She opened her parka flap slowly, careful not to rustle the bag. The man had the hearing of an owl.
“They can be used for abbreviated maneuvers while some of your weight remains on the floor.” Sicarius gripped the chains and demonstrated. “This may be necessary while you regain your strength.”
Amaranthe pulled out the crinkled brown bag, its bottom spotted with grease stains. A faint smell wafted up, teasing her nose. Cinnamon. She placed the bag in the drawer as fast as she could without making noise. Sicarius’s hearing wasn’t his only preternatural sense.
The chains rattled as he released them. Amaranthe slid the drawer shut, coughing to cover the rustle as the top of the frame scraped at the bag. The drawer snagged against something. She winced and started to reach in to adjust the bag, but Sicarius was turning to face her. She spun about, leaning a hand casually on the table and using her body to block his view.
“That’s very thoughtful of you to install that,” Amaranthe said, “but I thought we’d agreed to let the group relax and recuperate on this voyage upstream, considering the battering we’ve all taken.” She touched one of the remaining bruises on her neck. Though she preferred to forget about her wounds, and was glad they were fading, she thought he might be moved by compassion and forget about her suspicious behavior. “We’ll be in the capital in a few days, and we’ll have enough hard work to occupy us then. We’ll need to be fresh.”
“There is a difference between fresh and out of shape.” Sicarius strode toward her.
Amaranthe tried to force the drawer shut with her butt. That last inch wouldn’t budge. She spread her parka to further block the view of the cursed thing. Only when Sicarius stopped in front of her, less than a foot of space separating them, did she realize that the way she was leaning against the table, touching her neck with one hand, spreading her parka open with the other, probably looked like... an invitation. Sicarius might not have reacted to her “bed play” comment, but they had discussed a future that involved such things—insomuch as she could imagine him playing at anything. When she was ready, he’d said. If he thought she was ready to resume training, maybe he thought she might be ready for other activities. Amaranthe swallowed. Might she be?
Sicarius was gazing steadily at her. She couldn’t tell what thoughts lurked behind his dark brown eyes, but he didn’t seem annoyed or irritated—those emotions she could usually read in the extra degree of hardness to his jaw. He lifted his hands to touch either side of her waist. Her breath hitched. The warmth of his fingers radiated through her shirt. He stepped closer. He was going to—
Sicarius’s grip tightened, and he lifted her from her feet.
Amaranthe blurted a startled protest as he picked her up, rotated her, and set her down behind him. Sicarius slid open the desk drawer, plucked out the bag, and dropped it on the table. He arched a single eyebrow. It was all Amaranthe could do not to squirm and shuffle her feet like a child caught filching cookies from the kitchen.
“You risked being seen by security to acquire a bag of tarts?” Sicarius asked.
“They’re pastries, not tarts. Besides...” Amaranthe set a hand on her hip. “You risked being seen by security to acquire iron bars and chains.”
“I was not seen.”
“Neither was I.” All right, that was a lie. The baker had been making up a fresh batch for dessert, and Amaranthe had needed to offer her most charming smile to convince the man that some of the pastries had been hastily frosted and were in no condition to be served to the high-paying guests whose tickets earned them seats in the formal dining hall.
Sicarius’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“By anyone who would turn me in,” Amaranthe amended. “Anyway, you did a good job providing me with nourishing food on the trek from the Forge ship to the lake, and then again on the way to Port Dremel.” At least during that second part of the journey, they’d been with the rest of the team, and Basilard had foraged for late-season herbs to add flavor to Sicarius’s organ-delight meals. “I’m feeling much better, and there’s no need for such stringent dietary guidelines now.”
Sicarius’s grunt didn’t sound terribly convinced.
“On the other hand,” Amaranthe said, “you could stand to add a pound or two, after all those days of running you endured to find me. I have enough to share.” She opened the bag, letting more of those delicious scents waft out. “Would you like one?”
“I have no need for sweets.”
“You could take one to Sespian. As a peace offering.”
Sicarius eyed the bag, and for a moment Amaranthe thought he might do it.
