and strong enough to fight off any bullies who might want to beat him up on principle.”

“Yara thought it was hideous,” Maldynado said. She didn’t know if he was close enough to have heard their quiet conversation, but he’d probably guessed at the significance of the glances.

“Thus you naturally purchased it.” Amaranthe wondered how long that relationship would last. Maybe they’d surprise everyone and get married. And have children. That was hard to imagine, but Yara had been uncharacteristically pleased to have Maldynado return from the dead.

“Naturally the shopkeeper gave it to me,” Maldynado corrected. “To model around town and drive sales.”

“Drive them… away?” Tikaya murmured.

“I notice the shop’s name isn’t visible anywhere on the hat,” Amaranthe replied. “Poor advertising if that’s what it’s meant as. Maybe it was some kind of… demonstration model that the proprietor wanted to get rid of.”

“Very funny, Bas,” Maldynado said.

Tikaya looked back again, this time studying Basilard’s hand signs. Keeping an eye out for soldiers and enforcers, Amaranthe missed half of the quick comments, though she did catch something about Sicarius applying his knife to the hat much the way he had to Akstyr’s hair.

Sicarius. Amaranthe shifted her focus from the streets around them to the lake and the fields and foothills in the distance on the other side. Was Sicarius out there somewhere, even now? Still hunting the soul construct to ensure it couldn’t harm Sespian? She couldn’t help but feel he should have found it by now if he sought it, for it’d happily seek him with its claws and fangs blazing as soon as he drew close. If he was… still alive, he should have returned by now. What else could he be doing? Hunting the practitioner that had summoned the construct as well? A dangerous mission for one man, even one as formidable as he.

“What is that language?” Tikaya asked, walking backward now, watching Basilard’s half of the continuing conversation. “It reminds me of the Mangdorian hunting code, but-” Her heel slipped on the slick cement street, and she stumbled, arms flailing.

Though startled, Amaranthe reacted reflexively, catching the professor’s elbow and shifting her weight to keep her from hitting the ground. Barely. Arrows spilled from Tikaya’s quiver, and her rucksack slid halfway off her back. Maldynado and Basilard rushed forward to help right her. The soldiers, no doubt under orders from Starcrest to keep his wife safe, rushed forward, too, and Amaranthe found herself pushed out of the way.

“I’m fine,” Tikaya said, straightening her pack and waving away the small legion trying to help her. “Thank you.” The freckles and pale skin did little to hide her reddening cheeks. “I believe I’ll walk facing forward now.”

“Always a good idea when visiting a foreign nation, my lady.” Maldynado smiled at her and bowed, the felt tendrils flopping about his face.

More usefully, Basilard picked up her fallen arrows and handed them back to her.

“Thank you,” Tikaya said again, returning them to the quiver. “Good advice, yes, though I can trip when I’m facing forward too. Rias is usually around to catch me, fortunately, and I’ve yet to break any bones. Though I imagine sprains are slow to heal here without the use of-are practitioners still forbidden here?”

“Not so much forbidden as hanged when spotted,” Amaranthe said as they resumed walking. “Would you like me to carry anything?”

Thanks to the professor’s six feet of height, the rucksack didn’t seem oversized or unwieldy on her, but it was bulky and heavy, with jars or something similar pushing bumps into the canvas. In addition, the longbow and quiver were attached to it.

“I can handle it, thank you.” Tikaya waved. “You have your own load.”

“Just food and water and first aid supplies. You’re right in that nobody here can fix a sprained ankle with his mind.” Amaranthe thought of mentioning Akstyr, but he was still sleeping at the factory and hadn’t come along. Amaranthe ought to be sleeping, too, but she’d woken from a nightmare during her attempt at an afternoon nap and had had no wish to return to her bed.

Basilard moved up to walk on Tikaya’s other side, so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck around to observe him. He signed, Hunting code. Yes. With additions. He raised his eyebrows. You understand?

“The original language, yes,” Tikaya said. “Additions, interesting. Because you can’t speak?”

Basilard touched the scar tissue at his throat and nodded.

“Ah, I’d be most curious to learn what you’ve done with the simple code. Has it been documented anywhere?”

Basilard shook his head. It’s all made up. Nothing real.

“That’s how all language starts,” Tikaya said. “Words are born out of necessity to communicate.”

But only a few of us speak it.

Tikaya couldn’t know anything except the original terms, but she seemed to read between the lines-or the signs, as it were-and picked up the gist of Basilard’s sentences now that she knew what she was looking for. “In the Pasas Unius Chain, there are only seven people left alive who speak the aboriginal tongue of D’skhmk Mk.”

Amaranthe blinked at the name or word or whatever it had been. Had there been any vowels? She didn’t think so.

“Even at the height of its power and population, four hundred years ago, the remote island tribe never had more than one hundred and fifty speakers. That does not make it any less of a language.”

