Forged in Blood I

by Lindsay Buroker

  He took satisfaction in the upturning of her lips as she wriggled closer and let her eyelids droop closed. For once, it seemed she was too tired to worry about appearances. Or perhaps, all along, he should have been offering to stand guard from her bedside instead of outside her door.

  Sicarius closed his own eyes, though he pursued meditation instead of sleep, the quiet, thought-free state of mind he’d learned to achieve from the same Nurian tutor who’d taught him defenses against the mental sciences. It allowed the body to regenerate as efficiently as a night’s sleep and in less time. During the meditation, he could also focus on healing wounds more quickly than nature would have accomplished on its own. It was the calming effect it brought to the mind that he appreciated most. The skill had allowed him to deal with his own nightmares in the aftermath of Pike’s… lessons.

  Sicarius’s eyes popped open. Perhaps he could teach the practice to Amaranthe. With the way her mind raced about at all times, scheming up some plot even when she was in the midst of a training session, she would find it difficult to free it of thoughts and find tranquility, but if she could master even a modicum of the ability to meditate, she might be able to push the nightmares from her mind.

  Later, he decided. She had nodded off, her head on his chest, her breathing gentle and even. He closed his eyes again, his mind empty, his senses focused inward, though he remained distantly aware of his surroundings. Something metal batted against the roof as the wind picked up. Someone walked across the catwalk, heading to the water closet. Men snored on the floor downstairs. Maldynado returned from his watch shift and, a short time later, engaged in coitus with Yara, an activity that continued for a tediously long time and made it difficult for Sicarius to remain in a meditative state. He was relieved when, near the end of the three hours, Amaranthe roused of her own accord. It was time to get the team to work—and share his news.

  She smiled up at him, not yet lifting her head from his chest. “Thank you. You should come stand guard for me more often.”

  “If you found it valuable,” Sicarius said, his chin drooped, his eyes half-lidded as he gazed at her. Strange how much it pleased him that she’d slept quietly in his arms. He’d distanced himself from so much of the human experience over the years that he hadn’t realized he could be pleased by anything. He’d been denied pleasures in his youth and, after that, it’d seemed practical to abstain—a man with so many hunting him shouldn’t allow himself any predictable vices.

  Thumps and groans reached his ears from the office next door—Maldynado and Yara, embarrassing rabbits all over the empire with their superior breeding instincts. Amaranthe blushed, apparently having no trouble identifying what the sounds indicated. Not for the first time that morning, Sicarius thought of the kiss they’d stolen in the smokestack of that steamboat. It’d been unprofessional, ill timed, and inappropriate. He wanted to do it again.

  Amaranthe cleared her throat and sat up, drawing away from him. “I believe you mentioned news.”

  “Yes.” Sicarius rose and plucked her gifts off the desk. He handed her the bag and held up the envelope. “This was delivered to a desk in a back office at Curi’s Bakery last night while I was waiting for your party to rendezvous with ours.”

  Amaranthe started to reach for the letter, but something about the rumpled bag distracted her, and she opened it first. When she peered inside, her mouth fell open. “For me? You stole a pastry for me?”

  “I paid for a pastry for you.” Albeit he didn’t know if he’d paid the right amount. He held the envelope out, offering her the chance to break the seal.

  Amaranthe was busy staring into the bag. Her mouth continued to hang open, though it stretched into a wide grin. “Thank you.” She flung her arms around him, this time not worrying about whether knife hilts poked her in the ribs, then she pulled the pastry out of its bag.

  Sicarius was still holding out the envelope, now somewhat crinkled after her embrace. Since she seemed unfathomably distracted, he slid out a dagger and broke the seal himself.

  Ms. W. –

  As requested, I am securing passage and will be returning to the empire within the next two weeks. While my sister is more than apt in handling the ancient language, I have been in contact with the Kendorians and the Nurians and can advise you more closely in person. The Kendorians are open to working with our bankers and your imperial figurehead, but the Nurians are enacting some plan of their own. I’ve traveled extensively in their country and may be able to negotiate with whatever spy they’ve sent to observe the action. It will be good to see you and the others again and finally bring our plans to fruition. Where shall we meet?

