Republic

by Lindsay Buroker

  “We’re close?” she asked.

  “Two blocks,” Amaranthe said.

  Tikaya didn’t see Sicarius, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nearby.

  After the carriages disappeared around corners, Amaranthe jogged across the street, heading for an intersection. Before they reached it, she turned up a narrow alley with trash bins posted at wide intervals—the house lots were big up here. Nothing compared to what Tikaya’s family enjoyed on her plantation, but these people certainly weren’t crammed in on top of each other, a rare finding in a city so populous.

  Before they had gone far, Amaranthe paused. “I didn’t ask. I just assumed this was a clandestine operation. Did you want to knock on the front door?”

  Did she? Good question. Tikaya removed her spectacles to wipe sewer grime from one of the lenses. “Mind if we see if anyone is home first?”

  “Presumably not by knocking?” It was hard to tell in the dark alley, but Amaranthe might have grinned.

  “If she’s home, there would be lamps lit. It’s not that late.”

  “Yes, and we can check for those lamps from the alley behind the house.” Amaranthe waved her arm. “This way.”

  Tikaya wondered if they had lost those who had been following them. She also wondered if it was odd that she would have preferred assassins to journalists, hoping for a story. President’s Wife Spies on President’s Wife. Not a title she wanted to see in the Gazette in the morning. Granted, the Gazette had printed more tasteful articles than the other newspapers that had featured her, usually focusing on politics rather than gossip.

  “I think this is it.” Amaranthe stopped before a brick wall dressed in ivy and a wrought iron gate, its bars shaped as branches and leaves. Beyond it, a park-like yard stretched, flagstone paths winding between manicured bushes and trees, with fountains and statues dotting the grounds. Some of them had glass baubles—or maybe those were gems—that gleamed, reflecting the moonlight. Granite benches rested beside the path for those who grew weary during the long walk to take out the trash.

  “That’s the back yard?” Tikaya whispered. “What’s the front look like?”

  “I don’t know. This is your contact. I don’t even know why we’re here exactly.” Amaranthe’s tone suggested she wouldn’t have minded the details.

  Tikaya tried the gate, but found it locked. “I guess we have to climb over the wall.” A wall that was over her head, even at six feet. Perhaps she should have been doing some exercise over the winter, something more vigorous than turning pages.

  Amaranthe reached between the bars, and something clinked softly. She pulled the gate open. “I imagine the house doors will be more challenging, but there’s no need to test our athleticism right away.”

  Tikaya decided not to mention that simply walking down a path in the dark was a test for her athleticism. No need to have the young woman think her some doddering old professor. She did gesture for Amaranthe to lead. Younger eyes might prove more apt at picking routes through the darkness.

  The house loomed ahead, a blocky shadow rising out of the garden setting. None of the shuttered windows had lights burning behind them, at least not on this side of the three-story dwelling. It had left and right wings as well as a large central section. Numerous chimneys rose from the rooftop, making Tikaya wonder how many people lived there. Her family’s entire plantation house could have fit in one of the wings.

  “Wait here,” Amaranthe said, then trotted down a side path.

  Tikaya leaned against a fountain, the water gurgling softly in the darkness. She couldn’t make out the details of the statue that loomed down at her, but found it threatening, nonetheless, as if some ancient gargoyle had been placed on guard to warn trespassers away.

  A couple of minutes later, Amaranthe returned, coming in from the opposite direction. She must have checked around the entire house. “Shadowcrest, eh?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s the name on the mailbox. It’s one of the old and prestigious warrior-caste families.” Amaranthe tilted her head. “You didn’t know the name of the person we’re here to spy upon?”

  “Not her surname, no. I had assumed...” Tikaya had thought the woman might still be claiming Starcrest as a surname, since her husband had supposedly died at war, and there hadn’t been an official parting of ways. Maybe this was her ancestral home though. “Nothing. Is anyone home? Can we sneak in?”

