Forged in Blood I (15 page)

“I have news too,” Sicarius said.

“Er, what?”

Sicarius pushed away from the wall and stood, hands clasped behind his back again, his dark eyes pinning her, trying to relay some message it seemed.

“What is it?” Amaranthe asked.

“It is also private.”

Amaranthe closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Why couldn’t these two simply share a drink, thump each other on the back a few times, and decide to stop having secrets from one another? What was it? Three hours past midnight? She wanted to curl up under the table and sleep—preferably without any pesky nightmares that jolted her awake ten minutes after she nodded off.

“Can it wait until later?” Amaranthe tilted her head toward Sespian. If Sicarius said no, she’d go chat with him first, but did he truly want to preempt the son he was trying to win over?

“Yes.” Sicarius lifted his chin and strode out of the room. It was doubtlessly only in her mind that she imagined a sullenness to that chin lift.

Amaranthe rubbed her face. “Go ahead, Sespian.”

He walked around the table and shut the door before sitting down again, this time facing Amaranthe.

“As soon as Ravido knows I’m here and a threat, they’ll print the details of my… flawed heritage in the newspaper.”

Amaranthe grimaced, wanting to call Sicarius anything but flawed, but she knew what Sespian meant.

“An easy task,” he continued, “since the Forge leaders are in bed—literally—with the owner of the
Gazette
.”

“Just one leader, I’m guessing, unless Deret’s father is as much of a bedroom warrior as Maldynado.”

Sespian didn’t smile at this attempted joke. “Nobody will follow me once they learn the truth, and those we’ve gathered in the meantime will feel betrayed.”

“I assume this means you didn’t find anything useful in Sicarius’s files?”

Sespian studied his fingernails. “Books read the records more closely, and I’m sure he could give you further details, but Hollowcrest and my fath—Raumesys picked a common-born male because they weren’t sure if they were going to let the parents live after the… experiment. They wouldn’t consider killing a warrior-caste man, I suppose. They happened to find an extremely gifted athlete and warrior in a marine sergeant named Paloic who came to their attention because he served with a young Captain Starcrest. He was something of an unsung hero, standing in the shadow of his superior officer, but the way he fought and led his marines was impressive enough that Starcrest sent a letter to the Admiralty, suggesting him for officer training. Instead, he got turned into brood stock.”

“Hm, not warrior-caste, but the sort of hero imperial citizens like. I don’t suppose he’s still alive somewhere?” Amaranthe imagined dragging Sicarius off on a hunt to find his parents when this was all over.
He
might not be enthused, but she’d be tickled to meet them.

“No,” Sespian said with a grimness that implied there was more to the story. “He committed suicide shortly after his summons to the capital.”

Definitely
more to the story.

“Go on,” Amaranthe said.

“It seems Hollowcrest had a notion of creating a mixed blood assassin, one who could pass as a Turgonian but one who could also blend in should he be sent on missions across borders.”

Yes, that was something that Sicarius
had
done, with chilling success.

“They kidnapped a Kyattese ambassador in the capital, a bright woman with numerous degrees who’d come to work on establishing better trade and tariff policies with Turgonia.”

“Oh?” Amaranthe asked, though she had an inkling of where the story was going. Maybe she didn’t want the details.

“Paloic was instructed to inseminate her. Given the results, he must have done it, but one can surmise that it was a forced mating, something that, given his subsequent suicide, didn’t sit well with him.”

Amaranthe dropped her chin into her hand. Hollowcrest had certainly had a knack for taking upright young soldiers—and enforcers—and using their indoctrinated loyalty to the empire to force them to do as he wished.

“After a suitable male child was delivered, the mother was killed,” Sespian said. “Not only is the story of how my grandfather raped my grandmother to produce my father not one I want to see in the newspapers, it’s not going to improve my claim on the throne. If anything I’m in a worse spot now, because I’m one quarter Kyattese instead of being full-blooded Turgonian.”

“That… shouldn’t be that important. All Turgonians have mixed blood if you go back far enough, but, yes… I don’t think that story would stir the hearts of the people.”