Basilard didn’t look convinced, but was too polite to naysay her.

“You should make a lexicon,” Tikaya went on. “Draw the gestures and write down what they mean. Surely, you are not the only mute Mangdorian in the world. You could pave the way for others of your people with a speech impediment.”

At this, Basilard’s mouth dropped open. I… don’t know how to draw.

Amaranthe hadn’t seen Basilard truly daunted very often. “I’m sure Sespian would help you once everything is settled.”

“My daughter is skilled with a pen, too,” Tikaya said, “though it’d be difficult to convince her to draw something without fur, scales, or antennae. Still, creating a simple lexicon shouldn’t take long. And once you retire from-” Tikaya shrugged and waved at Basilard’s pistol, short sword, and knives, “-your current job, you could return to your country with the book and find others to teach.”

Basilard scratched his jaw. I have… another quest, but perhaps someday. It is an interesting idea. Thank you.

Tikaya nodded.

“Is your daughter the girl we met on the train?” Amaranthe could imagine the young woman in pigtails drawing fanciful images of winged flying lizards complete with human riders.

“Koanani is my daughter, yes, and you met Agarik, too, but I’m speaking of my eldest, Mahliki. She’s the reason we’ve detoured in this direction. Oh, are these the private docks?” Tikaya peered around, as if she’d just noticed that they’d turned onto Waterfront Street. “Or… no, those are for fishing and canneries, aren’t they?”

Amaranthe didn’t point out that they’d been walking north along the street for four blocks. “We have a ways to go. We’ll pass the yacht club-” she glowered to the north, where the familiar docks and buildings hunkered beneath the darkening gray sky, “-and reach the private berths shortly.”

“Why would your daughter be down by the docks?” Maldynado asked, thankfully not making a comment about the sorts of women one usually found loitering in such locales, at least in the warmer months.

“This is where she would have arrived.” Tikaya produced a scrap of paper. “Rias’s family owns a small berth here in the capital.”

Amaranthe stopped. “Didn’t anyone tell you? Soldiers are stopping all of the steamboats and ships coming up the river. They’re searching the public transports and turning away private ones.” She couldn’t fathom why the Starcrests would have sent their daughter on a steamboat or some other ship when the rest of the family had come in on the train. Or had she sailed in on some private yacht? That sounded like a perilous voyage this time of year. Surely, the winter storms were tearing across the Western Sea.

“That shouldn’t have been a problem.” Tikaya smiled.

That smile conveyed much. “She’s coming on a submarine?” Amaranthe asked.

“Indeed so. Rias wanted to stop on the coast to talk to an old comrade of his-he’s the one who sent the train and the troops with us-but we decided it might be wise to have the submarine here in the capital, should we need to escape or, knowing him, launch some subaquatic attack at the enemy.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“Seventeen,” Tikaya said.

“And you sent her all this way by herself?” Amaranthe shuddered, remembering all the things that had gone wrong during her own underwater excursions. She wouldn’t want to face a kraken, octopus, or even a particularly nettlesome snarl of seaweed down there on her own.

“She’s quite able to pilot and maintain the craft,” Tikaya said, “but her cousin Lonaeo came along to share the duties. Or-” her voice lowered, and Amaranthe almost missed the rest, “-distract her in such a way that they never arrive.”

“Pardon?” Amaranthe’s first thoughts were of a sexual nature, but surely the Kyatt Islands weren’t that liberal, that cousins should openly, ah… Lonaeo, was that even a man’s name?

“He’s an entomologist and she’s a biologist,” Tikaya said. “They’ve been wandering off in the forest together to poke under rocks and in logs since they were children. Lonaeo is eight years older. He was supposed to be the babysitter, the mature one who kept her out of trouble, but she had this tendency to get him in trouble. Five years old and she somehow convinced him that they needed to capture a wasps’ nest for study, and she had this marvelous plan for removing it without anyone being stung. She didn’t get stung. Lonaeo still has scars. And that section of forest up in the mountains hasn’t completely regrown. It’s a wonder-well, I knew what I was getting into when I married a Turgonian. A terribly bright Turgonian at that.”

From behind them, Maldynado made a sound somewhere between a snort and a chortle. “Sounds like your long-lost sister, boss. You two should get along famously.”

“Er, maybe. Though I’ve never burned down a forest.”

“Surely only because of the dearth of them in the city,” Maldynado said. “You’ve blown up countless things though. Professor Komitopis, I know you’re a learned lady, but I suggest you not visit the Gazette for a tour of the capital’s oldest continuously publishing newspaper institution at this time.”

“I… shall keep your suggestion in mind.” Tikaya considered Amaranthe anew-wondering if she would be a bad influence on her daughter?

“Thank you, Lord Tour Guide Maldynado,” Amaranthe hissed, trying a version of Sicarius’s icy stop-talking-or-I’ll-hurt-you glare.

