Sicarius drew his own dagger, using his ears to pinpoint the likely location of the nearest attacker.
“Look out!” Sespian barked as Sicarius flowed out of the duct.
The warning almost made him pause, for he thought it was meant for him, but he went with his instincts, hurling his dagger before visually taking in the scene. He trusted his senses.
His black blade whistled through the air and smashed into the chest of a black-haired woman. Instead of piercing flesh and organs, it ricocheted off with a twang and landed on the floor.
“She’s a wizard!” Books blurted from where he hid behind the furnace, flapping his jacket to put out flames crawling up his sleeve.
Sicarius was too busy racing across the room to respond to the obvious comment. He took in the winking light of a square box hanging from the woman’s belt. It must indicate an armor tool similar to the ones he’d encountered earlier in the year, amongst the practitioners in the underwater laboratory. This woman appeared Turgonian, though. Odd.
The thoughts in his head did not slow the pace of his legs. The woman saw him coming and spread an arm toward him, fingers stretched outward. A hint of concern widened her eyes, but he wouldn’t bet on it being enough to disrupt her conjuring. Anticipating an attack—similarly to a warrior about to strike a blow, wizards tended to tightened their diaphragms, exhaling as they released their mental energy—Sicarius threw himself into a roll.
Yellow flames burst from the woman’s fingers, the intense light blasting the shadows from the room. Heat seared the air above Sicarius’s back, but the fire didn’t touch him as he somersaulted along the floor. He came up by the woman’s side, his elbow glancing off the invisible shield encompassing her. It sent a cold numbing tingle up his arm, but he ignored it, instead lashing toward her eyes with his dagger. The shield would protect her, he knew it, but her instincts might instruct her to retreat.
It worked. She backpedaled three steps, crossing the threshold and stumbling into the whitewashed stone corridor outside. In the ideal situation, she would have bumped the artifact off her belt—he couldn’t physically harm her so long as her shield remained in place—but she didn’t lose that much composure. Indeed, she recovered quickly, righting herself against the wall and glowering at Sicarius.
He shut the door in her face. It didn’t have a lock. He grabbed a half-empty coal bin and dragged it over, the squeal of metal scraping across stone deafening.
“That’s not going to stop a practitioner.” Akstyr stabbed a finger at the blocked door.
Sicarius gave him a flat look as he picked up his black dagger. Akstyr wasn’t doing anything better, and Books and Sespian had taken refuge from the flame-flinging woman by hiding behind the furnace door.
“A delay will be sufficient.” He jerked his head toward the open duct panel. “We’ll find another way out.”
A thunderous boom came from the hallway, and the door rattled on its hinges.
“Good idea,” Akstyr blurted and raced for the duct.
Sicarius, his dagger in hand, cut off a large clump of Akstyr’s hair as he passed. His blade-work was swift enough that the boy didn’t notice, though Sespian gawked in disbelief.
“Follow him,” Sicarius told Books and Sespian. He’d explain later if they insisted.
Books gave his jacket a final flap, stirring smoke but not more flames, and hustled after Akstyr. The fistful of hair in hand, Sicarius strode toward the furnace.
“You should go next,” Sespian told him. “They don’t know where they’re going.”
“I’ll follow and direct from behind.” Sicarius grabbed a shovel, flung open the furnace door, and used the tool to close the flue. “Go with them.”
Shouts filled the hallway outside, male and female voices raised in an argument. Sicarius sensed the Science being used again and glanced back. The door hinges glowed cherry red; they’d expand and snap soon.
Sicarius tossed the clump of hair onto the flames.
“What are you doing?” Sespian asked.
“Creating a malodorant.”
With the flue closed, smoke flowed out of the firebox and into the room. Sicarius pushed Sespian toward the duct as the stench of burning hair oozed out with the smoke. Sespian coughed and sprinted the last few paces for the opening. Finding the sulfuric scent equally unpleasant, Sicarius dove in behind him.
Sespian smothered a cough. “Well, that would keep me out of the room anyway.”
