“You, the cryptomancer who slagged us all in the war, wouldn’t betray ‘Rias?’” one of the sergeants asked.
“Quiet, Karsus,” Bocrest said. “He hasn’t told her.”
“No? Oh, yes, that relationship’s going to work.”
The ire in the room evaporated and was replaced by sniggers. Tikaya set her jaw. She preferred the hostility. This was one more reason for her to talk to Rias tonight. She was damned if she was going to be the only one in camp who did not know.
Bocrest reached into the rucksack beside his cot and pulled out the leather journal. He tossed it to her. “Go. Figure out what’s in there that’s worth torturing people over.”
Naturally, she bumped into the returning sergeant on her way out. He growled at her, and she skittered away with an apology. She stopped a few paces beyond, bent over, hands on her knees, fatigue making her limbs heavy.
What further cane fields would she have to harvest for these Turgonians to prove she was sold on working with them? Then again, was she? She cared what happened to Rias and Agarik, but she would not cry over the rest if an avalanche swallowed them. What if she did encounter scholars she knew and respected inside? Men and women—how she missed having female colleagues to talk to!—with a ship anchored somewhere, a way back home. What if she did have a chance to switch sides?
“Tikaya?”
She straightened and turned toward Rias’s concerned voice. She hoped the darkness hid the guilty flush that heated her cheeks.
“Is something wrong?” He wore parka, cap, scarf, and he even carried snowshoes and a rifle. Where had he been? Scouting the tunnel entrance? “I thought you’d sleep until morning.”
“I, uhm, wanted to talk to you.” She had been looking all over for him, but had not given much thought to what she would say.
“Of course.”
Rias leaned the rifle and snowshoes against the side of a tent, and she joined him in the shadows, wanting to be out of eyesight if anyone else from the meeting came out to relieve himself. He wrapped her in a hug, and she slid into his arms, though the amused eyes of the men in the tent nagged her mind. She had to know. Tonight. She waited for Rias to release her, but he held her in silence for a long moment, arms tight. She breathed in the tang of weapons cleaning oil and black powder mingling with his warm male scent. Men laughed around the fire, trading jokes, boasting of brave feats.
“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered.
Sorry? Was that in response to her proclamation of love? He was sorry he didn’t love her back?
Then he added, “I used to be faster. You shouldn’t have been—I should have seen the condor sooner.” He sounded so distraught. It brought a lump to her throat.
“Oh, Rias.” Tikaya wriggled her glove off and laid her hand on the side of his face. “That’s not your fault.”
“I should have sent you with the main party.” His own glove came off and he laid his hand on hers.
“I’m sure that condor could have found me down there as well as on the mountain.”
His sigh came out as more of a grumble. “I’m tired of people trying to kill you.”
“I’m not an enthusiast of the trend either.”
Rias’s other hand slid under her scarf to rub the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, letting those strong fingers knead her flesh, even as she lamented the layers of parkas and wool uniforms between them. The voices of the marines faded from her awareness. Soft breaths tickled her cheek, and she opened her eyes to find his face close. Shadows cloaked his eyes, but she sensed his intent and leaned into him, head tilted back.
His lips brushed hers, questioning at first. Tikaya parted her lips, invited more. His kiss grew firm, confident, and she thought of the experienced warrior she had followed through the Nurian ship. Heat flared through her body, and she forgot about her questions, the camp, and the freezing air. She might have forgotten a lot more if someone had not crunched around the tent and stopped to stare.
“Well, well, well.” Ottotark.
She winced and drew back. Of all the people to stumble upon them.
“Ignore him,” Rias breathed, nuzzling her ear.
A small grin stretched her lips as it dawned on her that she could. If Bocrest had told the men to treat Rias like an officer, that would mean he outranked the sergeant. As much of an ass as Ottotark was, he seemed loyal to his uniform and the chain of command. Surely, he would leave them alone if Rias ordered it.