“No problem, boss.” Maldynado’s cheery wink didn’t show signs of concern.

She caught a smirk on Basilard’s face too. Grumbling under her breath, she resumed walking, picking up the pace as they strode past the yacht club. It was chilly and getting darker every moment. No need to dawdle.

Perhaps she will grow out of finding trouble, Basilard signed to Tikaya. Biology sounds like a sedate career.

“Not the way Mahliki does it,” Tikaya murmured. “Is this the spot?” She looked from a piece of paper in her hand to a plaque full of dock numbers.

“What’s the address?” Amaranthe asked.

“1473. Yes, there it is.” Tikaya tapped the second to last number on the plaque.

They had stopped at the head of a long dock with dozens of boathouses and berths to either side, all empty at this time of year. A layer of ice had finally formed, crusting around the pilings and stretching across the entire lake. It didn’t appear thick, but it would be soon.

“When did they arrive?” Amaranthe asked as they started down the long dock.

“I’m not certain if they’re here yet, but it wouldn’t have been long ago if they are. They had to go around the Cutter Horn, through the Tiberian Gulf, and up the Goldar River, a much less direct route than our train trip through the heartland. If they’re not here, I’ll leave a note as to where they can find Rias.”

Amaranthe chewed on her lip, not certain how she felt about leaving notes with directions to their hideout. But with hundreds of soldiers now occupying the factory, it wasn’t going to remain a secret to their enemies for long anyway.

Maldynado tossed a snowball at an icicle hanging from the eaves of a small boathouse. It shivered and fell, shattering on the ice below. “Will they be able to come up through all that if they’re in a submarine?”

Tikaya paused to peer over the side. “I’m not very familiar with ice-how thick is that? Can you tell?”

“Less than two inches,” Amaranthe said. “I wouldn’t walk on it yet.”

“Ah, they can break through that then.”

“And if it gets thicker before they get here?” Maldynado adjusted his hat and pushed a tendril out of his eyes. “Huge trucks drive out there in the winter, you know.”

“Do they? That must be an interesting sight.” Tikaya resumed her walk down the dock. They passed the structural remains of a boathouse that had succumbed to fire recently, its singed frame leaning precariously toward the lake. “I’m sure they’ll figure out a way to break through. If nothing else, it being a Starcrestian design, there are weapons.”

Amaranthe was imagining what sorts of weapons might work underwater when they passed the corner of the last boathouse along the dock and came face-to-face with two enforcers. The men were staring down at a jagged hole in the ice with a dark gray hatch visible in the middle of it. Before Amaranthe waved her men forward, Basilard and Maldynado were already in motion. She allowed herself a smidgeon of pride at the quickness with which they flattened the enforcers to the dock. Their crossbows and short swords skidded across the frosty boards to stop at her feet.

“Tie them, boss?” Maldynado asked.

“Yes, please.”

The four soldiers assigned to Tikaya made a few choked noises and sent silent queries toward her. For them, enforcers weren’t enemies, and they had to question this manhandling.

“I believe those are the uniforms and accoutrements of law enforcement officers,” Tikaya said. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Amaranthe said, “but I’ve found it easier to nullify them than to explain that we are indeed trying to help the city. For some odd reason, they rarely believe me.”

Basilard finished tying his man and knelt back to sign, Might have something to do with the number of wanted posters featuring your face.

“Possibly.” Amaranthe pointed toward the boathouse. “Put them in there, please.”

The soldiers were shifting their weight and fingering their weapons. Amaranthe’s response must not have mollified them.

“We’ll leave their bonds loose enough that they can work themselves free shortly after we’ve gone,” she told them, then pointed at the hatch and asked Tikaya, “Is that familiar?”

“It is.” She seemed to be looking for a way to reach it. Though the submarine had come up in the 1473 berth, it was about four feet from the dock. Given the water and possibly ice that coated the concave hatch, landing on it without slipping off would prove a challenge.

“Basilard,” Amaranthe said, “you’re the most agile of us. I don’t suppose you’d hop out there and… knock?”

Basilard nodded and shrugged off his pack.

Maldynado frowned. “I’m agile too.”

“Yes, but I thought the hat might throw off your balance.”

That drew a snort from one of the soldiers, though his comrades were quick to glare him to silence.

Basilard made the leap, landing lightly on the hatch, his fingers touching down to steady himself. He considered it for a moment, then, as Amaranthe had suggested, knocked politely. She wondered if the enforcers had already tried that. For that matter, what had drawn them out to investigate? The boom of a weapon being fired to break the ice?

“You may want to stand in view of the opening,” Amaranthe told Tikaya, pointing her farther out on the dock. “In case they’re the sort to come out armed, a familiar face could keep an incident from occurring.”

“Yes, of course.” Tikaya picked her way out along the icy arm of the dock.