  ~ S.

  Sicarius would have expected Amaranthe to be at his shoulder, reading as he read, but she was near the window, holding the pastry to the light and squinting suspiciously at it.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “No. I just thought there might be fish eyes or cut up bits of liver hiding under the frosting. You’re always trying to feed me healthy food. And you always have derogatory comments for anything sweet. Even fruit, which I’m sure has never looked at you in a threatening manner.” She lowered the pastry and studied his face. “This is… I want to adore you, but I fear a trap. Will I have to run twenty miles after eating this?”

  Earlier, Sicarius had been dwelling upon how much she thought about everything. Clearly receiving a treat was no exception. He couldn’t blame her—he’d never brought her such a thing before. “If you fear it’s a trap, you needn’t eat it. I would approve of such a refusal, as it would indicate you’re finally coming to accept that superior foods must be consumed to ensure superior physical performance.”

  Amusement touched Sicarius as Amaranthe’s slit-eyed gaze went back and forth from him to the pastry. Finally she took a chomp, and, after a few test chews, grinned broadly with frosting smeared across her nose.

  “Oh, fantastic,” she purred. “The pastries on the steamboat were tasty, but nothing is as perfect as a Curi’s bun.”

  “I trust your taste buds detected no hidden liver morsels.” Sicarius joined her by the window, intending to show her the letter, though his gaze did snag on that smear of frosting. She must not know it was there. Perhaps he should clean it off… somehow.

  The catwalk creaked beyond the window, and a few seconds later, Akstyr shambled into view, heading for the water closet with his book stuffed under one arm. Sicarius straightened, adopting a professional distance between himself and Amaranthe, and held out the letter for her perusal.

  “No liver.” Her cheeks were flushed, and she was quick to lower her face to read the note—perhaps she too had been thinking about frosting cleaning?

  Often, she’d teased him about dragging him off somewhere private once they’d accomplished all of their goals. Since reuniting with Sespian and retrieving her from the alien vessel, he’d been experiencing similar thoughts. Often.

  “You found this on Curi’s desk?” Amaranthe asked, anguish in her tone. She stared at the half-eaten pastry, an expression of betrayal on her face. “She’s part of Forge? She’s… she’s… seventy years old and matronly and plump and nice. She can’t be colluding with the villains.”

  Sicarius refrained from mentioning that many people in the capital would consider Amaranthe and her men villains, and that few wouldn’t consider him one. “She may simply be allowing them to use her premises for message delivery purposes.”

  “That’s still colluding.”

  “They could be blackmailing her.”

  “Oh.” Amaranthe brightened. “True. I’ll reserve judgment of the baker until I know more.” She took another chomp out of her pastry. “Thank you for bringing the letter. If they’re expecting Suan to show up, that’ll be perfect for my plan. Hm, mostly. It does mean I’ll need to get started more quickly than I’d had in mind.”

  “This is your Forge infiltration plan?” Sicarius did not approve of her new scheme, since it thrust her into danger all over again. A part
of him wished he hadn’t shown Amaranthe the letter.

  “Exactly so. Would you mind using your artistic skills to make a copy of this letter? Only change the first line to say ‘S’ will be arriving in the next day or two. This is fantastic luck. Or is it too much luck? Is there any way they could have anticipated we’d visit Curi’s and see the letter being delivered? No, that doesn’t seem likely. Does it?”

  “It is likely a chance occurrence,” Sicarius agreed.

  “Great. I’ll grab Maldynado and go costume shopping today. Our world-traversing Forge founder is a blonde.” She touched her brown locks, which she hadn’t tied up in her customary bun yet this morning. “Maldynado probably knows how to dye hair nicely. Or he’ll know someone who does.”

  “You should reconsider taking me with you.”

  “To shop for clothes?” Amaranthe touched his sleeve. “Did you want to try on some outfits too? Something more daring and vivacious than your customary black? Gray perhaps?”

