Forged in Blood I

by Lindsay Buroker

  Basilard and Maldynado’s heads swung toward Sicarius. He sensed that they were enjoying the chance to see a side of him that was more than the assassin. Sicarius, however, didn’t care to share that side with anyone except Sespian. And Amaranthe. He did his best to ignore them.

  “I thought you were more interested in fishing,” he said.

  Sespian managed a wan smile. “Wrong time of year for that, I fear.”

  “Are we coming too?” Maldynado asked.

  “As I recall, you’re here to spread rumors about Ravido,” Sicarius said.

  “Preferably not through Ridgecrest’s daughters,” Sespian added.

  “They’re absolutely no fun, either of them,” Maldynado muttered to Basilard.

  Basilard ignored him, signing toward Sicarius, And me?

  Sicarius considered the question. He’d prefer to take no one and gather intelligence on his own—or simply eliminate this Heroncrest—but if he had to take someone, he’d rather have the more proven Basilard than Sespian. Practically speaking. But if he went with his heart, something Amaranthe would doubtlessly encourage, he’d take Sespian and Sespian alone. How could he refuse to do so when Sespian had finally asked for it? He’d made no mention of taking Maldynado or Basilard.

  Hoping this decision of the “heart” wouldn’t get his son killed, Sicarius said, “Keep watch from in here, Basilard. If an alarm is raised or if we’re captured—” or killed, he added silently, thinking of the soul construct, “—let Amaranthe know what’s happened.”

  Understood, Basilard signed.

  “A word,” Sicarius said, waving for Sespian to join him to one side.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out the logic of assassinating your rival instead of spying on him,” Sicarius said.

  Sespian sighed. “I knew you’d bring that up. We’re not killing anyone.”

  “It’s unlikely we’ll make it in and out without casualties.”

  “I thought you were better than that—in and out without anyone knowing you’re there. Or are you worried I’ll be the one to snap a twig and alert someone of our presence?”

  Yes, Sicarius thought, but he didn’t say it.

  He didn’t need to. Sespian sighed again. “If that happens, just knock the person out or otherwise subdue him. I know you can do that. We don’t need to kill anyone.”

  “You’re being optimistic.”

  “Better than pessimistic.” Sespian set his jaw.

  Sicarius flicked away the argument—the guards were inconsequential anyway—but he wasn’t ready to concede on the enemy commander. “If we’re going through the effort of sneaking past the perimeter, which won’t be easy because they’ll be expecting spies, it’s logical to kill Heroncrest while we’re there. If these two armies clash, he’ll be a target in the battle anyway. You or Ridgecrest will be standing on the wall, directing artillerymen to shoot rounds at him. He’s someone who is plotting to take the throne. With you still alive, that’s treason, punishable by death. Getting rid of him in the beginning could save lives later. Further, there’ll be a headless army out there without a candidate to back. If you show your face, you’ll be their logical leader. You could have thousands of men, at which point Ridgecrest might be more likely to back you as well. The combined forces would rival those Ravido can claim.”

  Sespian shook his head and walked to the window. He gripped the sill, hands tight on the cold snow and stone. Sicarius didn’t know if that was an utter rejection or not—Amaranthe was always more vociferous about her rejections. He went to stand beside Sespian, curious if he’d be pushed away.

  “I understand your logic, and I won’t try to pretend that it’s false,” Sespian said, “but you can’t always use logic when it comes to human beings. There are methods that are honorable and others that aren’t. I won’t win Ridgecrest’s respect by sending in an assassin to kill my competition in his sleep. And I won’t… respect myself either. I refuse to believe that a man has to give up his self-respect, his sense of honor, to rule a nation.”

  Sicarius doubted many leaders of nations, especially ones not born into the position, had reached such lofty heights without trading their honor for gains somewhere along the way. For good or ill, Hollowcrest and his tutors had chosen to instill practicality into him, not honor. If he saw an opportunity to assassinate Heroncrest, he’d take it. Sespian’s honor need not be besmirched if he wasn’t a part of it.

