Surfing? For… relaxation purposes? How odd. “I would find it difficult to lie on a beach, visible from afar, vulnerable to anyone who walks past on a bluff above.”
“Perhaps a deserted island would be more amenable to you than one full of people who might wish a Turgonian assassin… a bad day.”
“Yes, sir. Amaranthe has suggested seeking such a place.”
“Good. You two should go somewhere after this is over. Time out of the empire would do you both good, I suspect.”
“I… don’t think she’ll wish to go off with me now.” Sicarius didn’t know why he’d admitted that. He hoped his voice hadn’t sounded as plaintive as it had in his head. He should have simply repeated another, “Yes, sir.”
“Oh?”
Was it too late to voice that, “Yes, sir?” Sicarius suspected so. “During the short time I was Kor Nas’s slave, I killed and tortured many people for him. I did these things once for the emperor too, but found them less palatable this time. Of late, I have been less inclined to…” Sicarius was used to being able to say what he meant in a succinct manner. Why couldn’t he find the words to explain this? “This last year, working with Corporal Lokdon…” he’d already used her first name—why try to put distance between them now? “I resented the lack of a challenge in capturing and torturing the Forge women. They were not worthy opponents.” There’s more to it than that, Sicarius forced himself to acknowledge. “Amaranthe would not have used such tactics on them. She would not have needed them. Through working with her, I have not needed them. I have grown… accustomed to not needing them.”
“So, she’s made you a less cruel man, and you appreciate her for that.”
That was succinct enough, Sicarius supposed, though he’d always seen himself as pragmatic, rather than cruel. “Yes.”
“But you fear she’ll see this relapse as an unforgivable failing.”
“I did not fight Kor Nas as hard as I could have,” Sicarius said. “While he was sleeping, I could have killed myself to prevent him from using me so.”
“I doubt she would have wanted to see that.”
Sicarius said nothing.
Starcrest leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “When I was a junior officer, I had a captain who took an interest in developing my career, as good captains are wont to do. I performed my duties diligently, but he saw that I preferred my books or the machine-filled solitude of the engine room to working with other men. I was teased a bit in school, you see, for being younger than the others, and smaller, and rather bookish. I had faith in my ability to become an officer, but I’d always figured I’d be an engineering officer, someday to command a small crew below decks, a crew that I assumed would be made up of bookish sorts not dissimilar to myself. Captain Orndivit had other ideas. He forced me to spend time above decks, ordering around grizzled enlisted men twice my age and commanding the cannon crew when we went into battle. It was because I was up there that my ideas were heard, and I even took command once when the captain and first mate were injured and all manner of chaos descended upon us.”
“Ensign Starcrest and the Blockade Runners’ Revenge,” Sicarius said.
Starcrest blinked. “Pardon?”
“It’s a book.” Sicarius wasn’t one to blush, but he did feel a tad mortified at bringing up a fictional account of the story the admiral was trying to tell. He shouldn’t have spoken. Some delight at recognizing the favorite childhood tale had bestirred him.
“Ah, yes,” Starcrest said. “I’d forgotten about those. They don’t turn up much in Kyatt.”
“It details your adventures with Captain Orndivit. It doesn’t mention you being bookish and teased.”
“No, I’d imagine that some authors think military admirals are born knowing how to command men and outmaneuver enemies.” Starcrest pressed a finger to the desk. “My point is that Orndivit was the sort of man who made you uncomfortable by demanding the application of skills and traits you didn’t believe you possessed. It tended to make one a better man.”
“Yes,” Sicarius said. Starcrest understood. Amaranthe had been that person for him. Not just for him. Maldynado, Books, Akstyr, and Basilard were all different men—better men—than they had been a year earlier.
“Now, I don’t know Corporal Lokdon well enough to know which types of men she likes to go off to deserted islands with, but it’s my understanding that she’s taking personal responsibility—blame—for the crash of the ancient ship and the subsequent deaths of those trapped in Fort Urgot.”
“Typical,” Sicarius said.
