Forged in Blood I (24 page)

She slowed as they neared the double-door entry to the library. One of those doors stood ajar, faint light seeping out from within. She stopped on the threshold and risked peering inside. If the janitor were down on his hands and knees scrubbing floors, maybe they could sneak in behind him without being noticed.

Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t visible from the doorway. The light from a single lantern brightened the end of an aisle several meters into the library. If the furnishings hadn’t been rearranged in the last ten years, tables and desks lay down that wide book-filled corridor. Maybe the janitor was dusting. Amaranthe wanted to look in an alcove on the other side of the room, one that held copies of periodicals and newspapers featuring articles from former students, as well as a handful of economics books written by faculty.

She’d taken no more than a step when a chair creaked, followed by a sigh. Keys jangled on the person’s belt. He might be rising to his feet, or simply shifting his weight.

Amaranthe ducked back into the hallway. She waited, but nobody walked out of that aisle.

Before she stepped into the library again, Yara tapped her on the back and signed,
Smart do this? You don’t know if anything good inside, right?

Yara hadn’t yet learned all of Basilard’s hand signs, but she knew enough to be understood. Amaranthe shrugged and stepped back into the library again. This time, she padded to her destination as quickly as she could. Yara waited in the hallway.

The illumination from the janitor’s lantern didn’t reach the alcove. With no other choice, Amaranthe risked unveiling a sliver of her own light. The periodicals and newspapers were organized by date rather than author contribution, so she checked the books first. She doubted Suan had taken the time to write a three-hundred-page epic on economics before heading off on her adventures, but one never knew. And the books were alphabetized.

Curlev
, read a name on the spine of a narrow tome.

Surprised but pleased, Amaranthe slid it out. It wasn’t something published via the academic presses, but a hand-written treatise in a leather-bound journal. The title, inked on the front, read,
The Distribution of Wealth in Modern Day Turgonia
.

It must be nice to be so brilliant that one’s final-year report was set aside in a special spot in the library. Amaranthe could understand why Retta had been jealous of her older sister.

She tucked the journal under her arm and shuttered her lantern again. About to step out of the alcove, she halted when the light flickered ahead. The wooden floorboards creaked. This time the janitor was definitely moving.

Hidden by the shadows, she remained stationary, though she glanced at the door. Out in the hallway, there weren’t many places for Yara to hide, unless she ran all the way back to the stairwell.

The janitor walked into view and… wasn’t a janitor at all. Dressed in black army fatigues with lieutenant’s tabs on his collars, the man headed for the door. The jangling she’d heard hadn’t been keys at all, but ammo pouches and other military appurtenances hanging from his belt, including a dagger and a pistol. He didn’t wear a colored armband to link him to any of the current factions.

So what was he doing here? And where was the janitor?

The lieutenant strode into the hallway, and Amaranthe held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t spot Yara. His footsteps faded into distance down the hall without any pauses to investigate something breaking their even rhythm.

Amaranthe started for the door, but curiosity steered her feet toward the aisle the lieutenant had vacated. He’d taken his lantern with him, so she risked opening hers a sliver again. All save one of the tables were empty. The closest one held a single book, left open to an index. Careful not to lose the page, she lifted it to check the title.

The title blurred into insignificance before she read it. It was the
author
that commanded her attention. Worgavic. Neeth Worgavic.

So. Someone had figured out the name of at least one of the Forge founders and had come to do research. At that point, Amaranthe didn’t know whether this was good or bad for her. If it meant someone else was angling to take out Forge, that might be good. If it meant another of the factions wanted to ally with Forge for a chance at some of those weapons, that might be less good.

“Hsst,” came a soft voice from the end of the aisle.

Amaranthe replaced the book on the table.

“He’s gone to the WC,” Yara said. “He’ll be back in a second.”

“Right, let’s get out of here then.”

They didn’t make it out of the library before the lieutenant returned, but hid in the alcove until he’d gone back to his reading. A part of Amaranthe wanted to question him, but a bigger part wanted to make sure nobody saw her at the school, not until she’d completed her infiltration of Forge and no longer needed to be able to pass as Suan Curlev.