“I do not believe he would accept a peace offering from me.”
Yes, though Sespian hadn’t pulled any more weapons on Sicarius, their new relationship wasn’t off to a brilliant start. Like a mother hoping to make two young brothers get along, Amaranthe had tried to put them together as roommates, but Sespian had traded berths with Basilard before ever stepping into the cabin.
“You have to keep trying,” Amaranthe said. “Be friendly in the face of his dark glares, and he’ll eventually grow weary of rejecting you. Why, just look at us. In a short ten months of sparkling smiles and effervescent one-sided conversations, I thawed your icy exterior and got you to profess your undying love for me.”
Sicarius blinked slowly.
“It’s possible we remember the events a little differently,” Amaranthe said. “The female mind has an interesting way of filtering reality.”
“Yours certainly does,” Sicarius said, a hint of dry humor finally infusing his tone.
Amaranthe rattled the bag and pulled out a flat round roll drizzled with frosting. “Seriously, you should take him one. It’ll be funny. It’ll warm the frosty air between you.”
Sicarius’s gaze went from her to the roll and back to her. “Funny.”
His monotone had returned, and she couldn’t tell if it was a question, but answered anyway.
“Yes, funny, because of the name.” Amaranthe hefted the sticky roll, but didn’t spot any sign of illumination in Sicarius’s eyes. She supposed a man who never consumed sweets wouldn’t know what the various types were called. “They’re emperor’s buns,” she explained. “Given his occupation, there’s all sorts of potential for humor, don’t you think?”
“Or for causing offense.” Sicarius clasped his hands behind his back. “I will stay here and see to your recovery and training.”
How... considerate. As much as Amaranthe appreciated his new interest in caring for her—and demonstrating that he cared for her—he’d been around a lot, first during their trek to Port Dremel and then hourly since they boarded. His eyebrow had twitched a good millimeter when she’d announced Yara would be her roommate. She’d shooed him out at bedtime the last two nights and had made him promise not to stand guard outside the door.
“I’d like it if you two reached an agreement, or working relationship at least, before we arrive in Stumps.” Amaranthe wondered what he’d say if she tried to make it an order. “We’ll need the team to be working flawlessly together if we’re to have a chance against our opponents.”
“Agreed,” Sicarius said, but he didn’t make a move toward the pastry bag—or the door. “I will approach him soon for a frank discussion.”
“Tomorrow?”
Sicarius hesitated. “Soon.”
She’d have to accept that as a start.
“If you do not feel ready to train physically,” Sicarius said, “we could play Stratics to hone your mental acuity.” He fished in the drawer and pulled out a box of tiles and accompanying roll-up game map.
Amaranthe supposed that was an improvement over chin-ups. “Fine, but if you sit over there and glare at me while I’m indulging in my sweets, I’ll shove a bun up your nose.”
Sicarius’s eyes glinted. “You may try.”
Huh. That sounded like a challenge. While he spread the map across the table, Amaranthe mused upon how that particular challenge might go if she tested him
with it. She’d probably be the one to end up with baked goods lodged in her nostril, though it might be worth it if she elicited a playful side in him. Hm.
CHAPTER 2
Though Evrial had been sharing a cabin with Amaranthe since they boarded, she hesitated outside the door and decided to knock instead of walking inside unannounced. More than once, she’d found the assassin in there with her. They’d never been doing anything except playing strategy games, but Evrial had been forced to hold back a snippy comment that perhaps Amaranthe and Sicarius should be roommates. But she didn’t particularly want to stay with any of the men either—she flicked an irritated finger at her mind when it conjured Maldynado’s face—so she said nothing.
When the door opened, her hunch proved correct. Sicarius stood inside, using the door to block his body, no doubt prepared to defend—or attack—if she’d been an enforcer. Or anyone who dared give him a cross look. The man’s hard, angular face could have been chiseled from ice, for all the warmth it ever held, and Evrial, familiar with the number of soldiers and enforcers he’d killed, had a hard time thinking of him as anything other than “the assassin.” Maldynado had admitted to being perplexed by Amaranthe’s willingness to spend time with Sicarius. Evrial could understand that feeling. Still, having seen Amaranthe charm and manipulate a number of people—herself included—Evrial suspected she teased more out of the man than he gave others.
