Amaranthe shook her head slowly, not believing, not wanting to believe. Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined the massive craft would crash into—onto—Fort Urgot. It had annihilated the walls, the building, everything. The people, she admitted though her mind shied away from the awfulness of that thought.
“How could we have…” Books whispered. “How could it have possibly landed in that one spot? The odds…”
Amaranthe thumped her forehead against the slats. The odds didn’t matter. What mattered were the thousands of people that had been in that fort. They couldn’t have seen it coming, not in time. They couldn’t have escaped. And if Sicarius, Sespian, Maldynado, and Basilard had still been within those walls…
Where else would they have been? She’d sent them there.
Amaranthe climbed—fell—off the crate and shambled to—she didn’t know where. A corner, she had in mind, but didn’t make it. She dropped to her knees and vomited.
Chapter 3
Amaranthe didn’t notice anything about the rest of the train ride or the trip back to the factory. If a bounty hunter had stepped out of the shadows and raised a crossbow at her, she wouldn’t have ducked. She probably wouldn’t have even flinched, not until the quarrel burrowed into her chest.
Thousands dead. Her team. Her… Sicarius. Because of her. Because she’d presumed to try and control that… that… monster craft. It was a force of nature, not a machine. She might as well have tried to direct a tornado or an avalanche.
“This is it.” Books pointed past the large four-story molasses tanks dominating the front of the lot and toward the entrance to the factory.
He’d taken charge when Amaranthe hadn’t, offering their hideout for Starcrest and the train full of soldiers until they figured out somewhere more amenable. Starcrest had been heading toward Fort Urgot. Not now.
Night had come by the time they breached the city boundaries, and nobody stepped out to harass the squads of soldiers marching along the waterfront. The usual patrols weren’t about. Everyone was probably too stunned by what had happened to think about fighting, at least this day.
“Did you see how many people are out there staring at that thing?” Akstyr had asked, pointing out the crowds as the train chugged past the fort’s remains. “Half the city is out there gawking. It’s sure not going to be a secret any more.”
Nobody had answered him. Starcrest and Tikaya were as grim as everybody else, maybe grimmer, their easy banter of before wiped from memory, their faces older and more lined without the humor to brighten them.
Amaranthe supposed she should be relieved that Books wasn’t among the stunned or gawking, unlike her. But then, he hadn’t directed the mission. Those people weren’t dead because of him.
On the trek from the train station to the factory, Books had looked at her often, touching her arm a couple of times in silent questions. They might have been, “Do you want to take over?” or “Are you all right?” Amaranthe didn’t know. She couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t lift her gaze from her boots.
Nobody had pointed at her or spoken a word of condemnation, but she hadn’t confessed either. Akstyr and Books were the only ones who knew she was guilty of… dear ancestors, manslaughter. On a massive scale. Had Admiral Starcrest himself been responsible for as many deaths in his entire twenty-year military career? If he had, those had been the enemies, not his own people.
“Halt,” called out a guard beside the door, the suborned Private Rudev, “and identify, er…”
The sheer number of men marching out of the darkness must have intimidated him. Perfectly understandable. They were five-hundred strong, not a huge number in comparison to all the troops in the city, but enough people to make a young private quake, especially one who’d defected from his unit to join with mercenaries. For all Rudev knew, these were some of Ravido’s men, coming to fetch him.
“Is that an example of the kind of security your outfit runs?” Colonel Fencrest asked.
When Amaranthe didn’t answer, Books spoke. “He’s a new recruit. We actually lifted him from the army. Sicarius’s men are trained better, even the least robust among them.”
“I saw you glance at me,” Akstyr whispered. “You’re no born athlete either.”
“So are we going to get shot if we go in, or what?” Fencrest asked. He waved to one of his captains, and the man ordered the sergeants to bring the troops to a halt, forming them up into companies and platoons, then picking a few scouts to keep an eye out at the closest intersections.
“No,” Books said, after glancing at Amaranthe again, no doubt wondering if she’d speak first, “but I better go in and brief everyone.”
