The clacks of the wheels on the rails seemed to be slowing. Wondering if they were reaching the lake and the capital, Amaranthe clambered onto a crate and peered through a slat in the wall. They’d come out of the mountains, but were passing through white rolling hills rather than the farmlands west of the lake. “Willow Pond,” she guessed, naming the last stop before Stumps.
“Perhaps we should get out here and catch the next train,” Books said.
“And let a legendary war hero go without making a solid attempt to win him to our side?” Amaranthe asked.
“We did attempt that,” Akstyr said, “and we got thrown in here. We—”
The metal rollers of the sliding door squeaked, and light flooded the car. Amaranthe spun, raising her new army pistol. She halted, however, when she spotted a similar weapon already pointed at her chest. The hand holding it belonged to Starcrest. Books and Akstyr had finished tying the soldiers, and they, too, spun toward the door, crouching, fists curled into loose fists, ready for a fight.
“Interesting,” Starcrest said, taking them in, as well as the prone soldiers.
They groaned when they heard his voice, more in embarrassment than pain, Amaranthe guessed.
She lowered her pistol. Starcrest was the only one standing in the doorway as the train slowed, icicle-bedecked buildings passing behind him, but she couldn’t be certain there weren’t ten more soldiers lined up to either side of him. She didn’t want to fight with him anyway.
“We like to think so.” Amaranthe propped an elbow on a crate. “Won’t you come in? We’d love to discuss things with you.”
“That is what I had in mind.” Starcrest eyed her pistol.
Since he had the advantage anyway, his weapon still trained on her chest, Amaranthe set her firearm on the floor. If there was a chance she could earn his trust, she’d happily make the first concession. Besides, she always had Akstyr’s secret skills to draw upon if needed, so long as Starcrest didn’t bring his children in. They obviously had some mental sciences training and might sniff out Akstyr’s gift. For all she knew, they’d sensed him untying the ropes and that had been what drew Starcrest back here to start with. But, no, it must be more than that, or he’d simply have sent soldiers. If he’d come alone, he must want to talk to them about something. Maybe he’d believed what she said in the cab.
Books kicked aside the other firearm they’d taken from the fallen men. The train rolled to a stop, and Starcrest nodded and waved to someone out of Amaranthe’s sight.
That made her nervous until he holstered the pistol and stepped inside. “Mind if we let these two go?” He spread a hand toward the soldiers.
“Won’t they go off and tell that colonel that you’re in here alone, being suborned by outlaws?” Amaranthe asked.
“Suborned?” Starcrest’s eyebrows rose.
“I was going to say wooed, but I’ve been told that word is ‘sissy.’” She glanced at Akstyr.
“Well, it is,” he muttered.
“I simply wish to have a private discussion with you,” Starcrest said. “I’ve already expressed this desire to Colonel Fencrest, and he’s already expressed his vehement disapproval over the notion. What these two report back will matter little in regard to our ability to converse privately until we reach Stumps, which is, if I recall correctly, less than a half an hour away.” He stepped inside and sat on a crate. “We’ll be departing shortly, as nobody’s boarding here in Willow Pond and only two passengers have departed.”
Two fifteen-year-old siblings too young for the dangers of the capital? There was a north-south train that ran through Willow Pond, heading to numerous quiet rural towns along the way. Maybe Starcrest had relatives in the area, or his own lands might be nearby too, if he still had lands.
Amaranthe used one of the soldiers’ purloined knives to sever their bonds. Shoulders slumped, heads bowed, they shuffled for the door.
“My lord,” the corporal said, avoiding Starcrest’s eyes, “we… we were tricked. They—”
“I’m not in command of anything here, Corporal.” Starcrest said Corporal in the same tone a father might say son. “I suggest you report to your superior for orders.”
“Yes, my lord.” The corporal shambled the last two steps to the door, but paused again. “My lord, are you going to tell Sergeant Nastor… uhm.”
“I doubt I’ll have time to tell your sergeant anything before we arrive in the capital.”