  “There are servants living in that north wing, a small cadre of them if the number of lit rooms is an indication. They’re playing Tiles, talking, and drinking. Must be done working for the day. If we go in the back, stay to the south, and don’t make much noise, chances are good we can avoid them.”

  “I may need to search the house,” Tikaya said, “but nothing I’m searching for would be in the servants’ quarters.”

  “What are we going to search for? Made items?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll know it when I see it.”

  Amaranthe snorted. “Sounds like one of my breaking-and-entering plans.”

  “Did you break and enter often?”

  “No,” came a male voice from behind Tikaya.

  She jumped and almost fell into the fountain. She had forgotten Sicarius was about.

  “She usually sent me for those tasks,” he said.

  “You’re better at sneaking around than I am,” Amaranthe said. “Did we lose our curious shadows?”

  “All except one,” Sicarius said. “I’ve been trying to find that person, but he or she is good. I am questioning my certainty that someone is there.”

  “Really? There aren’t many people who can elude you. Is it possible this is the same person who threw the blasting stick?”

  “Possible. But I would be basing this solely on the person’s skill at remaining hidden.”

  Amaranthe shifted uneasily, not used to anyone being able to hide from Sicarius.

  “The person is just watching for now?” Tikaya asked.

  “Watching at the least,” Sicarius said. “Possibly waiting for an opportune moment to act.”

  “I haven’t sensed the Science being used.”

  “Nor have I,” Sicarius said.

  “Oh. Er, would you? I wouldn’t expect most Turgonians to, ah... well, you all aren’t raised around practitioners. Even to this day, Rias is oblivious when women on the beach are conjuring gusts of wind to whip his towel out of his grasp when he’s coming out of the water.”

  “Is that... truly a problem on Kyatt?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Well, not as much as when we were first married and he was younger,” Tikaya admitted. “Though some of the naughty old ladies still try to sneak a peek.”

  Amaranthe swatted Sicarius on the chest. “We should have visited Kyatt to see if any maidens tried to play chase-the-ball with your towel.”

  “As I stated,” Sicarius said, seemingly oblivious to her swat and teasing tone. “I am able to sense when the Science is being used.”

  “You didn’t mention why,” Tikaya said, curious as to the answer. She supposed he might have traveled extensively in his role as court assassin. The idea of him appearing in different countries as easily as he had appeared behind her, and then dragging a knife across the throat of some politically important person... She grimaced, wondering if she would ever stop feeling uneasy in his presence.

  “No,” Sicarius agreed. And said nothing further on the matter.

  “I think we’re going to pop into this house for a look around,” Amaranthe said. “Do you want to join us or hunt for our shadow?”

  Sicarius regarded the large brick mansion. “Why are you sneaking into the house of President Starcrest’s first wife?”

  Tikaya flushed. Of all the people she might have expected would know about Starcrest’s background—and where his old wife lived—Sicarius hadn’t been one of them. He sounded faintly disapproving too. Maybe that was her imagination; she usually couldn’t read any hint of feeling or emotion in his voice at all.

  “Are
we?” Amaranthe’s tone held none of that disapproval. She sounded... excited at the prospect. “Now I really want to know what we’re looking for.” She chuckled. “Or are we simply going to wrap washout paper around the entire place as a prank?”

  “Of course not,” Tikaya said stiffly. “This woman sent a gift to Rias that has been affecting his health. I intend to find out why and where she got it. As I said, a Maker modified what was an ancient statuette of minor historical interest. I assume Sauda is not a practitioner herself, so who supplied it to her? Did she hire the person? Or is someone more sinister using her without her knowledge? The someone stalking the shadows, perhaps?”

  “Ah, a worthy question then,” Amaranthe said. “Though I think Sicarius would have been more amused to have put his assassinly skills to use with the washout paper. With the way he can walk up walls and dangle one-handed from ceiling gutters, just think about what an artistic job he could do.”

  Tikaya... couldn’t picture this image at all. Nor did Sicarius snicker, grunt, or otherwise acknowledge Amaranthe’s foolish notion. In the silence that followed, Tikaya could have sworn she heard crickets chirping in the corner of the garden.

