Forged in Blood I (32 page)

The three women were exchanging glances with each other. Amaranthe might have to prove herself before they invited her down to their secret lair. Well, she was ready. This was why she’d been studying.

“Yes,” the first woman who’d spoken said. “Those who fancy themselves prognosticators suggest this snow will keep falling all week and bring in colder weather. Were the winters chilly down there in… where were you last? I’ve forgotten.”

Amaranthe doubted it. This was Test Number One. “Ibyria,” she said, “on the Gulf Coast. They don’t see snow down there. The orange and lemon trees wouldn’t care for it. Before that, I was securing trade deals in many of the desert city-states. Camel, Tiger, Red Cactus—” she paused when Books, standing at her back, nudged her, “—but you probably don’t want all the names.” He was right—if she spewed too much background information, they’d wonder what she was trying to prove. “The cacti also do not tolerate freezing temperatures, I understand. The Torrel ones that the shamans use for making their healing syrups are particularly valuable, so you’ll see them running about, tossing blankets over the thorny things if a frost is incipient.” Amaranthe waited for Books to nudge her again, but he didn’t. Of course, if his own tactics were something to go by, he approved of pedantic asides.

“I see.” The speaker was in her late thirties or early forties with a few lines creasing her brow. The other two were in their twenties—too young to be Forge founders probably. But then, Suan was one, and she was only thirty.

When nobody else spoke, Amaranthe gestured to Books and Akstyr. “You’re probably wondering who my comrades are and whether you can speak freely in front of them.” And in front of me, she added to herself. “This is Erav, my scribe.” She lifted a hand toward Books. “And this is Rist, my… adviser in things of an otherworldly nature.”

All three women’s eyebrows flew upward. It was true they were Turgonian, and Amaranthe wouldn’t normally speak of the Science to imperial subjects, but these people were flying around in an ultra advanced alien aircraft. Surely the notion of magic couldn’t alarm them at this point.

“He’s young for that, isn’t he?” One of the younger women eyed Akstyr from head to toe.

Maldynado would have assumed a pose that accented his features, insomuch as a heavy cotton robe could accent anything; Akstyr crossed his arms and issued his surliest I-am-
not
-young sneer. The haircut may have improved his looks, but with his attitude, his dream of antsy women tearing off his clothing wasn’t likely to happen.

“He is the apprentice of a shaman I worked with,” Amaranthe said, “and is accomplished in many areas. Also… I couldn’t be as choosy as I might have otherwise wished. Convincing shamans to take a trip into the empire isn’t easily done, but Rist was born here and only fled south to learn his art.”

Akstyr’s surly expression grew wistful. Yes, he’d like to be somewhere south—or south and west if one were thinking of Kyatt—studying his art now.

“I thought his skills, being unique here in the empire, could prove useful for us as we go forward,” Amaranthe said. “Though perhaps I underestimated your need for assistance. I understand Ravido Marblecrest has already taken the Imperial Barracks, is that right?”

The women shared glances again.

“We’re waiting for a couple of others to join us before we speak of business matters,” the middle-aged woman said.

Uh oh. Amaranthe did her best not to lift a fingernail for nibbling or otherwise exude nervousness. “Who else would be joining us? I long to see familiar faces.”

“Then you’ll enjoy seeing those who are coming.”

Another “uh oh” pranced through Amaranthe’s mind. If someone familiar was coming, someone who knew Suan and what she looked like…

Books bumped Amaranthe’s elbow, directing her to a newcomer entering the parlor. Her heart leaped to attention, but it didn’t know whether to dance or flee.

Retta strode toward the table, pinning Amaranthe with a one-eyed stare. Yes,
one
eyed. The other lay behind a brown velvet patch. Correction, it probably
didn’t
lay behind that patch, Amaranthe thought, shock filling her. Pike. When had he had time to do it? When she’d escaped, he’d collected his men and charged out of the
Behemoth
on her heels. Maybe he’d left instructions for the punishment to be carried out. Or maybe the Forge women had done it themselves. She couldn’t imagine Ms. Worgavic wielding a blade or hot iron, but her old teacher had demanded
she
be tortured, so who knew?

