Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series

by Amy Raby

  Flavia padded around restlessly, then curled up next to Vitala. Vitala recoiled, having never touched a dog before, but slowly relaxed; the animal obviously meant no harm. Tentatively, she reached for Flavia’s head to stroke it the way she’d seen Lucien do. The animal’s medium-length fur was coarse on the outside, but there was a softer layer underneath.

  “You’re not accustomed to dogs,” said Glenys. “But our people used to keep them. Did you know?”

  Vitala shook her head.

  “The Kjallans slaughtered them, but a few survived, and the bloodline has been preserved. Few people are aware.”

  Vitala opened her mouth to reply, but shut it as, above them, the door to the cottage flew open with a bang. Footsteps thudded across the floor.

  Flavia leapt to her feet, but before she could bark or growl, Glenys seized her muzzle.

  “Madam Hanna,” said a man’s voice overhead. “We need supplies.”

  “Whatever for?” she replied. “Haven’t you got a Healer?”

  “Gordian didn’t like him.” More banging as furniture was shoved aside and cupboard doors roughly opened.

  “What do you mean, Gordian didn’t like him? Is he dead?”

  No answer. The footsteps crossed over their heads into Lucien’s bedroom. “Who’s this cull?”

  “Never you mind,” said Hanna. “Someone your men did wrong, that’s who.”

  One of the men chuckled. “What’s in the bowl? Soup?”

  “Ain’t for you,” said Hanna.

  A spitting noise. “Aggh, it’s medicine.”

  More banging, more footsteps. There was a loud tromp as one of the men stepped right on the trapdoor, then a more welcome sound, that of the front door opening. “Thanks, Hanna. So obliging.”

  “You’re nothing but thieves, you are!” she called after them. The door closed.

  A few minutes later, the trapdoor opened, and Hanna peered down at them. “Well, come on up.”

  “What’s the damage?” asked Glenys when they’d emerged from their hideout.

  Hanna rifled through her cabinets. “Not bad. Our real stores are in the cellar. And they don’t know what they’re looking for. Look, they took the bandages but left this.” She held out a jar of ointment.

  Hanna and Glenys laughed.

  Vitala asked, “What’s in the jar?”

  “Burn ointment,” said Glenys. “Valuable and hard to get. They were sapskulls to leave it behind. So they killed the Healer?”

  “Sounds that way,” said Hanna.

  “I never thought I’d say this,” said Glenys, “but I’d welcome that battalion.”

  • • •

  Hanna and Glenys were called out again that evening and had not returned by morning. Lucien’s wound looked almost healthy at this point. Vitala wished Hanna would return and look at it and, hopefully, stitch it up. She didn’t know what was delaying the battalion—they ought to have been here by now—but if the delay continued, she might get Lucien out before they arrived. It was time to move things along.

  Lucien was getting his color back. He looked less like a corpse and more like the handsome young man she’d made love to in the imperial tent. Well, she supposed it was more that he’d made love to her. The memory of that night brought a flush to her cheeks and a disconcerting throb to her nether regions. Gods, what had happened to her? She’d been with many a man before Lucien, but never had her body responded the way it had to him. Was it his looks? His skill? His personality? It hardly mattered, considering what had happened afterward. She’d been worried that a vision of the young soldier might intrude and steal her consciousness, and that was exactly what had happened. If Remus and his soldiers hadn’t interfered and forced her back to reality, there was no telling how far the vision might have progressed. She might have reached the ugly part, the part that made her start screaming, and what would Lucien think if he saw that? She couldn’t risk sleeping with him again.

  Still, nursing him back to health was less unpleasant than she’d expected. Now that he was stripped of his imperial uniform, he didn’t look like an enemy. Tucked away in a back bedroom in Tasox, he wasn’t the emperor who’d persecuted her people and presided over the massacre at Stenhus. He was just a man, and a handsome one at that. Even the dog seemed to like him. Flavia no longer slept beneath his cot but atop it, right next to him, and he often rested a hand on her or idly scratched her ears.