  Out loud, Sicarius said, “Very well. I will not mention it again.”

  “Thank you,” Sespian said. “Do we go tonight?”

  Sicarius gazed out the window, back toward the city. As much as he’d like to return to the factory—to Amaranthe—he doubted it would happen soon. “The night is already half-spent, and many will be alert still. We’ll go tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “As will I,” Sicarius said and pulled out the sharpening kit for his knives.

  Chapter 11

  Evening approached as Amaranthe strode down the nicest part of Waterfront Street with Books and Akstyr at her side, though, thanks to the gray sky and snow, it had never truly felt like daylight. She’d spent the afternoon studying Suan Curlev’s book and watching the windows, hoping Sicarius and Sespian would walk into the factory. With the news of Fort Urgot being surrounded, she wasn’t surprised they hadn’t returned, but she’d hoped anyway, wanting to see Sicarius again before her mission. If things didn’t go well…

  No thinking like that, she told herself. Things would go well.

  With her shoulders back and her head lifted, Amaranthe was trying to appear confident as they walked, or at least like someone who believed her plan had a chance to work. But every time one of her newly blonde locks flopped into her line of sight, it gave her a start—and reminded her that she wore a costume, a costume that was nothing better than a guess at what a woman returning from Kendor might look like. A tintype in the back of Suan’s book had shown her wearing half-frame reading glasses, often pushed up into her shoulder-length hair, but the rest of the outfit was a guess.

  The brown and tan pattern of the dress swirling about Amaranthe’s ankles had a desert feel, though the leggings and fur boots beneath were purely Turgonian and designed for winter weather. Maldynado had picked out a pair of suede wedge sandals, complete with skin-tickling tassels, to complement the dress, but she did not wish to invite frostbite to visit her toes. Nor could she imagine fighting in footgear that hoisted her heels three inches into the air and threatened to tip her nose-first onto the ground every time she took a step. Much to Sergeant Yara’s amusement, Amaranthe was wearing the string lingerie, if only because there’d been no time to shop for more practical underwear. Her regular cold-weather undergarments would have shown through the low-cut dress. Not the sexy look of an exotic globe-exploring woman, Maldynado had informed her. He refused to accept the idea that someone who explored the world could do so without being sexy. The final piece of the costume lay beneath a mink jacket, the slit-eyed medallion dangling on its silver chain.

  Books was lecturing on Kendorian economics as they walked, and Amaranthe turned her attention back to his words, knowing she might need the information. Since Suan had last been traveling there, and the Forge people all had business interests, it might come up in an early conversation.

  “…relatively meager gross domestic product in comparison with the empire,” Books was saying. “It’s not surprising given how much of the population is nomadic. Kendor is, however, known for a few niche industries, such as wool, copper, and sartorial crafts with their lizard-skin products being recognized all over the world. Some of the tribes also lease land to foreigners for ranching and mining, though Turgonians are not allowed, so an interested imperial entity must find a creative workaround, typically by engaging a third-party representative, to tread upon Kendorian soil.”

  Books continued to speak, needing amazingly few breaths or breaks to rest his lips. He ignored Akstyr’s pronoun
ced yawns and muttered asides. Only when Akstyr raised his voice and said, “Enforcers,” did Books pause.

  A pair of patrollers had walked out of one of the steep side streets and rounded the corner onto the waterfront.

  “Up the alley?” Akstyr asked.

  “No.” Amaranthe touched her prosthetic nose, one that added length and a slight hawkish aspect to her face, to assure herself it was still attached; the rest of her makeup was cosmetic, and she didn’t worry so much about it, but if the nose happened to fall off at an inopportune time… She dropped her hand. It was fine and would, no doubt, be more likely to stay so if she stopped prodding it. “Let’s see how well our costumes work.”

  “Looking for trouble before we reach the yacht club?” Books asked.

  “If we can’t pass as non-outlaws in front of a couple of rookies, there’s no point in attending this meeting.”

  “Very well.”