Without a word, Sicarius stepped aside to let Evrial enter.
“Good evening, Sergeant Yara.” Amaranthe smiled from a stool perched before a Stratics game.
Like most of the others, she’d been wearing the same clothing for a week—in her case, a long-sleeved wool shirt and sturdy green trousers with numerous pockets—but, unlike the others, her garb appeared clean and freshly ironed. Even Maldynado rarely looked so crisp—apparently his love of fashion didn’t extend to a love of doing laundry. Amaranthe wore her hair in her typical bun, and not a single brown strand dared escape its confines. Her nails were clean—if short—and not a smudge of dirt darkened her hands or face, though an uncharacteristic white streak—was that frosting?—smeared one cheek.
On the table, a mosaic of tiles sprawled across a brown and green “battlefield” board. The face-down, not-yet-played tiles on either side sat in tidy stacks, three deep. Though Evrial was clearly interrupting the game, Amaranthe’s smile seemed genuine, even hopeful, as if she wanted some news to add interest to the days of confinement. One would think she’d appreciate a chance to rest. Before striking the blow that had destroyed Forge’s underwater base, she’d been captured and tortured. Most of the bruises mottling her face and hands had faded, but she likely had wounds that the eye couldn’t see, wounds that would take far longer to heal.
“Lokdon,” Evrial greeted. Though she’d started thinking of the former enforcer by her first name, it seemed like a good idea to keep professional distance. Especially since Evrial wasn’t certain she’d stick around for the next phase of Amaranthe’s plan.
“Did you enjoy your training?” Amaranthe asked.
Evrial had almost forgotten she’d gone. “It was adequate. I saw someone though. I thought you should know.”
Amaranthe stood up and glanced at Sicarius. “Oh?”
The assassin remained by the door, blending in with the shadows, though his tousled patch of short blond hair didn’t quite fit in with his neat, tailored black clothing. Bed-head, Evrial’s mother would have called it, though Sicarius always wore it that way, apparently too busy being dark and deadly to bother with hairbrushes.
“An older woman,” Evrial said. “Someone I recognized from the Forge meeting.”
“I thought some of them might be on board,” Amaranthe said, “as we seem to have flooded the tunnels before all of them could have escaped in their underwater conveyances.”
“We?” Evrial asked. She’d had nothing to do with collapsing the tunnels; in fact, Amaranthe had handled that all by herself.
Amaranthe offered a sheepish shrug. “Either way, it’s not surprising that others found their way back to the Goldar River and booked passage on the first steamboat heading north to the capital. What was this Forge lady doing?”
“Sneaking about furtively. With food.”
“Why would Forge have to sneak?” Amaranthe asked. “They’re not... wrongfully accused outlaws.”
Tactfully, Evrial decided not to mention that Amaranthe and her team had committed numerous crimes, crimes that might have one day been justified if it’d come out that they’d been working to protect the rightful emperor from assassins and usurpers, but now that Sespian was just one of more than a half-dozen people with enough royal blood to make a claim on the throne...
“I don’t know,” Evrial said. “I followed her from the kitchen up to the top deck. I didn’t see which cabin she went into, but it was a dead-end corridor, so that narrows down the possibilities.”
“And you came to... suggest we go for a visit?”
“We?” Evrial asked at the same time as Sicarius said, “No,” the first word he’d spoken since she entered.
Amaranthe spread her arms and managed an expression of sheer innocence. “Where there’s one Forge person, there could be others. Don’t we need to keep an eye on them? And see if they’re up to anything besides catching a ride upriver?”
“What could they be ‘up to’ on a steamboat?” Evrial asked.
“I don’t know, but you’re the one who suggested furtiveness was going on.”
“I will search the cabins tonight,” Sicarius said. “You will stay here.”
Amaranthe’s eyebrows rose. “I will thank you not to give me orders.”