“Whoever’s left alive in there,” Amaranthe muttered.
Books paused, maybe thinking she’d take over—it was the first thing she’d said in hours—but she shook her head mutely. Didn’t he understand? She couldn’t lead anyone now, maybe not ever again. Not after that. Her orders were death.
“Go with him, Lieutenant,” Fencrest said, waving to another of his men. “We don’t want any surprises.”
Right, the soldiers had no reason to trust Amaranthe and her team. Quite the opposite. If it weren’t for Starcrest, who’d liked the idea of a waterfront location since it meant they wouldn’t have to march their troops through the city, they wouldn’t have come at all. But where else might they have gone? Ravido wouldn’t be inviting unknown soldiers into the Barracks, and Fort Urgot was certainly no longer an option. Amaranthe knew they’d brought supplies on that train, food and ammunition at least, but didn’t know if they had gear for setting up a camp in sub-freezing temperatures.
She waited, numb and cold, while Books and the lieutenant went inside. She should go in, too, and disappear into her office, locking the door, and hiding in there until… Until what? Someone needed her for a mission? She didn’t know. Would anyone need her at all? With Starcrest and trained military men here, who would want the advice of an outlaw?
Starcrest was standing to the side, conferring with his wife. Their voices were soft, and they’d switched to Kyattese.
The door banged open, and someone hustled outside, someone with a limp and a cane. Deret Mancrest gaped at the troops, his gaze raking over them, looking for someone. Several people fingered weapons, but nobody drew. They wouldn’t unless the sergeants standing at the heads of the companies ordered them to.
Deret’s search halted when he spotted Amaranthe. He walked over briskly, though not so briskly that it might alarm anyone with a gun. One hand gripped his swordstick, but he kept his other arm out, his palm open so people would see he didn’t have a weapon.
“Amaranthe,” he whispered, “I need to talk to you.”
She was tempted to direct him to Books, but maybe he’d already talked to Books. “Yes?”
“In private.”
The colonel was watching them from a few paces away.
“I’m not certain I’m allowed to wander off,” Amaranthe said. “We were prisoners at one point. Now we’re…”
“Hosts is what Books said.”
“That’s so, but it may not preclude the prisoner status.”
Deret’s mouth formed a silent, “Oh.” After a thoughtful moment, he turned slightly so his back was to the colonel. He shifted his weight onto his good leg, letting the swordstick lean against his side, and used both hands to sign. Yara and I kidnapped the sister. She’s tied up inside. That might not look good if hundreds of soldiers are suddenly roaming around.
Amaranthe closed her eyes. The last person she wanted to see was Suan Curlev. She’d have to explain… or choose not to explain… how she’d caused Retta’s death. No, Suan was a Forge founder, an enemy. She didn’t have to explain anything to her. Except somehow she didn’t think her guilt would allow her to treat the woman poorly.
Amaranthe? Deret prompted. Shall I take her somewhere?
Let her go, Amaranthe thought. They didn’t need her now. But Suan knew where their hideout was. Of course it would
n’t be a hideout much longer, not with five hundred men going in and out of the area.
“Leave her,” she said quietly. “I’ll explain her to the soldiers if they ask. She’s a Forge founder. Questioning her could be valuable.”
“Questioning, how? With the use of your—” Deret must have remembered they were being observed for he lowered his voice to finish, “—assassin?”
Amaranthe could only imagine how bleak her expression was when she said, “I don’t think he’ll be questioning anybody any time soon.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She needed rest, a break, something. You need to have not survived when half of your team is dead, the voice in her head whispered. No, she didn’t know for sure that they’d been in the fort when the Behemoth had crashed. Maybe they’d been out fighting on the field, or infiltrating the enemy camp, or… She rubbed her face. Did it matter, given how many soldiers had died? Not everybody could have escaped.
“Amaranthe,” Deret prodded.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out later.”