Tikaya probably should not have looked so smug as she cast a dismissive glance Ottotark’s way, but she could not resist, not after all the torment he had thrust upon her. She slid her hands under Rias’s parka and kissed him deeply. Let the bastard watch.
Ottotark guffawed.
Startled, she broke away. That was the last reaction she expected. She looked at Rias, eyes questioning, but Ottotark spoke first.
“The captain really needs to let you live.” He was pointing at her, laughter punctuating his words, but his tone seemed designed to carry to the whole camp. “I’d love to accompany you back to your island so I can tell your mom and pop that you were out here fucking Fleet Admiral Saskha Federias Starcrest, the man who personally recommended taking over your islands to the emperor.” Now it was Ottotark’s turn to be smug. Very smug. “But don’t let that stop your plans for the evening. I can see you’re enjoying yourself. Carry on.” There was far too much pleasure in the cruel sneer he launched at them before walking away.
Tikaya felt lightheaded. She had to remind herself to breathe. All she could do was stare at Rias’s shoulder.
“I’m going to kill that man,” he said.
No denial. No explanation about how Ottotark was wrong. No claim that it was a lie.
“You were right,” Tikaya choked. “My people have heard of you, and you’d never be welcome on my island.”
She stepped back.
Rias grasped her arm. “Tikaya, please. Let me—”
Shaking her head, she pulled her arm free. She had to get away. She had to think. She had to—she didn’t know.
“I’m sorry,” Rias called after her.
She stumbled, not sure where to go. Not back to the fire and the marines. If she returned to her tent, Agarik would be waiting to yell at her for leaving. She definitely did not want to go anywhere she would have to look at Ottotark. But neither could she go out where yetis and wolves and grimbals waited to devour silly girls thousands of miles from their homes.
Tikaya finally sat down behind the sleeping tent. She drew up her knees and buried her face in them. She ought not be so stunned. There had been clues all along. She just hadn’t wanted to see them. Had she really thought someone who so readily took command and led the way into battles was an engineer? That love of mathematics made him the best cursed strategist of his generation. Starcrest. How often had his name come up in the documents she decrypted? The youngest fleet admiral in the history of the empire. The man who, as a captain, had been responsible for the sinking of a hundred Nurian ships. And the man who, as an admiral, had guided every battle, every skirmish that allowed the Turgonians to again and again best the preeminent mental scientists in the world, with only mundane technology on their side. It was not until after his death that the tides had turned, ending in a stalemate. Yes, his death. She vividly remembered decoding a note that said a Nurian assassin had killed the admiral. He was supposed to be dead, not exiled. That was why she had never considered her Rias might be the legendary admiral.
Still, who could she blame but herself? She should have known. She certainly should not have fallen in love with him. If he was nobody important, nobody who would matter to her, he would have told her his name. This was exactly why he had kept it from her. He had known she wouldn’t want anything to do with him. How could she? If what Ottotark said was true, and Rias had been the one to suggest taking over her homeland, then every death was indeed on his hands.
Her stomach writhed, and she choked on a sob. Every death, including Parkonis’s.
15
Tikaya did not know how long she sat in the shadow of the tent, but shivers and a frozen nose finally convinced her she had to find a warmer berth. She put a hand down and started to rise. The crunch of boots stopped her. A tall figure with a rifle strode between the tents and into the darkness before her. She could not make out features but had an inkling. She remained still, cloaked by shadows.
A long moment passed with the figure scanning the dark canyon beyond the camp.
“Tikaya?” he called.
She closed her eyes. Rias. No, Fleet Admiral Starcrest.
She did not want to—could not—talk to him. Not then.
He called twice more.
“The bitch is gone.” Ottotark strode into view from another direction. He passed within a couple feet of her and stopped a few paces from Rias.
“Ottotark,” Rias growled. “I ought to twist your head off your slagging neck and shove it up your ass.”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t tell your girlfriend your name. Admiral.”
Rias had no answer for that, and even the darkness did not hide the slump to his shoulders. “Where is she?”