“Oh.” The corporal exchanged glances with his private, who shrugged back at him. “Thank you, my lord,” he said with more spirit upon realizing that he wasn’t going to be outed for his inability to keep the prisoners secured.
They hopped from the car and jogged out of sight. A whistle blew outside.
Before the train chugged into motion again, a woman climbed up to the doorway and hesitated on the threshold until she spotted Starcrest sitting on the crate. Her thick blonde-gray hair fell in a braid down her back, spectacles framed her blue eyes, and freckles splashed cheeks that Amaranthe would consider pale, despite the tanned skin. She wore a soft gray felt dress with wool leggings and heavy boots to thwart the cold.
“Have a seat, love.” Starcrest gestured to a crate next to his. “These are the outlaws I told you about, people who have unlikely knowledge about our first adventure together.”
This must be Tikaya Komitopis, the Kyattese linguist and cryptographer. Amaranthe immediately wanted to pump her for information on the Behemoth and what she knew about Forge, specifically Suan and Retta. The sisters had both been to the Kyatt Islands on Forge’s behalf, Retta to study the ancient language, and Suan to purchase submarines for her wealthy colleagues.
“Outlaws.” Tikaya sat next to Starcrest on the crate. “And here I thought an excursion into the empire in your wake would mean a chance to meet aristocrats and military leaders from the highest echelons of society.”
“That might have happened if you’d married me when I was an upright young officer. These days… well, I don’t think anyone has scribbled out the exile mark next to my name. These—” Starcrest spread a hand toward Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr, “—should be precisely the sorts of people you expected.”
“Should we be offended?” Akstyr muttered to Books.
“I believe so, yes,” Books said. “Word of my sublime work mustn’t have reached the Kyatt Islands yet.” He sighed.
Amaranthe swatted him on the arm.
“I haven’t been informed of their names yet,” Starcrest said, “but they know Sicarius.”
Tikaya grimaced. “Is that association as precipitous for them as it is for most people?”
Starcrest’s eyes sharpened as he regarded Amaranthe. “I don’t think so.”
“It is for us.” Akstyr pointed to his chest, then Books.
“Do you actually know what precipitous means?” Books asked him.
“Dangerous, right? You’ve used it before. You’ve even used it when talking about Sicarius.”
“I didn’t realize you’d listened.” Books sounded pleased.
“Sometimes. If I’m not doing something more important.”
Books’s eyes narrowed, some of the pleasure fading.
Amaranthe shushed them and said, “My name is Amaranthe Lokdon, and this is Akstyr and Books, formerly Professor Marl Mugdildor.”
Books’s back straightened, and he glanced at Tikaya, as if hoping she’d heard of him. She merely gazed back at the three of them with an expression of polite wariness. Outside, the train had started up, and Starcrest slid the rolling door shut before resuming a seat next to his wife. Enough light slanted through the slats in the walls that the two parties could see each other.
“You already know who I am,” Starcrest said, “but you can call me Rias. This is my wife, Professor Tikaya Komitopis.”
“Just Tikaya,” she said.
Sure, like Amaranthe was going to be on a first-name basis with people out of the history books.
Starcrest slipped a hand into his jacket a
nd withdrew an envelope. “Do you recognize this?”
Books and Akstyr shook their heads.
Amaranthe didn’t. “Was it, by chance, postmarked from Markworth a few weeks ago?”
“It was indeed.”
“Sicarius didn’t tell me what was in it or who it was going to. I got the impression that he hoped for an answer, but didn’t expect one.”
Starcrest and Komitopis exchanged wry looks, and Amaranthe had the sense that there’d been quite a discussion as to whether to respond to that letter or not. “Can I see it?” she asked. “It doesn’t mention me, does it?”
Starcrest’s brows rose.
“I ask because there was a hasty postscript penned after I… ah, I was there when he wrote it. It’s possible my plans had some influence on the information contained within.”
“As in,” Akstyr whispered to Books, “please help, Admiral, before my crazy girlfriend blows up the empire.”