The hatch didn’t open though. Basilard spread his hands, asking what to try next.

“Is it possible they’ve arrived and gone into the city to explore?” Amaranthe asked, though if they’d broken through the surface with some weapon recently-as the enforcers standing around suggested-they shouldn’t have had time to wander off to explore anything yet.

“It’s possible,” Tikaya said.

A crack sounded behind Basilard, and he whirled about. A metal pipe of some sort broke through the ice and shot up a foot. There was a perpendicular bend near the tip, and it rotated toward them, the opening at the end reminding Amaranthe of a firearm’s muzzle.

She yanked out her pistol. “Is that a weapon?”

“No.” Tikaya waved at the orifice. “A periscope.”

Realizing the “muzzle” was glassed over, Amaranthe lowered her weapon.

“You may want to jump back, Mister Basilard,” Tikaya said. “If they come out, they’ll open the-”

A clank-thunk-clank sounded beneath Basilard’s feet. Eyes widening, he leaped back to the dock. A moment later, the hatch swung open, and a young woman with long raven hair braided similarly to her mother’s appeared in the opening. She had more of her father’s coloring, with olive skin less prone to freckles, but the blue eyes were much like Tikaya’s. It made for a striking combination, and Amaranthe wondered if she’d have to remind Maldynado that he was in a relationship, a monogamous one, insofar as she’d heard.

“Good to see you, dear,” Tikaya said warmly, still speaking in Turgonian. “Is Lonaeo well too?”

“Yes,” the girl, Mahliki, Amaranthe reminded herself, said. She didn’t send her mother a greeting, rather she peered in all directions visible from the hatchway. “Is it gone?”

“It?” Amaranthe and Tikaya asked at the same time.

“That black cube.”

Amaranthe rocked back on her heels. “You saw one? Out here?” Her mind spun. Maybe the girl meant something else. Something perfectly ordinary, like a… a… yes, what, Amaranthe?

“A kelbhet?” Tikaya asked. “You’re sure?”

“It looked exactly like the ones in your drawings,” Mahliki said.

“And it shot a red beam at us,” came a male voice from within the submarine.

“Yes, that was the truly defining trait,” Mahliki said dryly. Her rigid shoulders relaxed when she didn’t see any sign of the deadly device. “It was hovering above the lake when we arrived. We popped out and it veered in this direction. It shot its beam and-ah, yes, there’s the recipient of its damage.” She pointed at the boathouse Amaranthe had assumed burned in a fire.

“Odd,” Tikaya said. “The kelbhet are typically much tidier when they’re incinerating something.”

Yes, chillingly so, Amaranthe thought, picturing the guards she’d seen devoured by those crimson beams.

“You said they’d been modified?” Tikaya asked Amaranthe.

“Yes, by Retta’s assistant,” Amaranthe said. “The first modification changed them so they didn’t target humans, but then she changed them again so that they did. The last I saw them, they were mowing down their own people.”

“Not their people,” Tikaya murmured.

“Well, Forge people.” Amaranthe didn’t want to imagine the “people” who had thought incendiary cleaning constructs were a good idea.

“If it’s safe to come out…” Mahliki considered the thus-far mute soldiers, shrugged, and did something inside, near the lip of the hatchway.

A panel on the bottom side of the hatch popped open, and a thin metal square with hinges slid out. It unfolded in four segments, creating a gangplank that thudded down on the edge of the dock.

“I told you it would reach,” Mahliki said into the submarine.

“Yes, yes, now get your big butt off the ladder so I can get out, will you?” came the cousin’s voice from inside.

Mahliki rolled her eyes. “My butt isn’t big. It’s contoured.”

“Please, everything you have is big. You’re a giant, just like Aunt Tikaya.”

“Not here, I’m not. Lots of Turgonian women are six feet tall, Father says, and the men are even taller, just like him.” Mahliki considered Maldynado and the soldiers, a hint of appraisal in the gaze. It seemed more like a tourist examining the curious natives rather than anything with sexual undertones, but Maldynado naturally straightened and returned this appraisal with a yes-I-am-a-handsome-fellow-aren’t-I smile.

“Stop dithering around, you two,” Tikaya said. “We have a larger mission to complete tonight.”

Amaranthe tapped a finger to her lips as she watched the exchange. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but the girl sounded like a normal teenager, rather than some precocious genius.

It’d been hard to judge height when only Mahliki’s head and shoulders had been sticking through the hatchway, but on the dock, she stood even with her mother, maybe even a hair or two taller. Amaranthe could understand why someone from Kyatt would consider her a big woman, though neither her butt nor anything else was disproportionate, despite her cousin’s teasing. Rather she had her mother’s curves along with an easy athleticism that captured every man’s attention as she climbed from submarine to gangplank to dock, catching herself quickly when her foot slid in a patch of ice.