“Off to the tunnels to join her friends and leave us hanged.”
Tikaya clenched her jaw. Damn these men. She did not want to deal with either one, but she could not let Rias believe she had run off. She opened her mouth to say something, but Ottotark spoke first.
“You should thank me,” he said. “It’s pathetic the way you were hanging all over the bitch. And why? She slagged us in the war. If you want her, tie her down and screw her, but don’t—”
Rias threw down his rifle and charged. Between one eye blink and the next he covered the distance and crashed into Ottotark, taking him down so hard they flew backward.
Tikaya drew her knees in tight, too startled to speak. The attack may have surprised Ottotark, but he recovered and fought back like a cornered badger. Grunts and snarls accompanied the smack of fists striking flesh.
In the darkness, she lost track of who was who as the men thrashed and writhed on the ground. Clumps of snow flew, spattering her cheeks. Something cracked, and one of them—Rias?—yelped in pain.
Tikaya held her breath. Ottotark was younger, bigger, and without any morals as far as she could tell. She tried to tell herself that Rias—Starcrest—was no longer her concern, but her fingers clenched into a fist, and she silently rooted for him.
One man maneuvered on top and straddled the other. He punched down, and a head hammered the snow. The bottom man bucked and twisted, and a moment later the positions reversed.
“Traitor,” Ottotark snarled.
Both men panted, breaths rasping. They switched positions again, legs tangling as each tried to pin the other.
Metal rang, a knife being pulled.
As furious as he was, Rias would not pull a blade. Tikaya knew he wouldn’t. She almost yelled a warning, but stopped herself. A distraction could prove fatal.
One man found the top again and raised an arm, the knife silhouetted against the night sky. The blade plunged down at the head of the other.
Movement halted. Ragged breaths assaulted the still air, and Tikaya could not tell whether they belonged to one man or two. The top person lurched to his feet and staggered back, a hand to his belly.
Her heart hammered in her ears, and she could not bring herself to call out. If it was Ottotark, who knew what he might do to her? If it was Rias, and he had just made good on his promise to kill the sergeant...
But, no, the supine man groaned. Weakly.
Tikaya could not identify him by the sound. She forced her limbs to unlock and she rolled to her knees. She crept to the fallen man’s side and hesitantly reached toward the face. Her glove bumped something hard.
The knife.
It wasn’t lodged in an eye after all. The attacker had sunk it to the hilt in the snow a hair from the other’s ear. That told her what the shadows did not: of the two, only Rias would have shown mercy.
She jerked her hand back as the man—Ottotark—groaned again. She lunged away from him and looked for Rias. He might be injured and need help. She spun slowly, searching the shadows, but he was gone.
Maybe he had gone to find a cot. She trotted into camp. The number of people awake had dwindled, and the fire burned low. She tore open the flap to the sleeping tent and crashed into someone coming out.
“Tikaya,” Agarik blurted. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
She grabbed his parka. “Is Rias with you? Have you seen him?”
“Not since he went to check the perimeter.” He must have read her distress. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Ottotark told him I’d gone to the tunnels. I’m afraid he might have gone after me.” She explained the fight, all the while cursing herself for staying silent during the men’s confrontation. Why hadn’t she answered when he first called out? If he got in trouble because of her stung feelings...
“He shouldn’t go in there alone,” Agarik said, tone terse, worried. “Come, we’ve got to tell the captain.”
Glad to have him leading the charge, Tikaya followed him into the command tent. Heat and faint light emanated from the portable stove in the center, and she could pick out shapes amongst the shadows. The meeting had dispersed, and only Bocrest and a couple lieutenants remained inside, all flat on cots. Tikaya stopped near the stove. Certain the captain would blame this on her, she did not want to be close enough for him to grab easily.
“Sir?” Agarik asked.
Bocrest jerked awake, hand finding a pistol.
“It’s Agarik, sir. The admiral’s missing.”