“Sicarius’s heritage should remain a secret, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well, let’s not give up. If I can discombobulate Forge enough before you make your main push, maybe they’ll be too distracted to get their article into the newspaper.” Or maybe they could lock up the senior Lord Mancrest and put Deret back in charge of the
Gazette
. The backs of Amaranthe’s eyes throbbed. Her project list was getting longer and longer.

“Maybe.” Sespian didn’t sound convinced. He stood up, putting a hand on her shoulder before leaving. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. Thank you.”

Amaranthe could only sigh as he headed for the door.

Sespian paused with his hand on the knob. “If it means anything to you, I saw some of the details of his childhood and how they raised him. I… can’t imagine ever wanting to spend time with him, but I… get why he is what he is.”

You’ve seen him fight for us, for
you
, Amaranthe wanted to say. Wasn’t that enough? She clenched her teeth to keep from speaking aloud and tried to tell herself this represented progress. At least Sespian didn’t hate him any more. But, bloody dead ancestors, she wanted so much more for them, for Sicarius.

Out in the factory, someone had covered all the windows and lit a few lanterns, so one might find one’s way to a room—or the water closet—without falling off a catwalk and into a vat along the way. She offered a silent thank you to Books or whoever had taken the initiative.

A yawn so huge it evoked tears took over her mouth. She supposed she should find a place to sleep—were any of those offices left at this point?—but she remembered Sicarius’s request for a private audience. She should see what he wanted.
He
would have found a private room or nook somewhere for himself. She wondered what he’d say if she asked to share it with him. Maybe having the indomitable Sicarius’s arms around her would let her mind rest enough for a peaceful night of sleep. Of course, if past moments of closeness were anything to go by, she’d be too distracted to think about sleeping.

Clangs sounded on the nearest set of catwalk stairs. Akstyr shambled toward her, his hair in disarray, even more disarray than earlier in the night.

“We’ve got a problem,” he announced.

“Oh?” Amaranthe asked.

“I better show you.” With nothing more helpful than that, he climbed back up the stairs.

Amaranthe followed him, not simply up to a catwalk but up a ladder as well. It led to a trapdoor that opened onto the roof. She climbed out after him and pulled her jacket tighter. Cold wind gusted in from the lake, which was just visible from the three-story perch. She wondered if their guess was correct, and the
Behemoth
lay on the bottom. Given how many inimical things her team had found lurking underwater, she was beginning to think the capital should have been settled in the mountains, with nothing except a small stream nearby.

Clouds hid the stars and moon, and Amaranthe almost missed the dark figure stepping away from the chimney. She tensed, hand dropping to her waist, but she hadn’t been carrying her weapons around the factory.

“Oh, good,” came Yara’s voice. “I was thinking about getting someone. I thought I heard… I’m not sure what it is. Something heavy pacing about down there.”

“You’re standing guard?” Amaranthe peered about. “Alone?”

“I drew the black tile, and, yes, alone because someone with a tendency to whine got cold when I pointed out that snuggling to share body warmth would be distracting and inappropriate during guard duty.”

“Nobody wants to hear about that stuff,” Akstyr said. “Over here, Am’ranthe. We might be able to see—”

A cringe-inspiring canine howl drifted out of the night, the eerie tone raising gooseflesh on Amaranthe’s arms. It made her want to run inside and hide behind Sicarius.

Trying for a modicum of bravado, she finished Akstyr’s sentence with, “—something we don’t particularly want to see?”

“
What
was that?” Yara demanded.

Instead of saying what she wished, such as, “Why don’t we go inside, lock the doors, and
not
find out?” Amaranthe walked toward the edge of the roof on the lake side of the building. She thought the noise had come from that direction, but the way the wail had coursed through the streets all around them made it hard to tell. Wondering if she should have gone back inside for weapons, she peered over the side. Somehow she doubted weapons would help. If Akstyr had been the one to come and get her, it had to be something—

Another yowl erupted from the shadows. Even expecting it this time, Amaranthe flinched. At least she drew a better bead on its location—perhaps a half a block away and in one of the alleys between the other buildings, but she still couldn’t tell what had made the cry. No wild animal, she feared. Snow dusted the ground and, in the light of a streetlamp down the block, she spotted prints, large prints made by something heavy.