  Sicarius let his eyes close to slits. He knew when she was feigning misunderstanding and attempting to redirect someone’s displeasure elsewhere. It was not an uncommon tactic for her. “You’ll need someone good at your back if you’re trapped on the bottom of the lake in that craft and your true identity is discovered.” He thought it unlikely that Amaranthe could pass for long, if at all, as a woman who shared a long history with her colleagues, however little visual contact they’d had. “I could also… wear a costume.”

  “That’d be interesting to see, but I could be stuck down there for days. Do you want to leave Sespian for that long? He’s going to need someone good at his back as much as I do, if not more.”

  Sicarius was going to retort that Sespian would be fine for a few days, but an image of the soul construct flashed into his mind.

  “I know.” Amaranthe gripped her arm. “You wish you could be in both places at once. And I wish you could be with me.” Sincerity warmed her eyes as she spoke. “But your place is with Sespian.”

  Sicarius exhaled slowly. He wouldn’t object to standing at Sespian’s back if she weren’t determined to fling herself into a smoldering volcano. “You should not go. Not into their lair. We could find Worgavic and kidnap her as an alternative. Question her or hold her hostage. Get the information we need that way.”

  “But it’s not just information. It’s the Behemoth. You told me what it did to that swamp, to your dirigible. Am I wrong in believing it’s very likely the most powerful weapon in the world?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “It has to be nullified somehow. Otherwise… as long as they have it, they could kill us all. If things don’t go as planned for them, maybe they can simply wipe out the entire city and start from scratch.”

  Sicarius understood the power of the technology perfectly. It was why Starcrest had worked against him all those years ago, to keep Emperor Raumesys from acquiring it; the admiral had known it’d give one man the tools needed to rule the world. What was harder to understand was why it had to be their fight. Sespian wasn’t the rightful emperor, so what obligation did he have to the people now? And Amaranthe. Would this clear her name? Probably not. It was possible nothing would at this point. They ought to walk away from Stumps, all of them, and leave this battle for others. He was on the verge of voicing his thoughts when Amaranthe spoke again.

  She gripped his arm and gazed into his eyes, her own eyes liquid brown and imploring. “Someone has to stop them, Sicarius, or they’ll own the world before long, a world that we might not like living in very much, one that our children won’t like living in.”

  It was as if she’d thrown a wrench into the workings of his mind. His mental machinery ground to a halt, locking onto that single word. Children. She’d never mentioned wanting any. Was she now implying she did? With him? Or had it been figurative?

  Now who’s thinking too much, he asked himself with a silent snort.

  “Nobody else knows that thing is out there in the lake,” Amaranthe went on. “Nobody else is in a position to stop them.”

  But was she? Amaranthe was capable of much, he knew that, but this sounded like too much. Yet he wasn’t going to be able to talk her out of it; he could see that.

  “At least take Maldynado and Basilard, not Books and Akstyr,” Sicarius said. “You’ll need fighters at your back.”

  “I… think I’ll need brains at my back to navigate around in there. It’s a confusing warren. Even the doors don’t look like doors. I’m hoping one of them can figure things out.”

  “Take all four of them then.”

  “I’ll be lucky if I can get myself invited down,” Amaranthe pointed out. “I’m sure Suan doesn’t travel around with an army of mercenaries.”

  The doorknob rattled.

  She let her hand fall away from Sicarius’s arm. Akstyr poked his head inside, his lopsided hair sticking out all over like a topiary shrub abandoned in the aftermath of a war.

  Amaranthe’s fingers twitched and pointed. “Do you want me to… cut that today? Trim it up so it’s even?”

  “I guess.”

  “That,” Amaranthe said, eyeing Sicarius, “is the response you’re supposed to give when a woman offers to cut your hair. An enthusiastic ‘yes’ is also acceptable.”

  Sicarius did not respond, though he knew what she referred to—she’d been offering to cut his hair all year, as if such things mattered beyond social conventions. All he required was for it to be short so it couldn’t be grabbed in a fight and didn’t fall into his eyes when he worked.

  “Is there any food in this place?” Akstyr asked.

  “No,” Amaranthe said, “but I’ll take Maldynado shopping later.”