She and Yara eased out of the building unnoticed. They jogged into the city, taking a circuitous route back to the factory to make sure they weren’t followed.

• • •

Sicarius led Sespian, Maldynado, and Basilard across the dark field toward the towering walls of Fort Urgot. After their training session, Sespian had asked Basilard to join them. Sicarius did not know if they’d struck up some affinity with each other, or if Sespian had merely wanted more people around to lessen the chances of ending up isolated with a father he felt awkward around. Logically, Sicarius could not expect any other reaction, given their history and his life’s work, but the thoughts roused disappointment nonetheless.

The sun had set a couple of hours earlier, but there were no culverts or hollows to hug on the flat, cleared parade fields that extended for a half mile in each direction from the fort. The cloudy sky promised snow, but none had fallen yet, a fortunate circumstance. Sneaking up to the walls on bright white ground would have been close to impossible. They’d have a challenge even without snow. Though he and the others wore black, with their knapsacks and climbing ropes also made from dark material, alert guards in the towers perched along the walls might pick out movement on the stark field. Mortars and rapid-fire cannons were mounted along the parapet in between the towers, and soldiers strode back and forth up there, more men than usual for the fort, which, this deep into imperial territory, had rarely seen action in the last couple of centuries.

Lanterns burned in some of the towers, and Sicarius picked an illuminated one for their approach. The night vision of whoever stood watch inside should be dulled by the nearby flames. Staying low, he and his team closed on the base of the wall.

In the darkness, hand signs were useless, but he’d already told the others he’d go up first, take care of the nearest guards, then signal for them to follow. He wasn’t expecting anyone to attempt communication, with soldiers roaming about a mere twenty feet above their heads, but, after he’d unslung his rope and grappling hook, someone gripped his arm. Sespian.

He leaned close to whisper in Sicarius’s ear, “You
can’t
kill anyone, if we’re to have any chance with Ridgecrest.”

An obvious statement—these were the very men Sespian hoped to make his own, after all. Sicarius didn’t allow himself to feel irked at this unnecessary reminder. He simply returned the grip, not wishing to speak with men so close above, then drew away to give himself room to toss the grappling hook.

He tilted an ear toward the parapet, listening for footsteps and the clanks of weapon-laden utility belts. Fortunately, his own men remained still and silent, and did not issue any competing noises. Muted voices drifted on the wind, coming from the guard tower to the north, the lighted one. Not a sound came from the one to the south, a dark one. Once he topped the wall, he’d check that one first. With two men stationed in each tower, it was unlikely anyone was asleep on duty. No, those two were probably the more attentive. Though he understood why killing wasn’t an option here, the practical part of his mind lamented it, for it was much faster than subduing. He’d have to move quickly to gag and tie the men before others spotted him. Amaranthe, he knew, would have had Maldynado and Basilard go up at the same time he did, trusting their stealthiness and capabilities, but Sicarius trusted his own abilities more.

The footsteps he was waiting for grew audible. Two sets. These were the roving guards for this, the north wall. When he and Basilard had scouted the fort the night before, Sicarius had counted how long it took the men to complete each pass. He’d have approximately ninety-five seconds before they walked this way again.

After the footsteps faded from hearing, he waited five more seconds, then swung the grappling hook, releasing it at the apex. For a moment, its prongs were outlined against the cloudy sky above, then it disappeared over the parapet. Thanks to padded tips, the clank as it landed on stone was muted. Not completely silent, though, and Sicarius’s ears had no trouble picking it up.

He gave one quick tug to test the line, then skimmed up the rope, reaching the top in a couple of seconds. Though his ears promised him no one waited above, he paused for a quick glance in either direction, and also toward the brick buildings and walkways inside the fort. In a grassy square lined with streetlamps and bare trees, several whitewashed wooden houses stood—the homes of the high-ranking officers stationed here. General Ridgecrest’s family should live in one of them.