“The scent is not dissimilar to burning coal gas,” Sicarius said, watching over his shoulder as they crawled through the passage, making sure nobody was following them. “The gas table for the lighting for the Barracks is two rooms down. If we are fortuitous, they may believe there’s a rupture somewhere.”
“Ah, a rupture that would take priority over intruders, due to the flammable nature of the gas.”
Sicarius tried to decide if Sespian’s words carried a hint of approval. It had been years since someone’s approval meant anything to him—Raumesys and Hollowcrest’s had stopped mattering long before the emperor’s death—and he suspected it a sign of vulnerability on his part. Still, he acknowledged that he wanted Sespian’s approval nonetheless. Odd. Weren’t sons supposed to seek the approval of their fathers, and not the other way around?
Footfalls hammered the floor somewhere above the duct. Sicarius let his fingers brush Sespian’s boots, encouraging greater speed. Possible gas leak or not, with so many people searching the building, it would be best to escape quickly, especially given that they’d have to get past another ward due to their change in route. This one wouldn’t be deactivated. If Akstyr couldn’t equal the wizard hunter’s skill, and accomplish the same feat with the ward, they’d be in for a long night.
“I think I’m stuck,” came Akstyr’s voice from ahead, barely distinguishable from the still-clanging alarm bell.
“I told you not to go that way,” Books said.
“No, you told me to wait. I thought it’d be smart to wait out of the way.”
“Not if it involved getting your elephantine head stuck.”
“It’s not my head that’s stuck. It’s—ow.”
“Continue forward,” Sicarius said, “choosing the passage that angles to the right at approximately thirty degrees from the intersection.”
“Thirty what?” Akstyr asked.
“Degrees, you dolt,” Books said. “A degree is a unit of measurement for angles on a plane, each representing one three-sixtieth of a full rotation.”
“What does that have to do with ducts?”
“How can you possibly be our expert on the Science?” Books asked. “Or anything?”
Sicarius tapped Sespian’s boot again. They needed to keep moving. He decided not to voice his agreement on Books’s assessment of Akstyr’s brightness. Akstyr could prove his intellect on the ward. Or not.
Sespian moved forward, passing Books and Akstyr who’d squeezed into ducts on either side of the five-way intersection.
“Angles weren’t real important on the streets,” Akstyr muttered, continuing the argument as Sicarius and Sespian passed.
“Without angles, a proper understanding of geometry if you will, the buildings on those streets would have collapsed,” Books said.
“That happened sometimes.”
“Follow,” Sicarius said, letting an icy tone creep into his voice. He wondered if Amaranthe knew how much of his respect for her came from her ability to harness these lunkheads to a cart and get them all moving in the same direction. Basilard was the only one who might have lasted more than three days as a recruit in the army.
“I can’t go any farther,” Sespian said after a few moments of crawling. “The duct curves upward and stops at a vent in the floor. If my nose isn’t failing me—and it was somewhat damaged by that hair stunt—we’re near the kitchens. We don’t want to come up in such a busy area, do we?”
“No.” Sicarius pulled out his dagger again.
If he remembered his map of the Imperia
l Barracks correctly—and Hollowcrest had once insisted he be able to draw it from memory—the old dungeons lay below them, a section that had not been modified or modernized. Though he did not expect anyone to be down there, Sicarius pressed an ear to the warm tiles anyway. Books and Akstyr caught up, their breaths stirring the hot, dry air behind him.
Satisfied nobody awaited below, Sicarius chiseled into the bottom of the duct. The black dagger made quick work of the tile mortar and also that of the bricks below. Stale, cool air wafted up. As soon as he’d removed enough bricks, he dropped through, landing in a crouch fifteen feet below, his fingers touching down beside his foot, resting upon the porous stone floor. That floor had been carved from rock long before the original barracks building had been built. Darkness filled the space, but he could tell they were alone. The cool draft brushing his cheeks carried the scent of earth, rock, and mildew, nothing of people or other creatures.
“It’s safe,” Sicarius said. “Come.”