  “I thought he might have gone this morning. I’m starving. And tired. Some idiot has been up here moving furniture around for hours. Who could sleep through that?” Akstyr glowered around the room, as if Amaranthe might have been responsible for the disturbance.

  “Moving… furniture,” she said. “I believe that was Maldynado. Perhaps you can ask him to do it more quietly next time.”

  “He’s going to do it again?”

  Sicarius listened to the exchange impassively, though Amaranthe seemed amused. Given Akstyr’s forays into the Pirates’ Plunder and other brothels, he was more naive than expected in this regard.

  “Oh, I think that’s a given.” Amaranthe pointed toward the roof. “Was there any sign of the—”

  “Nah, I checked right off,” Akstyr said. “The soul construct left before dawn,” Akstyr said.

  “Good,” Amaranthe said.

  “You knew about the soul construct?” Sicarius asked her.

  “Last night after you left, it visited our factory, doing a good long stalking-about.”

  The statement chilled him. Sicarius remembered the creature’s focus on him that morning, but what if the Nurians had found out Sespian was alive, and they’d sent it for him? They’d have no more use for Sespian than they would for Ravido Marblecrest, not if they had some other candidate in mind for the throne. It might have been Sespian and Sicarius’s shared blood that confused the soul construct, making it veer from its path to chase Sicarius up a tree. Had it mistaken him for Sespian? If it was after him…

  Amaranthe had been right; Sicarius couldn’t leave Sespian, not now.

  Chapter 7

  A squad of soldiers marched down the street, white armbands taut about their biceps, their sleek repeating rifles held diagonally in front of them. Amaranthe eased deeper between two clothes racks, ensuring the hat stand blocked her from the view of anyone looking in the window. Though she wore a costume—and, yes, she found it ironic that she was wearing a costume to go costume shopping—she didn’t trust the cap, ruffle-laden dress, and artistically arranged ringlets of hair to withstand close scrutiny. A lamppost at the entrance to Millinery Square had shown off her and Sicarius’s wanted posters.

  “Oh, there you are, Ruffles,” Maldynado drawled, strolling into view.

  He’d been call
ing her that all afternoon, since she found and donned the frumpy dress, one of a handful of garments in the boss’s closet in the molasses factory. She hadn’t thought anyone over twelve wore such clothing and wondered if the manager’s fashion taste had anything to do with the business’s failure to thrive. Maldynado had made matters worse—he’d called it “flowing with the natural ripples of the ensemble”—by curling her hair into tight ringlets that bounced around her face like trampoline springs.

  “Here’s the first and most important item.” Maldynado held up some sort of garment comprised mostly of string. “A foundation piece, if you will.”

  “A foundation for what?”

  A broad smirk stretched across his face, and Amaranthe started to get the idea. She imagined Maldynado making bets with the men as to whether he could convince her to don such an item or not.

  “Underwear?” she asked. “It had better be for you.”

  Maldynado extended his arm, the strings dangling on his fingers. “Would you like to try it on?”

  Amaranthe blushed at the idea of wearing nothing except that beneath her clothing. Especially during winter. It wasn’t practical at all. “Maldynado, nobody’s going to be checking out my underwear. I need to look like a world-traveling woman from a well-to-do family, preferably with lots of exotic clothing to suggest recent trips to Kendor, Nuria, and the like. What’s underneath that clothing is irrelevant.”

  “Of course it’s not.” Maldynado twirled the skimpy garment around his index finger. “What if you find out this woman you’re impersonating has a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend? And you’re expected to get amorous?”

  “That’s not going to happen. She’s been out of the empire for ten years.”

  “I’ve reconnected with all sorts of former bedmates after years apart,” Maldynado said.

  Yara stepped out of a nearby aisle. “Is that a fact?”

  After proclaiming all the garments in the office closet too small, Yara wore her usual trousers and sweater, her only concession to a costume being a hat with a broad brim that hid her face. Her homespun clothing had caused a few eyebrows to rise as the three of them walked through the upscale neighborhood—her response had been to either ignore or glower at the pretentious eyebrow-raiser.