As he took in these details, Sicarius released the grappling hook for the others to catch—he’d leave no telltale sign of his arrival on the wall. Then he skimmed down the walkway toward the dark tower.

The stout wooden door stood closed, but there wasn’t any glass in the windows overlooking the fields. Sicarius leaped onto the wall, fingers finding grips in the mortar between the stones, and, like a spider, he crawled around to the closest opening. As he’d guessed, two soldiers waited inside. Nobody was sleeping. They were standing with their backs to him, one pointing toward the ground outside the other window, one lifting a rifle.

Sicarius’s gut clenched. They were aiming at the spot where he’d left the others. Sespian.

He launched himself into the room, his black dagger finding its way into his hand. Instincts told him to ram the blade into the man’s back, to the left of the spine, between the ribs, to find his heart. At the last instant, he flipped the weapon in his hand and shifted targets. He slammed the hilt into the soldier’s head, then grabbed him by the back of the neck and thrust his face into the stone wall. When flesh met unyielding granite, the man crumpled. Sicarius tore the rifle out of his hands before it could clatter against anything.

The second man spun in his direction, but he moved too slowly. Sicarius slammed his elbow into his solar plexus. He gasped and bent, staggering backward. The soldier tried to yank out the pistol at his belt. His hand never reached the weapon. Sicarius swung the butt of the rifle upward, clunking him beneath the chin. The man jerked backward and toppled to the ground. Clothing rasped against the stone floor—the first man trying to grab a knife at his waist. Sicarius stepped on his windpipe to discourage further struggles and pulled out his gags and ties. While keeping an eye on the second man—he’d gone down hard and wasn’t moving—Sicarius bound the first. Aware of the heartbeats passing—and the footfalls as the roving guards approached—he tied the knots as swiftly as possible, again reminded why his instructors had simply instilled in him the instinct to kill. He could have nullified every guard on the wall in the time it was taking him to subdue two.

As he moved onto tying the second person, the footfalls stopped outside the door. The roving guards didn’t usually check inside the towers. They must have seen or heard something. A soft clank sounded, the latch releasing.

Sicarius tied the last knot and leaped for the window. The door swung open. He scurried around the outside of the building, using the bulk of the open door to hide his return to the parapet.

“What?” one of the guards blurted.

It was all he got out before Sicarius landed behind them, bringing the hilt of his dagger down onto the speaker’s head as he dropped. The blunt end struck the coronal structure hard enough to cause the soldier to stagger forward, gasping in pain and confusion, but not hard enough to kill him. Before his comrade could whirl about, Sicarius pinched his fingers together into an arrow shape and dug them into the pressure point near the man’s kidney. Trusting the pain to be intense, he snaked his free hand around the soldier’s head, flattening it against the mouth. With those hard fingers jabbed into his back, the man staggered into the tower on his tiptoes. His back arched as he tried to squirm out of the iron grip. Using his boot, Sicarius tugged the door shut behind him. He bound and gagged the standing soldier, then attended to the second.

With four men now subdued in the guard tower, he returned to the rest of his team and signaled for them to climb up. While they did so, Sicarius took down the soldiers in the lit tower using similar methods. When he returned, Sespian, Basilard, and Maldynado waited in low crouches, hugging the shadows between the towers. They’d wound up the rope and grapple and were ready to move on.

“If nobody escapes,” Sicarius whispered, “and nobody checks the towers before the shift change, we’ll have two hours before anyone notices security has been compromised.”

“What happens if they
do
escape?” Sespian asked.

Sicarius admitted that was a possibility. For all that he’d tied the knots tightly, the men would have nothing else to do but work on freeing themselves. “We’ll have less time.”

Maldynado grunted at this statement of the obvious. “We just have to get to Ridgecrest and convince him to have a chat with us. If we’re having cider in his office with him, nobody’s going to start shooting at us. He’s got a wife and a couple of teenage daughters, too, if we need them.”

“Are you suggesting we use
hostages
to arrange our escape from the fort?” Sespian asked, his tone oozing disapproval. For once, it wasn’t aimed at Sicarius.