Clothing rubbed and a soft thump sounded as the first person dropped down—Sespian. The second came with an, “Ooophf.”
“Can’t see a thing,” Books muttered from above. “Probably fall on my—” He dropped, landing softly beside the others and making less noise than Akstyr.
“This way.” Sicarius led them out of the stone room, following the draft into a passage.
“Can we risk a light?” Sespian asked.
“Once they realize the intruders are attempting to escape down instead of up and out, they’ll start searching in here,” Sicarius said.
“Was that a no?” Sespian asked, his tone light.
“We’ll be faster if we aren’t groping our way along the walls in the dark,” Books said. “Besides, we have a head start, right? You’re taking us directly to a secret passage, aren’t you? We’ll be out of here soon.”
“Not quite.” Sicarius rounded a bend and stopped. “Akstyr.”
“I feel it.” Akstyr came up beside him.
“What?” Books asked.
A faint whisper of power brushed Sicarius’s senses, senses that had nothing to do with sight or sound or smell, and the hairs on the back of his neck wavered. Several paces ahead of him, a soft red light appeared, emanating from a fist-sized octagonal spot on the chiseled stone floor. It was strong enough to illuminate old shackle holders on the walls and rusty torture tools leaning in nooks.
“That’s the ward,” Akstyr said, his voice full of concentration. “I lit it up so we can see. I’m going to have to figure out…” His nose wrinkled, then he grunted and took a step back. “Yup, I’m going to have to figure out something.”
Prepared to wait, Sicarius put his back to the wall so he could see in either direction down the passage. The cacophony of noise continued in the building above—it wouldn’t be long before someone thought to check the dungeons.
“What happens if we walk past it?” Sespian asked. “Does it warn that wizard? Or… more?”
“More,” Sicarius said.
He’d attempted to infiltrate the Barracks the summer before, when Sespian had first sent a note to the team asking to be kidnapped. He’d tried three different approaches, including an above-ground climb over the walls. Humans he could evade, but he hadn’t been able to get past the wards.
In the face of Sespian’s curious look, Sicarius tossed a pebble into the air above the glowing octagon. A sheet of red sprang into existence, blocking the route and hurling heat down the passage. Prepared for it, Sicarius merely turned his cheek. Sespian and Books stumbled backward, lifting their arms to protect their faces. Akstyr grimaced, but seemed too focused on his task to bother moving.
“So, we get incinerated if Akstyr can’t disarm it?” Sespian asked.
“Or we go back and face the practitioner,” Sicarius said.
“I bet she’s in an amiable mood after you slammed the door in her face.”
Sicarius said nothing. Best to be quiet and let Akstyr concentrate. This night had proved pointless thus far, unless Books had found something useful in Hollowcrest’s archives. It mattered little to him. Any curiosity Sicarius might have had as to his parents’ identities had been lost long ago. As a boy, he’d occasionally wondered about such things, especially insofar as they might involve escaping his rigorous training and living a different life, but at this juncture, the die was cast.
Books must have felt his gaze, for he looked at Sicarius. Sicarius waited for him to say something—if there was something to say. Dust and cobwebs clung to Books’s scruffy brown hair and wariness edged his eyes, but that wariness was always there when he regarded Sicarius. A new emotion seemed to lurk there was well. Sicarius didn’t read such things as intuitively as Amaranthe did, but, given the context, knowing what those files had contained, he could guess. Pity. Sicarius stared back, willing Books to look away, to forget such ridiculous feelings. He wanted pity from no man. Not even Sespian. From Sespian all he hoped for was… understanding, for it would be useful in establishing a relationship.
While he considered these thoughts, Sicarius’s subconscious mind remained alert, detecting a faint scuff and placing the source. He spun, flinging a throwing knife down the tunnel before his conscious mind fully registered the danger. His blade thudded into the neck of someone who’d been leaning around the bend. A man in a black uniform made a choked, gurgling sound and toppled. A pistol dropped from his fingers, clattering onto the hard stone floor.