Watching the soldiers puff their chests out, Amaranthe imagined her team of men starting brawls in their haste to gain the young woman’s favor. For the sake of simplicity, she hoped Tikaya intended to send her off to stay with the same grandmother who was housing the other children.

Mahliki clanked as she walked down the dock to join her mother. Curious, Amaranthe eyed her for weapons-surely, she didn’t have some knife collection beneath her jacket? Although with a Turgonian admiral for a father, perhaps it wouldn’t be that strange. Though, upon consideration, what she’d first thought of as clanks were more like clinks, such as bumping glasses might make.

Mahliki returned the gaze, cocking an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Amaranthe said, “I was wondering why you were rattling.”

“Ah.” Mahliki unzipped her jacket and displayed rows of vials of various sizes secured to the inside flap, along with a few metal tools, and was that some sort of folded net?

“Dear,” Tikaya said, “what samples are you expecting to find here? It’s winter.”

“Not all flora, fauna, and insects die off or hibernate, Mother, and I’ve read that the nymphs of Turgonian flies live in ponds and streams, often under the ice. They feed throughout the cold months and emerge as adults in the spring. I’ve never had a chance to observe insects in a sub-freezing climate. I’m also terribly excited to find a dragonfly for my collection. We don’t have them on the islands. I’ll be curious to study them. They’re vicious predators.”

Tikaya pulled her parka closer, nodding and casting a wary eye toward the surrounding landscape, as if she expected the empire to be full of vicious predators.

“Those are for collecting insects?” Amaranthe asked, wondering if the girl knew she and her submarine had popped up in a war zone.

Mahliki waved a hand, as if guessing her thoughts. “Whenever there’s time.”

“And sometimes when there’s not,” Tikaya said. “She’s faster with those specimen collection tools than your assassin friend is with his knives.”

Mahliki smiled, not disagreeing.

The gangly man who climbed out in her wake was more of what Amaranthe imagined typical Kyattese citizens looked like. More bone than brawn, he had shaggy blond hair that hung into blue-gray eyes half hidden behind a pair of spectacles, and while he didn’t trip clambering through the hatchway and onto the gangplank, it was close. An equally shaggy tuft of hair dangled from his chin, the classification somewhere between beard, goatee, and flower gone to seed.

He paused on the gangplank, chomping down on his lip as he considered the soldiers lined up on the dock. His attention snagged on their swords and rifles, and he didn’t seem to notice that they were too busy pretending not to watch Mahliki to know he existed.

“Lonaeo,” Tikaya said, “can you secure the Explorer, please? We won’t be back tonight, perhaps not for a few days. If you have any food and water rations easily accessible in there, you may want to grab them too. We aren’t going to the city. We’re going to deal with… a problem.”

“A problem?” Maldynado asked, his eyes devoid of humor. “I assure you it’s more than that. I was there when it landed.”

Tikaya nodded in acknowledgment. She probably hadn’t wanted to alarm her daughter, who was, it seemed, being invited along.

“A bigger problem than those cubes?” Mahliki asked.

“By a billion times,” Maldynado said.

“I thought we were going to visit Uncle Rias’s mother and cousins up north,” Lonaeo said.

“That was the plan, but we may need your help in the ship.” Tikaya caught Amaranthe’s dubious gaze. “Though they didn’t choose to study archaeology or linguistics for their careers, they grew up around my work, and they’ve both proved useful in navigating other ruins before.”

“How far is it?” Lonaeo asked.

“About five miles,” Amaranthe said.

“We’re walking?” Lonaeo peered toward the head of the dock. “No runabouts here?”

“There are steam carriages,” Amaranthe said, “for those who can afford them. And trolleys, but that’s for the city. Street skis and lots of bicycles, though the ground’s a bit treacherous for that now. Actually…” She eyed the submarine. “Fort Urgot is-was-” she winced, “-a couple hundred meters from the lake. It has a dock, if that wasn’t destroyed. Maybe we could…” She gestured toward the submarine.

“Boss,” Maldynado hissed, “haven’t we been underwater enough in this last year-” he caught Mahliki looking at him, and changed his complaint to, “-to develop a taste for that travel? Yes, indeed, I’d love to see that submarine.”

Amaranthe rubbed her face. This was going to be a problem.

“I suppose there’s room,” Tikaya said, though she eyed the four soldiers dubiously.

“We’ll have to squish,” Mahliki said.

“We’re fine with that,” Maldynado said brightly. The soldiers were quick to nod as well.

Yara is going to pound you if you don’t quit that, Amaranthe signed tersely to Maldynado.

He blinked. What?

For once, his innocence didn’t seem feigned. Maybe it was some sort of reflex, and he truly didn’t realize he was flirting.

“All right then,” Mahliki said. She’d noticed the hand signs and crinkled a brow at her mother, but Tikaya waved it away as nothing. Good. “Everyone in, I guess.”