Akstyr shuffled up beside her. “I think it’s another soul construct.”

Amaranthe groaned, remembering the night she and Sicarius had spent hiding in a storage cubby in the icehouse. Even he’d feared to face that beast. In the end, they’d defeated it by tricking it into hurling itself into a pit and burying it beneath bricks and cement, topped off with a steam lorry.

“I don’t suppose there are any handy pits in the factory,” Amaranthe murmured.

“What do you mean?” Yara had joined them also.

“Nothing. Let’s hope it’s not looking for us.” Amaranthe thought of the assassin Sicarius had mentioned. “Maybe it’s here hunting Ravido.” She supposed it was uncharitable to be cheered by that thought.

“Why would it be
here
then?” Akstyr waved toward the snow-dusted waterfront, which was, at this time of night, devoid of people. Except for her team.

“Let’s just… make sure our guard stays near the door,” Amaranthe said, “and keep everyone else inside until dawn.”

“What about Sicarius and Basilard?” Yara asked.

Uneasiness settled into the pit of Amaranthe’s stomach. “What about them?”

“They left a little while ago.”

Amaranthe slumped. “I didn’t mean for them to go scouting tonight. I told Sicarius to get some rest.”

“I don’t think Sicarius sleeps,” Akstyr said. “He’s not very human.”

Amaranthe barely heard him. She was staring toward the black lake, a fingernail lifted to her teeth. Now she
knew
she wouldn’t sleep that night.

Chapter 6

A
n otherworldly soul-piercing howl drifted across the lake. Sicarius prodded Basilard’s arm, then jogged into the trees lining the frost-slick jogging path. He stopped beneath a stout cedar with branches that didn’t start until they were twenty feet up and put his back to the trunk. By unnoticed reflex, his dagger found its way into his hand. As he listened for further howls, he scanned the dark path in front of them, the patchy snow on the hills, and the mud-turned-to-ice training fields of Fort Urgot. A few early-rising soldiers on those fields stopped and turned toward the lake.

Basilard joined Sicarius in the shadow of the tree, a dagger in his hand as well. It was too dark to read hand signs, if he was making them, but the outline of the weapon stood out against the white ground beneath it.

“A soul construct.” Sicarius couldn’t be positive yet, but no natural animal had issued that keen. “If we cross its path, our weapons will be useless against it.” His black dagger
might
hurt it, but he wouldn’t bet on it.

Basilard pointed up the tree.
That
gesture Sicarius had no trouble seeing and interpreting in the darkness.

The howl came again, eerie and undulating as it wafted across the hills. It was vaguely wolf-like, but deeper, with a more resonating timbre, as if issued from a great barrel chest.

“Tree climbing may be premature,” Sicarius said. “I’d guess its origins at two miles away. Do you concur?” He rarely asked anyone for second opinions, but Basilard was a skilled woodsman with hunting skills as great as his own, perhaps greater when it came to tracking prey outside of an urban environment.

Basilard nodded, but also pointed at the Stumps waterfront, its lights visible across the lake. Yes, the source of the howls was prowling about in the direction they were traveling.

“If it is a soul construct, it may return to whence it came at dawn,” Sicarius said, though he and Basilard would cover those last two miles well before the winter sun crept over the horizon. They’d completed their scouting mission at Fort Urgot, so there was little reason to dawdle. “Come.”

Basilard gripped his arm and held up a palm. He stepped out of the shadows and exaggerated his hand signs so Sicarius could read them.

If we have no way to fight it, we should make sure we won’t cross its path. We could go back into the fields and circle into the city from the north. It would add a few miles, but—
Basilard shrugged,
—we travel greater distances in training each day.

Sicarius considered this piece of wisdom. Basilard was correct. A year ago, he would have nodded in agreement; no, he would have come to the same conclusion without being prompted. What had changed?

“Amaranthe and Sespian will want information about this new Nurian player.” For the first time, Sicarius noticed that he wasn’t calling her by last name any more when speaking to the others. He supposed there was little point in continuing to pretend he was keeping her at arm’s distance. “Whoever sent the wizard hunter may control the soul construct as well.”