“Command tends to be glorified, especially here in the empire, but it’s been my experience that the downsides often outweigh the upsides. In fact, the so-called upsides are typically greater responsibility, more pressure, and more work. Recognition from your superiors can be heartening, but it can never fully make the downsides go away. Those who are injured or killed as a result of your decisions, their spirits haunt you for the rest of your days, even when they belong to nameless people whom you’ve never met. Sometimes those are the worst. People whose deaths were incidental, part of the power plays of puppet masters they never knew and never cared to know.”
Sicarius thought the admiral should be having this discussion with Amaranthe rather than with him. More sensitive than he, she needed it more. He’d learned to harden himself long ago, and though he might have regrets now and then, few spirits haunted him. Perhaps, he mused, because he’d so rarely been in command. Always a puppet, never the master.
Starcrest seemed to be waiting for a comment.
“It is curious that people choose to seek out command positions,” Sicarius said.
That drew a sad chuckle. “Indeed, it is. Some people are driven to it though, by seeing unfairness or injustice in the world and believing that such calamities could be lessened if they took on the responsibility of leadership.”
“That is Amaranthe, yes.”
“I hope that in the end she will find that the prize—if there is one to be achieved in this situation—was worth the cost,” Starcrest said. “In the meantime, I suggest to you that she is probably not going to feel she’s in a position to judge you for anything you did under this wizard’s control. From what little I’ve seen of her, I doubt she would have anyway. Decisions you make under your own control, that might be a different matter.”
Yes, she’d always been disappointed in him—even when she hadn’t said it, he’d sensed it—for killing as a solution, even those who’d declared themselves their enemies. “I shall consider your words, sir.”
Starcrest nodded, and Sicarius believed himself dismissed. He headed for the door.
Starcrest spoke again. “Sicarius?”
“Sir?”
“Perhaps you already know this, having read the book, but Captain Orndivit was killed at the Battle of Savage Harbor.”
Sicarius nodded. “He fell in action along with his first mate, and you had to take command of the ship. Even though you weren’t the senior officer remaining, your force of will and what became known as the Wricht’s Channel Tactic caused the others to listen to your wisdom.”
“Force of will and wisdom, eh? That author certainly put a grandiloquent slant on me and those events. Regardless, my point is that Orndivit died before I had a chance to thank him for the encouragement that he gave me. Being eighteen and still having some of the surly stubbornness of youth, I was occasionally… if not disrespectful, then sullen about the lengths he forced me to—I often felt he was picking on me, over the other ensigns. It didn’t occur to me that he might have seen something in me that was worth drawing out. Anyway, it is one of my longest standing regrets—dear ancestors, it’s been over forty years now—that it was only after he was gone that I fully learned to appreciate the man.”
“I understand, sir.”
Hand on the doorknob, Sicarius didn’t move for a moment, wondering if he should let Starcrest know he appreciated him and his counsel, but he sensed that Starcrest would wave
in dismissal of the idea. The admiral meant his story to apply to Amaranthe, not himself.
Still… “I appreciate your advice.”
The half smile returned, and Starcrest inclined his head once.
Sicarius stepped out of the office and approached the one two doors down. He knocked lightly, but didn’t receive a response. The door wasn’t locked so he eased it open.
There weren’t any lanterns burning, but some daylight crept in from the factory’s tall outside windows. Four sharpened pencils, all the same length, all in a tidy row, lay next to a sheet of paper with notes written in Amaranthe’s neat hand. Plans for the Barracks endeavor? It was too dim to read the page. He was more interested in checking on her, anyway. She occupied the blankets on the floor behind the desk, scrunched in a ball again, her back to the wall, though she wasn’t thrashing about this time. Her chest rose and fell with soft, regular breaths. Perhaps she’d been too exhausted for the nightmares to take hold.
Though Starcrest had inspired him to talk to her—to offer to teach her the meditation he’d promised before—Sicarius would not wake her up to do so. She desperately needed sleep. He thought of returning to his perch in the rafters to find rest of his own.
Or, you could lie down with her, he mused.