Sicarius sprinted toward the bend, assuming there’d be others. Before he reached the spot, footsteps started up—running footsteps—and he picked out three distinct patterns. Two men on the right side of the tunnel, one on the left, all fleeing. In case anyone might be waiting, unmoving, Sicarius feinted, dipping his shoulder around the corner to draw fire if it came, then pulling back. No one attacked. Sicarius risked enough of his body to pump his arm three times, hurling three more throwing knives down the hall. The blades thudded into the backs of the men he’d been picturing in his mind. Before they finished toppling, he was crouching, scouring the tunnel for threats with his eyes and listening for any sign that more enemies were on their way. A whimper and gurgle came from one of the fallen men, but nothing else moved.
Sicarius chastised himself for missing his mark by half an inch—the death should have been instant. When he was certain there weren’t any other immediate dangers, he rose and collected his knives. He swiped a blade across the throat of the dying man to ensure he’d pose no further threat. As he cleaned his weapons, he noted the silence in the hallway, though the alarm gongs continued in the building above.
For a moment, Amaranthe intruded upon his thoughts—would she have objected to the killing of these men? They could not have been permitted to run back for reinforcements, and attempting to subdue them would not have allowed him to bring them down as efficiently. It was possible one might have escaped to warn others. Yet the dead men wore the uniforms of Imperial Barracks security and were quite possibly the same guards who’d once worked for Sespian. Simply people doing their jobs, being caught in the middle, Amaranthe would have said.
Sicarius pushed the thoughts aside and rose, sensing Books had come up behind him. He was staring at the dead men. Sicarius walked past him without a word.
Sespian remained with Akstyr. His face was grim, but otherwise difficult to interpret. Good. A man should not be as readable as a book.
“This licks street,” Akstyr grumbled after a time, making a crude gesture at the ward.
“That would be an impressive feat,” Books said, having rejoined them, “given its lack of a discernible tongue.”
Akstyr gave him a withering glare. “I can’t concentrate with all that noise going on.” He made another crude gesture, this one involving the forearm as well as the fingers, aiming it at the ceiling this time.
“He has quite the non-verbal repertoire,” Sespian noted.
It seemed to be a comment aimed at the group, rather than anyone specific, but he glanced at Sicarius. Checking for a reactio
n? Did he expect disapproval? Or maybe it had been an invitation to comment. And join in the… did this qualify as banter?
“Yes,” Sicarius said, but his thoughts scattered after that, and he couldn’t think of an appropriate addition to the conversation. “It is unfortunate he does not apply his finger dexterity more assiduously to his blade training.”
The three men stared at him in unison, then exchanged those looks with each other that implied his ore cart was, as the imperial saying went, missing a wheel.
“Just what this group needs,” Sespian muttered, “another expert knife thrower.” He gave the bend, beyond which the dead men lay, a significant look.
For Sicarius, trained so long to hide his emotions, the sigh was inward. “I will stand watch.” Before he headed for the bend, he told Akstyr, “If you cannot deactivate it, see if you can move it out of the way.”
Sicarius retreated—he reluctantly admitted that retreat was indeed the correct word—around the bend and stood with his back against the wall, out of sight of the others. He wondered if he’d ever be able to talk to his son without a sense of awkward discomfort cloaking them. Perhaps he shouldn’t try when Amaranthe wasn’t around. There was still discomfort when she was part of the conversation, but she didn’t seem to mind filling it with the sort of ambling chatter that put Sespian and the others at ease. He admitted it put him at ease as well. He couldn’t remember when that had started happening. When they’d first met, he’d merely thought her overly gregarious.
“I think… Did that work?” Akstyr’s voice floated down the tunnel.
“I don’t know,” Books said. “We can’t see it any more.”
“Oh. Here.”
A renewed red glow filled the hallway. Sicarius returned to the group. Instead of floating in the middle of the tunnel, the ward was now wedged into a crevice near the ceiling.
“It looks like it was protecting a flat area, rather than a whole chunk of the tunnel.” Akstyr pinched the air with his fingers, then spread his arms to demonstrate.
“A plane,” Books said, perhaps intending to sneak in another geometry lesson.