  “Assassinly?” she asked, thinking to save Amaranthe from this self-inflicted awkward moment. “That is not truly a Turgonian word, is it? I’ve not run across it with that particular ending.”

  “It may be a creative interpretation of a Turgonian word,” Amaranthe said.

  Sicarius snorted softly. “I will watch the exterior of the building and attempt to locate the last spy while you go inside. I will not leave the area to hunt solo until the professor is back at the hotel. President Starcrest would be displeased if I left her unguarded.”

  Maybe Tikaya should have opted for the squadron of guards after all. They, at least, probably wouldn’t have known whose house she was sneaking into, though it would have proven conspicuous to leave them loitering in the street by the mailbox.

  “He’s fine about leaving me unguarded,” Amaranthe whispered to Tikaya.

  “Your creativity will protect you,” Sicarius said and disappeared into the shadows before Amaranthe could respond.

  “He has a way of getting the last word,” Amaranthe said, “though I’ve learned he’s listening even when he’s skulking about out there.”

  “How... comforting,” Tikaya murmured.

  Amaranthe rounded the fountain and headed up the path to a broad cement porch framed by more statues, nudes of muscular young men this time—as Tikaya discovered when she stumbled over an uneven flagstone and reached for the nearest... handhold. A representation of Sauda’s tastes? Or some long-dead matriarch in her family? Hers, Tikaya imagined. After all, something must have drawn her to marry Rias all those years ago. He had never said anything that implied they had been intellectual soul mates. Rias did have nice... handholds.

  “Door’s locked,” Amaranthe whispered. “Give me a moment.”

  Tikaya had picked a lock or two in her day under Rias’s tutelage, but not without any light. And not in the engineer-filled Turgonia, where the locks were probably as advanced as their firearms and steam engines. It was good to have Amaranthe along.

  Soft scrapes reached her ears as the younger woman probed the lock. She must have come prepared with a picking kit. She couldn’t have anticipated this side trip, which made Tikaya wonder about her other destination.

  “Professor?” Amaranthe asked softly as she worked.

  “You can call me Tikaya.” She thought she remembered saying that before, months ago, on that ancient vessel. These Turgonians put a lot of stock in addressing people by proper titles, even those who were no longer strangers. Tikaya supposed she could get used to it. There was a lack of charm to the Polytechnic students who wandered past with surfboards underarm and greeted her with, “Yo, Prof!”

  “Tikaya, may I ask a question?”

  “Of course.” Tikaya recalled that Amaranthe had seemed on the brink of asking something earlier.

  “On the Kyatt Islands... I’ve heard that there are practitioners that are the equivalent of our doctors. More than the equivalent because they use the Science.”

  And because we study topics beyond metallurgy, engineering, and making war, Tikaya thought. “That’s right,” was all she said.

  “Are there skilled... female doctors?” Amaranthe didn’t look up from the lock as she spoke, though in the darkness, she must have been working by touch alone.

  “Those who specialize in the female reproductive system and diseases thereof, you mean?”

  “Uhm. Yes.”

  Tikaya had not heard the woman sound so uncomfortable before. Turgonians had a cultural aversion to many topics the Kyattese found commonplace. “Yes, we have them,” she said.

  “Are there any who specialize in healing injuries? To those, ah, areas?”

  “There are some, yes, though disease is more common than injury. Are you—”

  “Almost done with the lock, yes. One more tumbler.” The words came out in a rush. Relieved to change the topic, was she? But didn’t she want an answer to her question?

  “Have you been injured?” Tikaya asked.

  “Yes. Makarovi claws last year. I almost died.”

  Tikaya blinked. “This was before the ones were brought into the city last winter? Why would you have... sought them out? Or gone to their native habitat?” Makarovi were rare from everything she had read, at least these days. They had been more common once, and some speculated that they and their northern counterparts, the grimbals, were the reason this continent had remained sparsely populated long after the Nurians had spread all over theirs. One scholar had posited that the reason the Turgonians had developed such a warrior culture had been because of the creatures they had been forced to kill to claim this land.