  Vitala laid a hand on his cheek to check for fever and found it cool to the touch. She stared at his closed eyes, half wishing they would open. They were his most attractive feature, not their shape or color, which were ordinary, but their intensity. It was the intelligence that lay behind them that made them fascinating. She missed those eyes. Then there was his second best feature: his lips. Gods, but the man could kiss. She throbbed again at the memory, and in a moment of unthinking pleasure, bent down and brushed his lips with her own.

  His eyes opened. She stood and turned away so he wouldn’t see her reddening cheeks.

  “Don’t stop there,” he said. “Things were just getting interesting.” He was lucid now; she could tell by the sharpness of his voice.

  “I was checking to see if you had a fever.”

  “Do I have one?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you should check again.” He faked a cough.

  It must have been his looks that had reeled her in, because it sure wasn’t his personality. “You’re not funny.”

  “I can’t make you laugh, but I can make you blush.”

  Time to change the subject. “Gordian’s men were here. They stole supplies from Hanna.”

  “When is the battalion coming into town?”

  “They should have been here already. They’re delayed.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea,” said Vitala. “I’d wager because of your disappearance.”

  “If Remus died in the fire, the traitors are leaderless and disorganized. They’d probably send back to Cassian for instructions before moving on. On the other hand, if Remus survived—”

  “He didn’t survive.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I killed him.”

  “You lie. He’s a war mage. You could not have killed him.”

  She pulled Remus’s riftstone from her pocket and dangled it before Lucien’s disbelieving eyes. It was important he know she was capable of killing a war mage. It would inspire an appropriate level of respect.

  “It’s not possible,” he said.

  “We killed that other war mage by the fire.”

  “We killed him. Two of us. And one of us was a war mage with really good aim. I watched you fight. You’re good, but you could not have beaten him alone.”

  “Maybe not, but I did kill Remus.”

  “How?”

  Vitala smiled. “Why would I divulge my secrets?”

  He scowled. “What are you—Obsidian Circle?”

  She was shocked that he had guessed so easily. But, then, it wasn’t as if there were numerous well-known spy networks operating within Kjall. “I think the Obsidian Circle would have killed you, not rescued you.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Not necessarily. The Circle would have reasons for wanting me on the throne instead of Cassian.”

  “Really? What reasons?”

  “If you’re not Obsidian Circle, why do you want to know?”

  Vitala bit her lip, frustrated. She was going to have to tell him eventually. It would become obvious once he realized their destination was Riorca. And it wasn’t going to be easy to transport him there without his willing cooperation. She had his riftstone, which gave her some leverage, but she couldn’t rob him of his magic without taking it out of range, and how could she control him if she didn’t stay close to him? She couldn’t tie him up—he’d break the bonds. Chains would be conspicuous. And how would she get them on him in the first place?

  No, force was not feasible. Her only option was to make him believe she was on his side.<
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  She sat beside him on the bed. “Look, I’ll explain what I can. Yes, I work for someone. An organization. I can’t tell you what it is.”

  “Why not?”

  She ignored the question. “My superiors knew of the plot against you. My orders were to get close to you and stay close, and if the traitors made their move, get you to safety.”

  “If you knew about the plot, you should have told me! There were steps I could have taken—”

  “No,” she said. “The plot was too big for that. Now that the traitors have made their move and I’ve rescued you, my orders are to bring you to my superiors.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And you can’t tell me who they are or what they want.”

  “They want you back on the throne. If I’m not mistaken, that’s also what you want.”

  “If you’re my ally, give me my riftstone.”

  “My orders aren’t to follow your instructions. They’re to bring you to my superiors. And I don’t trust you to cooperate unless I have some leverage.”