Would she mind, if he presumed to do so? He had promised to stand guard the last time they’d been alone together in this room, and she’d been amenable to the notion.
Careful not to touch her, lest it waken her, Sicarius lay down beside her and closed his eyes.
He drifted in and out of his meditative rest. Many hours passed before Amaranthe stirred. Her eyes remained closed, but she yawned and stretched out a hand. Her fingers bumped against his leg. Her face scrunched up, and she patted about, trying to identify the unexpected object.
“Musharup?” she mumbled, then blinked bleary eyes.
“I suspect I would need to consult Professor Komitopis for a translation before finding a suitable response for that,” Sicarius said.
“Oh. Hello.” She pushed the dyed hair out of her face, rubbed her eyes, found them crusty, and grimaced. “I see I’m looking my best for you. I wasn’t drooling, was I?”
“No.”
“Good.” Amaranthe pushed herself to a sitting position, the blanket falling about her lap. She looked him up and down, perhaps noting that he hadn’t removed his boots or knives. “Are you here to… stand guard?”
Sicarius knew what she meant, but pretended to misunderstand. “I have been doing that for several hours now.”
“Hours, eh? By yourself?”
He contemplated whether to respond. With her, there might be hours. By himself? Such needs could be taken care of more quickly. The topic seemed too crude to voice to her in blunt terms, and he was not practiced in coming up with humorous innuendoes.
When he didn’t answer, she blushed and waved away the joke, a sheepish expression on her face. He should have risked the faux pas and replied with an answer.
“Do you know what time it is? Or how much time we have before… er, what do you have in mind anyway?”
What did he have in mind? To see if she slept better when he was there, holding her in his arms. To see if she might sleep even better after a couple hours of vigorous horizontal exercise. All he said was, “Teaching you meditation.”
Her shoulders drooped. “Oh. It’s not that I don’t need that—and I appreciate your willingness to teach me—but I thought… I had something else in mind.”
“I did as well when I entered your room hours ago, but you were sleeping. Hard. You may have been drooling.”
Eyes chagrinned, she lifted a hand to her mouth. “I was? That’s not—you shouldn’t just… No, wait. I want you here. No matter how pathetic I look. It’s not as if you haven’t…” She squinted at him. “Are you… smirking?”
“No.” Sicarius flattened his lips into their usual deadpan expression.
“You were. I saw it. You’re teasing me, aren’t you? Was I really drooling?”
“No,” he said, more softly this time, and lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “I did not wish to wake you. We will be up all night.”
She swallowed and leaned her head into his hand. He cupped her cheek.
“How long do we have until it’s time to go?” she asked.
“A half hour.”
“That’s long enough to do… things.”
“Some of the others are milling downstairs, making preparations. Someone will doubtlessly come to ask you a question before it’s time to go.”
Amaranthe opened her mouth to voice some protest.
“I do not know if I could keep from throwing a knife at Sergeant Yara a second time,” he said bluntly.
She stared at him, her open mouth forming the word, “second,” though no noise came out. It didn’t take her long to remember what he was referring to, and her lips curved into a smile.
“Besides,” he said, letting his eyelids droop halfway. “I want those hours.”
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Days, perhaps.”
“Days?”
Still cupping the side of her face, he brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Days. I’ll bring water. Rations.”
“Not those awful bars,” she blurted.
“Hm.” Sicarius lowered his hand.
Amaranthe caught it and held it in her lap. “All right, you can bring them, but I insist on a couple of pastries as well.” She stared into his eyes, serious as she made this proposition.
She’d started stroking the back of his hand, her fingers tracing the tendons, and it distracted him. What had they been discussing? Appropriate food for sustaining physical exertion, yes. He ought to tell her that sugary treats weren’t suitable for activities requiring stamina, but a memory flashed through his mind, that smudge of frosting on her nose and his interest in… cleaning it off.
“A compromise would be acceptable,” he found himself saying.
“Good.” Her gaze lowered to his lips.