  Books and Akstyr also wore costumes designed to make them appear traveled. Books’s long legs were clothed in sedate brown corduroy trousers, but the apricot and yellow silk “scholar’s robe” definitely bespoke Nurian origins. The lizard-skin satchel slung over his shoulder was out of Kendor, but, according to Maldynado, catching on in the capital, much like the boots she’d had so much time to study from beneath the clothes rack.

  Akstyr had painted shamanic tattoos on the backs of his hand, one of which covered up his gang brand. For clothing, he wore a white shepherd’s robe, a winter-thick version of the ones the southern Kendorian nomads favored for tending bighorn desert sheep. Predictably, none of the Stumps clothiers had carried shamanic robes, but it would have been dangerous to put him in them anyway. Akstyr’s only comment had been to say that robes were stupid and his “pickaxe and diamonds” were freezing.

  The enforcers traveled down the street toward Amaranthe and the others, using the same sidewalk. Once, she would have lifted a hand in a comradely wave. Lately, her instincts were to flee down alleys. This time… she kept her chin up and strode straight toward them. Books and Akstyr eased in behind her, ostensibly to make room for the enforcers to pass, but they didn’t wear any face-altering makeup or prosthetics, so they wouldn’t want to test their costumes quite as rigorously. They’d altered their hairstyles—poor Akstyr had had little choice—allowing her to clip their formerly longish locks closer to their heads. They didn’t look much like their bounty posters, but she couldn’t blame them for not wanting to test the enforcers’ observation skills. Few in Forge should be that familiar with her team’s visages, especially for the lesser known members.

  Engrossed in their own conversation, the enforcers walked past without giving them more than a glance.

  Amaranthe exhaled slowly and said, “A good beginning,” when Books came up to her side again.

  “All you’ve proven is that you don’t look like a notorious outlaw any more.”

  “That’s not a bad place to start.”

  “Do you truly believe you can pass as this Suan?” Books asked. “Someone you’ve never met?”

  “We went to the same school, and I’ve read her book. Also, I have met her, sort of, through the mind link I shared with her sister.”

  “Isn’t the girl supposed to be a genius though?”

  Amaranthe stepped closer to a building to avoid a delivery boy slipping and skidding down the sidewalk on a bicycle laden with boxes. “What are you implying, Books? That I’m too dim for the position?”

  He brushed dirty snow from his trousers, courtesy of the bicycle’s wheels and the surrounding slush. “What are the chief industries that comprise the Kendorian economy?”

  “Leased land, wool, copper, and sexy lizard-skin purses, boots, and lingerie,” Amaranthe said, relieved he’d asked a question about the part of the lecture she’d actually been listening to.

  “Hm.”

  Maybe she should have quoted him directly instead of adding flair in regard to the lizard-skin items. Still, he’d have to know she’d been listening and passed his test. “Hm? That’s it? I get more enthusiastic praise from Sicarius.”

  Books missed a step. “Truly?”

  Amaranthe smiled. “No.”

  Akstyr snorted.

  “I can do this. I’m sure of it.” Amaranthe didn’t know how to express the richness of the vision she’d gotten through Retta’s link. She had a vivid impression of this sister, specifically how others viewed her. Instead of trying to explain that, she smiled again and said, “How hard can it be? Nobody’s seen Suan in ten years except her sister, and I’m hoping the sister will ally with us and help out.” If she’s still alive, Amaranthe added silently. She believed the arrival of the Behemoth meant she had to be—she was the pilot after all. Of course, Retta could be alive, but not in good standing with the outfit.

  “What if you didn’t bond with this sister as much as you think, and she turns you in?” Books asked.

  “Then they’ll take us prisoner, and we’ll get a ride to their ship regardless.”

  “Or they’ll shoot us,” Akstyr said.

  Amaranthe patted him on the shoulder. “If they seem so inclined, I hope you’ll magic something up to prevent that.”

  “Magic.” Akstyr scoffed at the inappropriate word. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate when my apples are freezing.”

  “It’s not that cold out,” Amaranthe said, though she would have preferred her long wool underwear to Maldynado’s string garment.