  His face twisted in frustration. “Look, Vitala. I can’t operate like this. I need details or I can’t strategize. You can’t play Caturanga if you can’t see the board. I need to know who these people are and how they plan to help me.”

  “I don’t have those details. I’m not the brains of the operation; I just follow orders. You’re going to have to trust me. Don’t forget I saved your life.”

  “I’m grateful to you for saving my life, but it doesn’t oblige me to follow you anywhere.”

  She smiled. “Now you see why I need leverage.”

  He opened his mouth to argue some more, but changed his mind and waved a hand in capitulation. “I’m hungry.”

  She headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you something.”

  “Vitala?”

  She turned with her hand on the door.

  “If you’re not the brains of the operation, you should be.”

  10

  The next morning, gunshots and the sounds of skirmishing on the south side of town announced the arrival of the battalion. Vitala watched from the window as the soldiers marched past the apartment in formation on their way to the center of town. Their presence made her restless; she and Lucien were now trapped in the apartment until they departed. To keep herself occupied, she assigned herself the task of keeping watch. In the early afternoon, she spotted a small party of soldiers working its way down the street and knocking on the door of each apartment and villa.

  Hanna barked orders. “You and Lucien, down in the cellar. Glenys, in the back bedroom with Flavia.”

  Vitala descended the cellar ladder first, then assisted Lucien, holding him steady as he grunted with each painful step. Hanna closed the trapdoor above them, leaving them in darkness. With a flourish of her hand, Vitala summoned a blue ball of magelight. Lucien settled against the dirt wall opposite her, wedged in between two sets of shelves. Vitala realized the space was so cramped they would probably wind up touching. She hadn’t minded when it was Glenys and Flavia, but this was Lucien. She curled up tight, pulling in her legs to avoid bumping into his.

  For a moment, Lucien looked disappointed. Then his eyes gleamed, and he deliberately stretched his legs across the cellar and rested them against hers.

  “Bastard,” she hissed, kicking him.

  “Don’t be cruel. I’m injured.” He pointed at his bandaged leg and dumped his foot practically in her lap.

  Vitala laughed—she couldn’t help herself—and tossed his foot off her lap. She flung her own legs into the shared space, denying it to Lucien. Gods, what had come over her? Why was she acting like this? It was hardly professional. “What are the soldiers doing?” she whispered. “Why are they going house to house?”

  Lucien opened his mouth to speak, but then there was a rap on the door loud enough to have been delivered with a stick or the pommel of a sword. They fell silent.

  The door opened. Hanna’s voice was mild as warm honey. “Good afternoon, sirs.”

  “Good afternoon, madam.” Footsteps rained on the floor over their heads. Vitala counted two soldiers. Chairs creaked as they sat. “I understand you’re a midwife and herb woman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You live here alone?”

  “With a slave girl. And a dog.”

  “Is the slave at home? Kindly bring her out.”

  “Glenys, come,” called Hanna. A door opened, and there were quiet footfalls, but no creaking of a chair. Vitala imagined Glenys with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, the picture of a docile Riorcan slave.

  “We’re putting together a picture of what’s happened here,” said the soldier. “Did you know any of the bandits?”

  “Not personally, sir. I know them only by reputation. Their leader is a man named Gordian. He was an officer in a battalion that was disbanded, and he came to Tasox with a number of men from that battalion, who proceeded to run up tabs at the local inns and taverns. When an innkeeper pressed them for payment, there was a fight, and they burned down the inn, which was a terrible tragedy. Two children were killed, and—”

  “I know that part already,” said the soldier. “Were all the bandits from outside Tasox, or were some of them locals?”

  Hanna hesitated. “If any locals were involved, they were not people I knew.”

  “Failure to provide your full assistance in this investigation is a crime, madam. Think hard.”

  “Yes, sir. I am thinking hard.”

  “Where are the bandits staying?”

  “I’m told that Gordian has taken over the council chamber, and that the Black Lamb and the Clay Platters inns and the northern bathhouse hold some of his men.”