“By the way,” Amaranthe said, gesturing for the soldiers to cross the gangplank before her, “which way was that cube heading when you saw it last?”

“North, I think,” Mahliki said. “It was hard to get a good look. We were busy diving back underwater and calculating the penetration speed and depth of those beams.”

“She was doing that,” Lonaeo said. “I was trying to figure out how to crawl under a seat that was bolted to the deck.”

Mahliki swatted him. “Which way is this Fort Urgot?”

“North,” Amaranthe said.

“Oh.” Mahliki grimaced.

“Did you find a way to get under that seat?” Maldynado asked as he passed the scruffy young man.

“Sorry, no.”

“A shame.”

When Tikaya drew even with her, Amaranthe quietly asked, “Any idea how many of those cubes are likely to be on a ship the size of the Behemoth?”

Tikaya’s met her eyes. “A lot.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

• • •

In an alley behind the Clearview Hotel, one block up from the yacht club, Sicarius set a canvas bag into the snow behind a waste bin. Bloodstains had seeped through the fabric, but it was dark enough that he doubted anyone would notice it. The information he’d pried from the Forge operative’s mouth before killing her had promised a meeting was taking place in Worgavic’s suite tonight, should he arrive early enough to find the attendees still there. He’d postponed the other assassinations on the Ridge to detour down to the waterfront.

He eyed the rooftop of the five-story building, the eaves stretching into the alley above him, then listened without moving, his back to the wall, the shadows cloaking him. This early into the night, many sounds drifted from within the hotel, the clinks of glasses in the drinking room, the chatter of guests in the lounge, the chops of knives in the kitchen, and the moans of couples who had retired to their rooms for trysts.

It was early to stage an assassination, but given the duress he’d applied to the Forge woman, he knew she hadn’t lied to him. He had experience enough to tell such things, even if he’d had little need to call upon it in the last year. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped pointing out to Amaranthe the effectiveness of torture. Because she always rejected it, he’d assumed, but maybe there was more to it. This evening it had bothered him. It might simply be that he’d had no choice in the matter. Before he’d had more than a thought that he had enough information and could make a quick kill, Kor Nas’s voice had sounded in his head, demanding he spend time with his victim before ending her life, productive time. He didn’t know if the practitioner had known she had information or if he’d simply relished the idea of torturing someone through Sicarius.

A drunk couple walked past the front of the alley, supporting each other as they staggered off to their next destination. It reminded Sicarius to get to work. The meeting would allow him to kill several Forge people in one spot, but only if he arrived before they departed.

Would Kor Nas require another round of torture?

Sicarius lifted his fingers, sliding them beneath a black wool cap, and touched the smooth opal. The size of a robin’s egg, it nestled against his skull. It’d grown into his flesh, and he couldn’t feel a separation between stone and skin. Like a tumor. He didn’t think it’d be possible to pull it out, but what if he tried to cut it out with his knife?

At the thought, a tendril of pain shot from the stone and into his brain. It wasn’t agonizing, nothing to bring a man to his knees, or certainly not to bring him to his knees, but the warning came through sharp and clear. Why fight this anyway? Hadn’t he wished to kill these Forge people regardless?

Yes, he decided. He didn’t know whether the thought was truly his or not, but he left the sack and climbed.

The building’s drainpipes weren’t sturdy enough to support a man’s weight, but his fingers found sufficient handholds in the mortar gaps between the stones. He reached the eaves, gripped the edge of the roof, and pulled himself over the side. He trotted across the snowy tiles to the front of the building. According to the seer’s notes, Worgavic’s suite overlooked the lake and lay behind the third and forth windows from the south side.

The hotel had an attic so there was a twelve-foot gap between the roof and the tops of those windows. He uncoiled thin, strong cable from his waist and tied off one end. A trolley clanged below, coming to a stop in front of the hotel. People were still about on the street, entering and exiting the hotel. Sicarius would have to wait or choose his moment carefully.

Waiting would be more prudent, perhaps taking the role of sniper and killing the Forge women as they departed from their meeting, but a thought entered his mind: Finish your task and return to me.

Maybe Kor Nas had another list of people to be assassinated.

Sicarius pulled out a few clips and fashioned a rappelling setup that would allow him to descend headfirst. A minute later, when the street lay momentarily clear, he lowered himself over the edge. Gas lamps blazed at either side of the hotel’s front door, leaving the stairs and the piles of cleared snow on either side of them well lit. He doubted anyone would see him in the shadows near the roof, but worked quickly regardless.

Lamps burned behind shutters in the room marked by the fourth window, so Sicarius chose the third. This one wasn’t shuttered. When his eyes reached the top of the window he confirmed that it was dark inside. By the embers of a fire burning in a hearth, he could just make out a large canopied bed, the sheets turned down, waiting for its occupant.