“You should talk to her. She’s not a raving sycophant. She’s intelligent and seems reasonable.”
Because she wants to get you to let her go, Amaranthe thought. “Good,” she said aloud. “But tonight I need to be… left alone.” She walked toward the door, not caring whether the colonel tried to stop her or not. She avoided Starcrest’s eyes, everyone’s eyes.
No one stepped into her path. She made it inside and stumbled up the stairs to her office. Once the army moved in, she probably wouldn’t be able to keep it. Would her people be allowed to join in with whatever planning Starcrest started? Did she care at this point?
Amaranthe dropped onto her blankets, lamenting the cold seeping up through the floor, and flung her arm over her eyes.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep—wait, yes, she did… with Sicarius keeping watch from her blankets. But tonight, as weary as she was, it eluded her. There was too much noise in the factory. Barked orders, hundreds of boots thudding on the floors and catwalks, the thumps, clanks, and grunts of people settling in… Then conversations started up in the office next to hers.
She ignored it all until someone knocked at her door. Maybe if she didn’t respond, the person would go away. It was dark in her office, after all.
The door creaked open, and a lantern’s light probed the room. That would teach her for not throwing the lock. Maybe if she kept her back to the door and ignored—
Thunk!
The light flickered. Either the lantern had been slammed down on the desk with maximum force, or the ceiling was falling.
Reluctantly, Amaranthe rolled over and faced the intruder.
Sergeant Yara stood beside the desk, her face flushed, her eyes puffy, her lips peeled back in a snarl. “Were you responsible?”
Amaranthe didn’t have to ask for what. She wished she could disappear beneath the blankets.
“Were you?” Yara demanded, her voice breaking on the “you.” “Was it your ludicrous scheme that—that—” She thrust an arm toward the wall, no, toward the north end of the lake beyond the wall. “He’s dead. They all are.”
“I know,” Amaranthe whispered.
“How am I supposed to—you’re the one who encouraged me to care about that dumb oaf, curse your ancestors. And then you—” Yara’s voice broke again, and her fists clenched.
Amaranthe wished she could muster the indignation to do more than say, “It wasn’t intentional, Yara.” She’d known Maldynado longer, and Basilard, and Sespian, and she’d loved Sicarius longer than Yara had known Maldynado existed. But she knew it was all her fault, that one of her plans had finally gotten her teammates killed—along with thousands of others.
“It wasn’t intentional? Oh, that makes it dandy, doesn’t it?” Yara’s fists clenched and unclenched at her sides.
Would she lunge forward and strike? If she did, would Amaranthe bother defending herself? No…
“You talked me into joining your team, into following you on this fool’s mission, because… You made it sound noble and honorable. Stop Forge, save the empire. But you’ve killed more people than any of them have, you know that, don’t you?”
“I didn’t singlehandedly kill everybody,” Amaranthe said. “I couldn’t foresee that the Behemoth would crash. Emperor’s warts, I wasn’t steering it into the fort.”
“It was damaged and crashed as a result of your plan, didn’t it?”
Amaranthe opened her mouth, though she didn’t know what she’d say. “Not exactly” didn’t have the ring of expiation she needed.
“If you hadn’t gone down there, they’d all still be alive, wouldn’t they?” Yara asked. “Wouldn’t they?”
Technically, there was no way to know that… The fort had been under siege, after all. Yara didn’t want a debate though, and Amaranthe was already blaming herself, so why bother arguing?
“Yes, it’s my fault, Yara. I’m sorry you lost someone you cared about. I cared about Maldynado too.” And Sicarius, curse it all. Fresh tears stabbed at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m sorry I ever saw you on that mountainside, you and your bungling team of miscreants.” Yara stalked outside, slamming the door so hard that a nail flew out of a wall and fell to the floor with an insignificant clink.
Amaranthe wished Yara had taken the lantern. She preferred the darkness. It was too much effort, though, to stand up and cut it out. She rolled onto her side, putting her back to the door—and the world—again.