Long accustomed to their teasing, Amaranthe might not have flushed, but the topic—and the agreement implicit in Books’s smirk—made her self-conscious. “It doesn’t say that.” She eyed Starcrest. “It doesn’t, right?”
“Show her the letter, love,” Komitopis said.
The pair exchanged looks again, and this time Amaranthe couldn’t decipher the hidden meaning. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder what it’d be like to be married to someone—not someone, Sicarius—long enough to understand each other so well that words weren’t needed. She knew Sicarius better than most, but that wasn’t saying much. It was rare for her to have a clue what was going on behind his facade.
Starcrest held out the crinkled envelope, distracting her from wistful thinking.
It was addressed in Sicarius’s precise hand to Federias Starcrest at 17 View Ridge Loop, Eastern Plantation County, Kyatt.
“We weren’t anywhere we had access to records.” Amaranthe opened the envelope and pulled out the single page inside. “I wouldn’t have guessed he knew your address.”
“Nor I,” Komitopis said. “I was alarmed to learn that.”
Starcrest spread a hand. “It’s not surprising. The emperor has surely kept track of me over the years, and he was the emperor’s man.”
“Henchman.”
Amaranthe’s lips flattened. She was glad Starcrest didn’t share his wife’s unveiled rancor toward Sicarius.
When she lowered her gaze to the page, she stared blankly at it for a moment. The words were gibberish. No, a code. Sicarius must have assumed other eyes would read any mail addressed to Starcrest from the empire. She imagined some Kyattese intelligence analyst pawing over letters to the kids from their Turgonian grandparents.
“The translation is on the back,” Komitopis said. “He used an old key, one employed during, as your people call it, the Western Sea Conflict.”
“Nothing wrong with the man’s memory then,” Amaranthe said, remembering that they’d been out in the woods when Sicarius penned the note. There were a few lines on the back, a signature, and a postscript.
“He was a bright boy,” Starcrest said. “I thought it was a shame what the emperor molded him into.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Amaranthe lowered the letter, distracted by a new thought. “You knew his father. Did you know about… more? His upbringing?” She wasn’t sure how she’d feel about the man if it turned out he had known about it and had ignored the cruelties being perpetrated in the name of creating a perfect assassin.
But Starcrest’s mouth had dropped open. “I knew his father? I wasn’t aware of Sicarius’s existence until…” His gaze skimmed over Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr, as if he was wondering how much of those classified times he should be sharing, even at this late date. “He was fifteen when our paths first crossed.”
“According to Hollowcrest’s records, his father was… Books, what was the name?”
“Sergeant Paloic.”
Starcrest sank back on the crate, bracing himself with his palms. “I remember him. He died—”
“He committed suicide,” Amaranthe said. “After being ordered—coerced—into impregnating the woman they’d chosen to bear Sicarius. A Kyattese woman.” She glanced at Tikaya. The professor’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. “According to Hollowcrest’s files,” Amaranthe continued, “Paloic’s name first came to his attention after you recommended the sergeant for a promotion.”
“I see,” Starcrest whispered. “I’d… never known.”
It was a harsh thing to bring up—it wasn’t as if Starcrest had been to blame—but she didn’t regret laying the tiles on the table. If he felt guilty, he might be more inclined to work with them. He’d already come at the behest of the letter, but that didn’t mean he meant to join forces with them. She didn’t think so anyway. Maybe she should read the translation before forming conclusions.
Lord Admiral Starcrest,
Emperor Sespian has been ousted from the throne, and numerous men with blood ties to the Savarsin line are marching armies into the city. A business coalition named Forge seeks control of the empire through a Marblecrest figurehead. Forge possesses the technology we saw on our mission twenty years ago. Among other things, they have a great flying craft from that ancient race and can use it to force their candidate onto the throne. A student of Professor Komitopis’s has mastered its flight and at least some of its many weapons. I’ve seen them. They are devastating, and the whole world is in danger. You and your wife may be the only ones who can bring about a peaceful solution. If you still care anything for the empire, you must come.