With one hand holding his body weight above him on the rope, he pulled out his black dagger with the other. It’d proven effective at cutting any number of materials in the past and had no problem scoring the window. He returned the blade to its sheath, pushed the glass circle free, and caught it before it dropped out of reach. He unlocked the window from within, pulled the larger pane open, and slithered inside.

Sicarius landed in a soundless crouch on the rug and paused, senses stretched out to verify that nobody occupied the room. It smelled of lavender perfume and freshly laundered linens, with a hint of tobacco smoke lingering in the air. Worgavic’s vice? Or that of a lover? Amaranthe had seen her with the senior Lord Mancrest, he recalled.

Amaranthe. The thought of her caused a lump to swell in his throat. He’d been trying to keep her out of his mind, not wanting to be caught thinking of her, not when the practitioner could rifle through his thoughts like pages in a book. Amaranthe’s memory was private, not something to be shared with an outsider.

Muffled voices came from the door between the rooms. He padded across a lush carpet to listen, detecting four, no five distinct voices. This close, he could make out snatches of conversations. Several of the speakers seemed to be standing, some with their backs to his door, and at least one was pacing. And drinking. The clink of ice cubes in a brandy glass sounded more than once.

“-crest can’t figure out what to do next? He needs you to come up and hold his hand?”

“He’s done what we asked, taken the Barracks.”

“…asked him to deal with the Company of Lords.”

“He said he would, but I think he had something bloody in mind.”

“Men, ach. We’ll deal with them. But do we buy them or force their votes?”

“Those old sods have lived too long not to have some tidbits that can be used in blackmail.”

“Blackmail, Lorsa, really. You’ve grown so felonious of late.”

Sicarius had heard Worgavic before, in that meeting beneath Lake Seventy-Three, and he thought one of the voices belonged to her, the one speaking of forcing or buying votes, but he couldn’t be certain. Listening through a door made it difficult.

He intended to wait for an opportune moment to attack, or at least long enough to make sure there weren’t six guards standing silently about the room, but Kor Nas’s voice whispered in his mind.

No delays. Kill them all. Emotion came through the mind link as well as the words, an eager anticipation with a tinge of arousal in it. It reminded Sicarius of Emperor Raumesys. Hollowcrest had been dispassionate and logical, but Raumesys had darkly enjoyed having an assassin at his disposal, relishing ordering prisoners tortured and standing back to watch. Fortunately, Sicarius had never had to share a mind link with the man. Such emotions distracted one from one’s work.

They are all enemies to your general Flintcrest, came Kor Nas’s next words, a touch defensive perhaps.

All of the heads won’t fit in that bag, Sicarius thought in return, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. Had he spoken, he would have swept it from his voice, but the practitioner was in his head anyway, so it hardly mattered.

Bring Worgavic’s for your general to see. The others don’t matter. No, wait. Bring them all, and leave a mess in the room. I want this story in the newspaper. I want Forge to know someone is hunting them and to be afraid.

Sicarius’s sarcasm, his derision for the practitioner, might be misplaced. Hadn’t he killed a number of the Forge people for the same reason? After he’d learned they intended Sespian’s death? He’d done it to protect Sespian though, not simply to kill, not because he enjoyed it.

Yes, tell yourself that, my pet, Kor Nas purred. We two, we are not so different. We serve our masters, but we enjoy our work, don’t we? We could have found other work long ago if we did not.

Not caring for the conversation, Sicarius pulled out his dagger.

Kill them all, Kor Nas repeated. And leave your mark. I want them to know it was you.

Sicarius paused, his hand on the door. My mark? I have no mark.

No? Too bad. Perhaps they’ll figure it out on their own. I want the world to know we own you. A chuckle followed the words. I want the world-your empire-to be afraid.

For a long moment, Sicarius stared down at the dagger. A couple of quick movements would cut out the stone.

It’ll kill you if you try to remove it.

Sicarius didn’t doubt it. But wouldn’t death be nobler than this slavery?

You want to kill that one anyway, Kor Nas thought, the words coming quickly. With a tinge of… desperation? No doubt he didn’t want to lose his “pet.” Worgavic. She ordered the torture of your woman. Kill the others, too, for they are all of the same ilk. They enjoyed hearing about your woman’s torture.

Sicarius recognized the arguing, the bargaining, for what it was, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He found his mind made up for him. Yes, he’d kill these women and add to the heads in the sack below.

Before turning the knob, however, a new thought arose. He remembered the female shaman he’d seen running out of the Behemoth, the one who might have been responsible for Amaranthe’s death. If the woman at her side had been Worgavic, that shaman could be in the meeting room with the others. She’d be more of a concern than guards. The Forge women weren’t likely to be capable fighters, but that shaman would be a different matter, especially if she had time to marshal her power.

If there is a practitioner, I will handle her. Again, emotion accompanied Kor Nas’s words, this time conveying a sense of satisfaction at the notion of pitting himself against another.