• • •
Sicarius’s injuries were healed. Someone had repaired the rips in his clothes and retrieved most of the daggers and throwing knives he’d hurled during his illogical and ill-considered storming of the Behemoth. Now, he stood next to the entrance flap inside the Nurian tent, his hands clasped behind his back, his face devoid of emotion. In the center of a rug that kept people from having to walk on the frozen ground, General Flintcrest and Kor Nas sat on crates, speaking in low murmurs as a third man knelt, his eyes closed. A ledger, an elegant gold pen, and a couple of pieces of clothing rested before the kneeling man. A checkered scarf dangled from his fingers.
Though no one had introduced him to Sicarius, this new Nurian was clearly a seer, one talented at finding people. He must have been the one who’d figured out Sespian was still alive and suggested the creation of a soul construct to hunt him.
On that suspicion alone, Sicarius might have killed him. If he could.
The opal embedded in the flesh at his temple hummed softly in his mind, its warm tendrils of energy not painful but always present. He’d found that he could leave his cot and even the tent, but he couldn’t raise a hand toward anyone in the camp. Not the soldiers, and most certainly not the Nurians. He’d tried a few times to trick his body into responding in such a way that might hurl a dagger into Kor Nas’s chest, but it was the mind the artifact controlled, and he couldn’t trick his own mind.
“This one is living on top of that hill.” Without opening his eyes, the seer waved vaguely toward the city.
“We’ll need something slightly more precise.” Flintcrest tossed a notepad into the man’s lap. “Write down an address.”
Kor Nas’s jaw tightened at the disrespectful treatment of his fellow Nurian. The seer opened his eyes, a bewildered expression on his face. “An address? This is not—” His faced tilted toward Kor Nas, and he switched to the Nurian language. “Saison, have you not explained it to this… man?” He clearly wanted to use a different noun, but glanced warily at the general, perhaps fearing he understood Nurian.
“Write down some landmarks. My new pet seems bright enough to follow such instructions.” Kor Nas smiled at Sicarius, a strange caress in his eyes, like a man gazing fondly at some treasured prize won in a contest of skills.
After a lifetime of hiding his thoughts, Sicarius had no trouble keeping his face expressionless. He didn’t know if the opal shared what lay in his mind with the practitioner, but doubt
ed it mattered. Kor Nas could surely guess that his “new pet” would like to stick a dagger in his chest.
“Yes, saison.” The seer picked up the pen and bent over the notebook.
“Write down directions for other ones as well.”
“Speak in Turgonian,” Flintcrest snapped.
And thus the general answered the unspoken question, as to whether or not he understood the language. The seer winced at his tone, but kept his head bent, and scribbled furiously with the pen. As Sicarius waited to see what assignment they’d give him, he tried to decide if he cared. Not really. Maybe it’d be something ridiculously dangerous, something impossible to accomplish, something that would get him killed. If so, he’d have the end he’d expected in that aircraft. Perhaps he could manage it even if the task weren’t that dangerous… Odd that the idea of displaying any sort of ineptitude still pushed his hairs in the wrong direction, but he didn’t want to spend the next year—or decade—enslaved to this Nurian.
“Here.” The seer unfolded from his kneeling posture, stood, and extended the notebook.
“Give it to him.” Kor Nas pointed at Sicarius.
The seer licked his lips and eyed Sicarius for several long moments before creeping forward, his arm extended as far from his body as possible, as if he feared an electric shock—or worse. Sicarius would have ignored the offering, but his hand came up of its own volition. No, of the practitioner’s volition. Inwardly, he sighed, but outwardly, he didn’t let his expression change.
“Kill those five women tonight,” Kor Nas said. “Get as much information as you can before you cut their throats. Then report back to me. I’ll expect you by dawn.”
Sicarius eyed the list. The directions were written in Nurian, landmarks to lead him to three residences, a hotel near the waterfront, and a sublet by the University. A surname was scribbled above each set of landmarks.
“You do read Nurian, do you not?” Kor Nas asked.