  “We didn’t,” Amaranthe said. “These were brought in by a shaman too. We were just trying to find out why people in the city were getting sick, which involved a trip to a dam up in the mountains. Long story, but it messed me all up, and even though a shaman healed me, he was essentially an enemy and wasn’t too worried about putting the puzzle pieces together exactly as he found them.”

  Amaranthe stood up and pushed the door partially open. She peeked around the edge, then held up a finger and disappeared inside.

  Tikaya waited, deciding this was an odd place and an odd time for this conversation. Maybe Amaranthe hadn’t wanted to discuss it in front of others. Perhaps Sicarius did not know of her issues?

  Amaranthe stuck her head out. “There’s nobody around, but I can hear laughter and raised voices from the other side of the house. I have a lantern, but I think we may want to go by touch until we get to a room you want to search, one where we can lock the door.”

  “I would actually prefer to risk a lantern,” Tikaya said. “I am... not the most adroit under any circumstances, and I would be fully capable of knocking down a pot rack with my head as we pass through.”

  “Oh, all right. Come in then, and I’ll light it.”

  Tikaya eased inside, closing the door behind her. Soft rummaging sounds drifted to her ear. Judging Amaranthe would need a moment to light the lantern, Tikaya went back to their conversation. “How do you know the shaman failed at... your puzzle?”

  “I was examined by a Turgonian doctor today. An obstetrician.”

  Tikaya wagered it would make her sound like a foreign snob to admit she hadn’t thought Turgonians had that degree of specialization amongst their doctors. She was glad to learn that not every one of them was a field surgeon, practiced in the art of amputating limbs and other garish practices that a Kyattese doctor would consider barbaric. Still, she shuddered inwardly to imagine what tools an obstetrician might use if he didn’t have the mental sciences to call upon.

  “Is that what all this is about?” Tikaya asked. “You seek to have a child?” With Sicarius? Her mind shied away from the thought.

  A soft flame winked into existence.

  “Not... right now, necessarily
. I’d like to know it’s an option though.” Amaranthe rose to her feet with the lantern. “Where to first?”

  “Let’s see if we can find her bedroom.”

  Tikaya followed Amaranthe through a storage room and into a kitchen that could have serviced a restaurant—thanks to the lantern, dim though it might be, Tikaya managed to keep from crashing into the pot rack. From there, they headed into a wide hallway, and the voices and laughter Amaranthe had mentioned grew audible. The jubilant sounds of men and women drinking and enjoying a good time while their master—or mistress—was away.

  In the hallway, doors alternated with statuary, with the nudity theme being prevalent. Male nudity. Sauda didn’t seem to be quite the appreciator of the female form. Paintings lined the walls as well, a mix of simple—all Turgonian artwork seemed to favor a simple style—landscapes and more adult topics. Tikaya tripped over the edge of a carpet runner when she stared too long at creatures with male and female torsos and the lower halves of lizards. Well-endowed lizards. Fortunately, she kept herself from stumbling into Amaranthe or making too much noise, though Amaranthe must have heard her grunt anyway, for she glanced back, then wrinkled her nose at the painting.

  “Granted I don’t know him well,” Amaranthe said, “but it’s strange to imagine the president being married to someone with such, uhm, ecumenical tastes.”

  “It was an arranged marriage,” Tikaya said. “Though I gather in his youth he was smitten by her beauty. After he graduated from the academy, he was at sea so much that they didn’t see much of each other.”

  “Leaving her here to find methods of entertaining herself, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  Amaranthe pointed to a set of wide travertine steps. “Bedrooms upstairs?”

  Tikaya shrugged. She had no better guess than Amaranthe. On the second floor, they passed a lavatory the size of most people’s bedrooms, along with several studies, guest rooms, a library, and more than one room dedicated to displaying taxidermy. All manner of predators rose from pedestals or had heads mounted on the walls, including giant lizards, lions and panthers, and a shaggy white grimbal that reared up, its broad head nearly touching the ceiling.