Your powers will be diminished when channeled through me, Sicarius responded.

I am still strong enough to deal with one of those barefoot, tattooed Kendorians. They are uneducated, and their Science is weak.

Sicarius thought to point out the foolhardiness of arrogance, but what did Kor Nas care? If he failed, Sicarius might die, but the practitioner would remain safe in his tent. He might suffer the discomfort of a mental backlash, but nothing more damaging.

An image flashed into his mind then, a memory. He was back on Darkcrest Isle with the vengeful spirit of Azon Amar in his head, the incredibly powerful Nurian warrior mage who had assassinated Emperor Morvaktu. Before dying to a platoon of Hollowcrest’s soldiers, Azon Amar had cursed the island, leaving his spirit to haunt it and aid any Nurians who stepped foot upon it. Though he’d been familiar with the story and the curse, Sicarius had followed Amaranthe out to Darkcrest Isle for a mission, and the spirit had taken over his body, forcing him to chase her, to try and kill her. She’d escaped, swimming back to the mainland. Compelled by Azon Amar, he’d given chase, but as he’d swum away from the island, the fount of the dead practitioner’s power, the grip on his mind had faded and he’d broken away.

He’d reached the mainland before Amaranthe, but he’d hidden while she finished her swim, crouching in the bushes and catching his breath, terrified at what he’d almost done, horrified at the memory of the tender flesh of her neck beneath his hands. In that moment, he’d been fighting the powerful spirit with every ounce of his mental strength, using every trick he’d learned from the Nurian wizard hunter who’d been one of his tutors, yet he would have failed if not for Amaranthe’s cleverness. He’d taken a moment to recover his equilibrium-and brush moisture from his eyes-before walking out to the dock to rejoin her. Her wariness-no, her outright fear-as he approached had made him want to fall to his knees in abject apology. He’d hugged her. He should have done more, but it’d been all he could manage at the time. More might have… he might have lost his composure and cried in front of her. He’d been a fool to think that would have been some world-ending failure on his part. The failure had been in being arrogant enough to go out to that island and in falling prey to the wizard in the first place. And now, he was in the thrall of another one.

One who isn’t dead, Kor Nas whispered in his mind. Do not accuse me of arrogance, and do not doubt my power over others. Or over you.

You’re no Azon Amar, Sicarius thought back mulishly. That Nurian had been so powerful people around the world had heard of him.

Perhaps not, but think about how much trouble he gave you from beyond the grave, his powers a mere fraction of what they were when he lived. Do not believe you can defy me; you will only harm yourself if you try.

The opal at Sicarius’s temple throbbed, its light radiating through the wool cap, creating a bizarre yellowish-green pattern on the closest wall. With no other choice, Sicarius pulled out a throwing knife as well as his dagger. The throwing knife would be for the shaman. If she was in the room, she had to go down first.

He listened again before barging in, placing people by the distance and direction of their voices.

When someone on the far side of the room was in the middle of talking, Sicarius chose his moment; other people’s focus should be toward the person, away from the door.

Silent as always, he’d entered and launched three throwing knives before the first startled shriek filled the room or before anyone leapt from her chair. The tattooed shaman wasn’t there. His first blade took a guard by a fireplace in the throat. The next two hammered into the chests of security men stationed by the main door. They hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t expected an attack in this relaxed parlor.

With his throwing knives spent, Sicarius lunged after the next target, a familiar dark-haired woman with spectacles. Worgavic. She was running for the hallway door, a shout on her lips. Sicarius leaped a table and dropped behind her before her hand reached the knob. He gripped her shoulder, yanking her back, and sliced his black dagger across her neck, severing her arteries with the very technology she’d thought she’d controlled.

In seconds, Sicarius finished the other four women in the room. He acted quickly, in part to ensure their prolonged screams wouldn’t bring additional security, and in part so Kor Nas wouldn’t have time to demand more torture.

Directed by the opal, he knelt to collect Worgavic’s head. He glanced around the room as he worked. No one remained alive. No one had tested his abilities. Odd that he should find himself missing Amaranthe’s crazy plans, the challenge inherent in them. In her insistence that they leave people alive, or suborn them to her side, she’d often made things difficult for him. And for herself. Too difficult in the end.

Grimly, he finished cutting and went to the next head. Sicarius felt nothing for the dead. There was no one left among the living whom he cared about.

As he stood there, amidst the blood and bodies, a new image flashed into his mind. This time he was standing with Amaranthe on a road outside of Markworth at the southern end of Lake Seventy-Three. He was penning a letter, dredging up a remembered military encryption key from two decades earlier to encode it for its recipient. Former Fleet Admiral Sashka Federias Starcrest.

He’s rumored to be in the city, came Kor Nas’s words in his mind. We don’t know where yet, but we will soon. He can’t be allowed to help our enemies.