  “How about food and supplies? Who provides them to the bandits?”

  “Well . . .” Hanna sounded uncomfortable. “No one provides them, exactly. The bandits take what they want, without paying. Most of us have had things stolen.”

  “Including you?”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve broken in several times and stolen medical supplies.”

  “How did you resist them when they broke in?” asked the soldier.

  “I told them to leave,” said Hanna. “But we’re just two women here, and they had pistols. And our dog’s not the aggressive sort.”

  Vitala, uneasy at this line of questioning, scooted close to Lucien, cupped her hand around his ear, and whispered, “Why are they asking about the stolen supplies?”

  He whispered back, “Don’t worry about it. They always ask these questions.”

  “But it sounds like they’re blaming her for letting them take the supplies—”

  “It’s early information gathering—nothing more. If they have concerns, they’ll come back later with mind mages for a full interrogation.”

  Vitala frowned. That almost sounded worse. It would be a disaster for Hanna to be interrogated by a mind mage. Mind mages could tell truths from lies, and Hanna had secrets—not only that she was an Obsidian Circle spy, but also that she was sheltering Lucien. “If a mind mage interrogates her, won’t he find out she’s hiding you?”

  “She,” he corrected. “Mind mages are women. And they can’t force people to talk. All they can do is determine, when somebody does talk, if he spoke the truth. It’s unlikely Hanna will be interrogated, and even more unlikely the questioning will turn in the direction of who’s hiding in her cellar.”

  Vitala leaned back against the dirt wall.

  “What about the man in the apartment next to yours? Felix is his name, I believe,” the soldier was saying. Papers rustled. “Yes, Felix. Did the bandits steal from him?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” said Hanna. “Felix and I rarely speak.”

  “What about the baker up the street?”

  “Krys? He’s had several break-ins.”

  Vitala leaned in close to Lucien again. “They’re getting Hanna to rat on her neighbors. What if her neighbors rat on her? What if they don’t like her and they make false accusations?”


  Lucien shook his head. “The mind mages will straighten it all out.”

  Vitala’s stomach twisted. That was what she was afraid of.

  • • •

  When the questioning was over, an unusually subdued Hanna let Vitala and Lucien up from the cellar. Lucien repeated his assurances—this was standard military procedure, they would use mind mages to sort out truths from fiction—but Vitala knew Hanna was thinking what she’d been thinking: that they could not afford to be subjected to such an interrogation.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Hanna, “but you’re not in charge anymore. You don’t know how they’ll proceed.”

  “I know well enough,” he said. “This is how it’s always done.”

  The following morning, Hanna and Glenys were called out to attend a birth. Vitala and Lucien, bored and stir-crazy, cobbled together a Caturanga board out of an old quilt and a set of pieces out of empty jars and bits of firewood. They played, stationing themselves at a table near the window to watch for soldiers, with Flavia lying across Lucien’s foot. Lucien had a new strategy: he kept opening with the Vagabond’s Gambit. A gambit in Caturanga meant offering up a piece in sacrifice in order to gain a more advantageous position—in this case, early control of the Vagabond. If Vitala captured the sacrificed piece, she accepted the gambit. She could also leave the piece where it was and decline. But she was curious. She accepted the gambit every time he offered it. She won the first game but lost the second. That was the first time Lucien had beaten her, and his crowing about it was so irritating that she challenged him to a rematch, accepted his gambit again, and beat him.

  When they’d tired of the Caturanga, Lucien disappeared for a moment, then returned with what looked like a fireplace poker. He unstrapped his peg leg and used the poker to pry the gold bands off the dark wood. Vitala watched wordlessly for a while, fetching one of the mangled bands when it flew off the leg and skittered across the room.

  “The gold is too conspicuous,” Lucien explained.

  “I agree.”

  “Also, we can sell the bands if we have to.” After he pried the last one from the peg leg, he set to work on the crutch.