  “It is when you aren’t wearing anything under your robe.”

  Books frowned at him. “Why aren’t you wearing anything? I showed you how to make appropriate Kendorian smallclothes.”

  “You showed me how to wrap a sheet between my legs. I could barely walk.”

  “The Kendorians manage to walk, run, and make war without trouble while wearing the daikka.”

  Amaranthe pointed at a teak sign with golden letters that read Summer Point Yacht Club and Sailing Association Headquarters. From the impressive gleam, the embossed letters might have been crafted using actual gold flakes. She led the men left, down a broad, well-maintained dock—not so much as a splinter was gouged from any of the boards, which had been swept free of snow. The mildew invasion stampeding across the docks at the southern end of the waterfront wouldn’t dream of inserting a colony here. Most of the boats had been removed in anticipation of the lake freezing over, but a few craft remained, their skeletal masts stretching toward the gray skies.

  “Maldynado spotted me trying to put it on and said no woman would sleep with me if she saw me wearing a big sheet diaper,” Akstyr said.

  “Amaranthe,” Books said, “at what point when you were explaining this mission did you mention that Akstyr would be required to lift his robes for women?”

  “I don’t remember mentioning it.” She glanced down a branch in the sprawling dock system, toward a two-story building with tall glass windows overlooking the lake. Clinks of pots and dishes drifted from it, so she assumed it was an eating house, not a likely place for Forge to store its secret underwater pod, or whatever they were using to reach the bottom of the lake.

  “It could happen,” Akstyr said. “These Forge people are mostly women, right? Some of them might think I’m cute and get antsier to rip off my robes than a smoke-head tearing into a caymay wrapper.”

  “Ancestors save us,” Books muttered.

  “You know,” Amaranthe told him, “I’d prefer it if you not goad him in such ways that he shares his lurid fantasies with us.”

  “Yes, I’ll remember that in the future.”

  “Whatever,” Akstyr said, and repeated, “it could happen. Especially if I get to share about how… skilled I am.” He wriggled his fingers.

  “Let’s wait until we get a read on our hosts before making announcements about that.” Amaranthe did intend to introduce him in a manner that suggested he had such skills—she hadn’t been able to imagine any other capacity in which Suan might employ a teenage boy in her entourage—but most of the Forge pe
ople were Turgonian. Despite their eager adoption of the ancient technology, they might share the national prejudice against practitioners.

  “That may be the spot.” Books subtly turned his chin down another branch in the dock system.

  Two men in green wool uniforms with silver piping stood guard in front of the entrance to a one-story building built on piers. Amaranthe didn’t recognize the attire and guessed they belonged to a private security outfit. Short swords and batons—given the girth of the wood weapons, clubs might be a better term—hung from their belts, and they glared down the docks, their meaty forearms crossed over their broad chests.

  Amaranthe strolled toward them as if she had every right to be there. Remembering how Maldynado dismissed or looked through servants, she angled for the door as if the men weren’t looming on either side of it. Suan wasn’t warrior-caste, but she’d grown up amongst the affluent.

  “Pardon, my lady,” one of the guards said, “are you a member? I don’t recognize you.” He’d guessed she was warrior-caste; that was good. He’d also stepped sideways to block the door; that was less good. The second guard glowered at Books and Akstyr.

  “Oh, no, I prefer to let others handle the organization of my water-based transport,” Amaranthe said, “but I have an invitation to meet with one of the yacht club regulars. They should be expecting me. Suan Curlev.” She hoped Ms. Worgavic wasn’t the one waiting inside. She’d deliberately waited until nightfall for this approach, thinking she might be greeted by a more junior Forge member during off hours.

  “I wasn’t told about any visitors, my lady.”

  Er, what if this wasn’t the right place? A plaque on the door read Sailing Association Headquarters and Ballroom. Sicarius hadn’t mentioned a specific building when he’d reported trailing the messenger back here, but the presence of security personal made her assume there was something to hide inside. The eating house hadn’t been bedecked with big beefy guards.