Bocrest growled and lurched to his feet. “Explain.” He must have had a suspicion, for his eyes skimmed the darkness and found Tikaya. He cursed. “No, you explain.”
While Agarik had listened to the story patiently, she had to suffer curses and hurled gear while reciting it for Bocrest. He managed to get dressed despite his preoccupation with throwing things and was stuffing his feet into his boots by the time she finished.
“This is why women aren’t allowed in the military.” He cursed again, but shifted to efficiency after that.
By now, the lieutenants were awake and dressing, and he snarled orders at them. Less than five minutes later, the entire camp stood in formation outside. The last to show up, Ottotark limped to the head of one of the lines. Several men held lanterns, and the flickering light revealed bloody and swelling contusions on the sergeant’s face. A dark part of her wished he was dead, though Rias probably would hate himself if he killed someone out of sheer rage.
Bocrest stalked over to face Ottotark. “Did you draw the knife or did he?”
“Sir?” Ottotark asked in a tone that sounded like he was trying to play dumb, or maybe buying himself time to think.
“You heard me!”
Ottotark licked his lips. The marines in formation apparently knew better than to turn their heads and watch, but their eyes flicked toward the confrontation.
“I did, sir,” Ottotark finally said.
“I told you—I told everyone—to treat him like an officer. The punishment for drawing a weapon against an officer is death.”
“Sir! He’s not an officer any more. He’s a traitor, you said so. The emperor—”
“Isn’t here,” Bocrest said. “We’ll discuss punishment when the mission is over. For now, do your job and don’t talk to our guide or our translator. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Ottotark said so softly Tikaya almost missed it. If only the captain had issued that order a few hours earlier.
The tracker strode out of the darkness, and Bocrest shifted his attention.
“There are footprints at the tunnel entrance and it looks like someone walked in, at least a few steps. The floor is that hard black material, and there’s no way to track further.”
“Slagging women,” Bocrest said before raising his voice. “Gather your gear, men. We’re going after him.”
* * * r />
The marines marched in step, and the echoes reverberated through the wide black tunnel. No dead skeletons had marked the entrance, no piles of rubble scattered the floor, nor did water drip eerily in the distance, but the place made Tikaya uneasy nonetheless.
It was too clean, too perfect. No cobwebs obscured the distance, no chips or scratches marred the dust-free floors, and no decoration adorned the walls. The cool dry air reminded her of the lava tubes meandering beneath her father’s plantation, but no familiar earthy smells accompanied it. No smells at all. The lanterns the marines carried went unused. A soft glow emanated from all around, illuminating the tunnel as clearly as the midday sun. She had visited several ancient catacombs, qanats, and subterranean cities, and she had studied dozens more. This sterile tunnel was like nothing in the archaeology books. Nothing in the world.
“Who made this place?” someone muttered.
She walked behind Bocrest, second in a queue of thirty men. A handful of marines had stayed in the base camp while Agarik and a couple others scouted ahead.
“Ancient people,” someone answered.
“How?”
“Magic.”
No telling tingle stirred the hairs on Tikaya’s neck. “I don’t think so.”
“Magic,” another said, his tone brooking no argument. Others murmured assent. “Evil magic made this place, just like the rocket and the thing in Wolfhump.”
“No talking,” Bocrest snapped over his shoulder, saving Tikaya from launching into a lecture that would doubtlessly not be well received.
Rias must have a lot more patience than she to have commanded such men all his life. It must have been lonely for him with so few peers. She shook the thoughts from her head. It was none of her concern. Even if she could forgive him for his lie of omission, Admiral Starcrest was nobody she could have a life with, not without betraying her people, her family, and everyone she loved. Especially those fallen during the war. She could want him found and safe, but she could not want him. Not any more.
She swallowed a lump and fished the journal out of her pocket. A challenge. Her mind needed a challenge, and she needed to learn as much as she could before her services were needed. If ever there was a place she could walk and study at the same time, it ought to be these flat, terrain-free tunnels. The worst thing that could happen is she would trip. An animal screeched in the distance.