Was she contemplating a kiss? Her strokes to the back of his hand were already stirring sensations in his body, along with thoughts he’d been quelling while she slept. If she kissed him, he might forget his resolve to postpone their amorous acts until they had more time. Much could be done in a half hour. But a frenzied rush? Surely she’d want more. He wanted more for her, and for himself.
Amaranthe dropped her gaze to her lap. “Ah, meditation, was it?”
“Yes,” he said. Did his voice sound raspy? Odd. They hadn’t even kissed. He put more effort into finding his emotionless tone when he launched into an introduction of the history of meditation.
“You’re sure you don’t need hours for this too?” Amaranthe asked after a few minutes.
“It can be taught in stages.”
“I see. Carry on then, carry on.”
She kept stroking his hand while he spoke, eventually turning it over and running her fingers along his callouses. He prevailed against urges that called for him to drag her into his arms and show her exactly what he’d been thinking of while she slept. As he spoke, he did, however, indulge himself in the planning of what they’d do when they did find their hours.
All too soon, a knock came at the door. Amaranthe released his hand. It was time to go.
Chapter 15
Sicarius glided through the streets, scouting ahead for Amaranthe and the others, avoiding the pockets of fighting. Night had come a couple of hours earlier, so most of the skirmishes had broken off, but a few continued. The gangs were about, too, looting, or trying to. Many shopkeepers remained in their stores, fighting off would-be intruders with crossbows and swords. Sicarius stuck to residential areas, picking a winding route toward the Emperor’s Preserve and the secret entrances to the Imperial Barracks.
They reached the park’s boundaries without incident, and Basilard came up to scout the woods with him. He took point, ahead and to the right of the party, while Sicarius took the left. Footprin
ts and lorry tracks crisscrossed the slushy snow blanketing the ground between the trees. The warming front from the south had come in, and icy clumps melted from bare branches, spattering on their heads and shoulders. Shots fired from time to time in the city, but the Preserve remained quiet.
That quietness ended abruptly when the team was halfway to the underground tunnel Sicarius sought. A woman’s shriek arose from the west. He paused, turning his head to catch the remains of the cry, pinpointing the direction. He couldn’t see the city from there, but given their position in the woods, he was certain it had originated on Mokath Ridge. He would have thought that area, where the wealthy lived, would be neglected by the soldiers, as there was little up there worth acquiring in terms of military maneuvering, though perhaps the gangs had taken their looting to those lavishly adorned homes. The only reason he’d paused was the sheer terror and pain the shriek had carried. Would someone cry out so at a bunch of teenaged Akstyr-like thugs? If one’s life were in danger, he supposed so. Whatever it was, it was unlikely it had anything to do with their mission.
A shadow trotted in from the northeast. Basilard. He carried a lantern, though he had it shuttered. He set it on the ground and released a sliver of light in such a manner as it wouldn’t shine into their eyes—he only needed enough illumination for his hand signs to be seen.
I caught the scent of blood, he signed and pointed toward the northeast.
Human blood?
I believe so.
There may have been fighting out here earlier in the day. Flintcrest’s camp is nearby. Though Flintcrest’s camp should have been more to their east by now.
There was something else… something familiar.
Yes?
When he wasn’t signing, Basilard was plucking at the seam of his trousers and glancing over his shoulder. I’m uncertain. I would like your opinion. They shouldn’t be down here.
They?
But Basilard had already picked up the lantern. He jogged in the direction from which he had come.
Sicarius thought of returning to the team to warn Amaranthe—and let her know they were going to investigate something suspicious—but the others were a half a mile back yet. Traveling with the aid of lanterns, they were picking their way more cautiously across the forest floor, and Maldynado and Books carried a heavy burden, a four-foot-tall canister Starcrest had devised to hold his daughter’s concoction. Amaranthe had more details as to what it was and where they’d use it. First they had to reach the Imperial Barracks. Sicarius wondered if they should be wasting time, following the scents of blood, instead of heading directly to the passage. Nonetheless, he trailed Basilard, pausing only once, when he crossed the trail the others would come up. He broke a couple of sticks to form an arrow on the snow, indicating their northeasterly direction.