Sicarius
Postscript: Sespian is alive and in hiding, but it is unlikely anyone will be able to bring about a solution that doesn’t involve much bloodshed. The people and the military will listen to you.
Amaranthe lowered the letter and handed it to Books. Akstyr peered over his shoulder to read it as well.
“Our foremost reason for coming is to deal with the alien technology,” Starcrest said. “As for the rest… at this late date, I’m less certain than Sicarius that my influence over people or troops would be great.”
Truly? Someone had given him command of a train full of men…
“What we didn’t understand,” Starcrest said, “is why Sespian was ousted in the first place. And why he isn’t marching on the city to reclaim the throne. You say this Forge outfit has been imposing their will upon him?”
“As it turns out, Sespian isn’t Raumesys’s son,” Amaranthe said. “Forge has learned this. It’s possible the whole city will learn it soon, if it hasn’t already. We haven’t seen a paper in a couple of days.”
“Sespian is a bastard?” Professor Komitopis asked.
“Not exactly.” Given that Sicarius had personally written Starcrest and pleaded—or as close to pleading as he’d ever get—for assistance, Amaranthe didn’t think he’d mind sharing secrets. “He’s Sicarius’s son. Princess Marathi, after going through all the typical bedroom adventures one is expected to have with one’s husband, failed to produce an heir. She assumed the problem was Raumesys, and it turns out she was correct. Not wanting to suffer the fate of a previous wife who failed to produce, Marathi found someone suitable to lend his, ah, essence.”
“Essence?” Akstyr choked.
Books tried to elbow him, but they weren’t standing closely enough together.
“I didn’t think any of you Turgonian men fired blunt arrows,” Komitopis said. “You being such a hale and hearty people, prolific enough to populate a massive continent in a couple hundred years.”
Her words stirred Starcrest from whatever dark thoughts had devoured him, and he managed a half smile. “Given how many relatives you have, I don’t think you can accuse us of being overly prolific.”
“Yes, but we have a bountiful supply of sun, surf, and those fertility-boosting oysters I’ve mentioned. Your people manage it in a much harsher land, with nothing except those dreadful tooth dullers to fuel your gonads.”
Amaranthe blinked at the
blunt term, but she’d heard that the Kyattese had a habit of saying things by their proper scientific names. Either that or “love apples” weren’t a common crop on the islands.
“The field rations are dreadful,” Starcrest agreed. “Or they were twenty years ago.”
“You should try one of Sicarius’s dried organ bars,” Akstyr grumbled.
Amaranthe leaned against one of the crates, eyeing the white fields passing beyond the slits in the walls. She didn’t know what to make of the professor’s derailment of the conversation. She supposed this talk of covert organizations, militant politics, and deflowered secrets was all academic to Komitopis. What did she truly care about the empire?
A banging at the door surprised Amaranthe. The train was still in motion, though the white flatlands outside had grown familiar. They had to be close to the lake, if it wasn’t already passing by on the other side of the car.
“Enter,” Starcrest called over the noise of the train.
The door slid aside, and Colonel Fencrest stood on the ledge, his face ashen. He gulped. “My lord.” He didn’t seem to notice that Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr were no longer tied. He didn’t notice them at all.
Starcrest rose. “What is it?”
The colonel’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t find words. He pointed past Amaranthe, toward the slats allowing glimpses of the countryside.
She climbed onto a crate for a better view as everyone else came to that side of the car. She leaned her temple against the cold wood, trying to see what lay ahead of the train, though she had a guess. They ought to be closing on Fort Urgot. If that army was still camped around it, that would certainly alarm someone coming into the situation new.
But it wasn’t an army that came into sight. It was…
“No,” Amaranthe whispered. Overwhelming horror swallowed her, weakening her limbs and invading her stomach like a poison. If she’d been standing, her knees would have given out, dumping her on the floor. She would have deserved it.
“Dear Akahe,” Komitopis whispered at her side.
The unmistakable black dome shape of the Behemoth towered over the landscape—what was left of it. Felled trees and flattened tents littered the white fields, along with one corner of collapsed rubble, of…