Sicarius did not respond, though his gaze seemed to grow a shade flintier. Amaranthe returned the stare. Evrial didn’t imagine “quelled” was a word many people had used to describe her.
“I suppose a nocturnal search would be better than nothing,” Amaranthe mused when she and Sicarius finished their staring contest—Evrial couldn’t tell if anything had been resolved during it. “But, wouldn’t it be better if we could chat with the woman as well as searching her belongings?”
Yet another degree of coldness descended upon Sicarius’s glare. Evrial had teased Maldynado once, about kowtowing to the assassin, but she had to admit those glares were unnerving—knowing all the people he’d killed only made them more so—and she was glad she wasn’t the recipient.
“What are you suggesting?” Outside of kidnapping and torture, Evrial couldn’t imagine a scenario where they’d walk up and chat with the enemy.
“Those upper-deck cabins are more posh than ours, I hear,” Amaranthe said. “Built-in washouts instead of pots you have to dump, and I believe there’s maid service, isn’t there?”
It took Evrial a moment to catch on—she was too busy wondering where Amaranthe had heard anything, since she was supposedly staying out of sight in her cabin for the whole trip. “Maid service? Are you suggesting we dress up as servants and clean people’s rooms?”
“Why, that’s an excellent idea. Thank you for suggesting it.” Amaranthe beamed.
Evrial crossed her arms over her chest and added her glower to the glare Sicarius was still sending across the room. She was beginning to see how Maldynado got blamed for so many things that may have not been his fault after all.
“We will speak.” Sicarius flicked his gaze at Evrial, then focused on Amaranthe. “Alone.”
Amaranthe’s beaming smile didn’t fade. “Sergeant Yara is my roommate. I’m not going to ask her to leave.”
Sicarius took a step toward Evrial, and she tensed. Fighting him would be ludicrous, but she wasn’t going to stand meekly and let him shove her out the door either.
“You’re not going to ask her to leave either,” Amaranthe said, coolness creeping into her own tone for the first time.
Sicarius stopped a step away from Evrial, his face impossible to read. He had a knack for that expression. Evrial noticed that her fists were clenched, her arms up
in a defensive posture. Though he’d stopped, she didn’t lower them.
“Asking isn’t what I had in mind,” Sicarius said.
“Yes, I can see that.” Amaranthe planted a hand on his chest, fingers splayed. “Why don’t you give Yara and me a few minutes alone to discuss this? I’ll brief you on whatever we decide to do before we do it. And you can loiter nearby in case anything goes wrong.”
His face didn’t soften exactly—and he gave that hand a long look before meeting Amaranthe’s eyes—but the hostility he’d been oozing did seem to lessen. “Assassins don’t loiter,” he said.
The comment startled Evrial, and she wondered if she’d heard it correctly. The man hadn’t uttered much that could be classified as humor, not with her around anyway. Maybe he was simply feeling indignant.
But Amaranthe smiled. “What do you call it?”
“Standing. Purposefully.”
“I’ll note that for further discussions,” Amaranthe said. “In the meantime, would you mind standing purposefully in your own cabin? I’m sure Basilard has missed you, and we girls need to chat.”
Sicarius didn’t sigh—his expression didn’t even change as he backed away—but something about the way he looked over his shoulder implied he thought Amaranthe was going to stir up trouble. Evrial had a feeling she should be thinking the same thing.
After the door snicked shut, Amaranthe waved for her to take a seat. “I suggest we sneak into a maid’s closet during dinner hour, grab uniforms and a cart, and go see if anyone needs their beds turned down.”
“What if we run into the real maids?”
“Oh, I imagine we can talk someone into distracting them.” Amaranthe nodded toward the cabin Maldynado shared with Books.
Evrial scowled at the idea of Maldynado flirting with a couple of young women, but she didn’t say anything. Apparently, as the pretty face on the team, this was his job. “He’d better not distract them with more than words.” She regretted voicing the threat as soon as it came out, for Amaranthe’s nod was a little too knowing. Evrial’s feelings weren’t anyone else’s business, so she ought to keep signs of them to herself.
Beneath the Surface Page 2