Retta wore Kyattese single-strap bamboo sandals and a brown velvet dress to match the eyepatch—clothing that suggested she’d come from a warm, controlled climate, not the snowy outdoors—and looked as put together as one might expect from a young Forge acolyte, but pain lines edged her face, lines that hadn’t been there a few weeks before, and her jaw was tight. Angry.

“Retta!” Amaranthe exclaimed, stepping toward her with arms outstretched, half because it seemed like something sisters should do and half because she had to keep Retta from blurting out that this intruder was
not
her sister. “What happened to you? Your eye… is it…?”

“How did you heal so quickly?” Retta demanded.

Er. Amaranthe clasped both of her arms and pulled her close for a hug, all the while wondering if Retta would leap away or punch her. “I’m your sister,” she whispered in Retta’s ear. “Go with it, please. I’ll get you out of here this time.”

Retta backed away from the hug. On the outside, Amaranthe remained calm, but inside… she was cursing and cringing. This wouldn’t work. Retta wouldn’t go along with it. It was already obvious Amaranthe wasn’t Suan. Indeed, the three women were watching the exchange intently, trying to figure out what was going on. Retta was… staring at the medallion dangling on Amaranthe’s chest.

She cleared her throat. “I mean, you look so well. Your last letter said you’d come down with that desert flu and would be delayed in your return.”

Letter? Such as one sister might send to another? “Yes, I thought I’d be delayed, but it turns out that Rist here knows a few things about herbs.”

Akstyr’s eyes widened at this claim; Amaranthe hoped her statement didn’t make trouble for him later. If some Forge lady approached him, hoping he could make an apothecary’s tincture for wrinkle removal… She didn’t think Akstyr could even pick out the common herbs Basilard used in his culinary preparations.

Retta’s lips pursed as she studied Amaranthe. Her expression wasn’t welcoming. No, she looked irked that Amaranthe had survived Pike’s ministrations less scarred than she had. Understandable. Hearing about Amaranthe’s bad dreams probably wouldn’t mollify a woman with a missing eye.

“I also have a comrade who knows all the best foods to eat to hasten healing,” Amaranthe added. She wondered if Retta would be more sympathetic, or at least less irritated, if she knew how many meals of fish eyes and organ surprises Sicarius had foisted upon her. “But what happened to you, sister?” she deliberately used the word instead of a name, hoping Retta would vouch for her. “Your eye. Is it injured or…?”

“Cut out,” Retta said icily. “A psychopathic madman decided to punish me for dropping a branch across his path.” And causing him to trip, the rest of the saying went. She’d done more than that. Retta must know Pike was dead. Did she care? It wasn’t as if his death could bring back her eye.

“Do Mother and Father know?” Amaranthe demanded. The indignation in her tone wasn’t feigned—it frustrated her to know that helping her had caused Retta to be punished. At the time, she would have done just about anything to free herself, but she wished there’d been a way to keep anyone from knowing Retta had a hand in that escape. “Surely they can hire someone to exact revenge.”

The three women were sipping from their cups, watching with interest, though it seemed academic. As if they didn’t truly care one way or another about the outcome. Given the size of the organization, Suan’s return was probably of little consequence.

Amaranthe widened her eyes slightly, trying to get Retta to proclaim their kinship. Her team had to get onto the
Behemoth
, and she doubted they’d be offered a ride down without credentials.

“From what I’ve heard, the perpetrator has been killed,” Retta said. There was no gratitude, no “Thank you for hurling your assassin at that bastard” in her expression.

“A deserving end,” Amaranthe said. “What coward would cut out a woman’s eye?” And then she stopped talking. Nobody was listening to her. They were all staring at Retta, waiting for the word. She’d halfway helped Amaranthe, mentioning some letter, but everyone was waiting for something more solid. But Retta seemed reluctant to give it. And why shouldn’t she be? What might it cost her to help Amaranthe again? To be
caught
helping?

“A cast-out from the warrior-caste.” Retta sighed. “Come, Suan. I’ll tell you about it on the way down.”

“Down?” Amaranthe asked, guessing that no one had explained the
Behemoth
in written communications with Suan.

“You’ll need to wait,” the middle-aged woman told Retta. “Neeth needs to go back down too. She’s on her way.”

Amaranthe swallowed. She recognized that first name. Neeth. Neeth Worgavic.

Chapter 12

S
icarius crouched on the field, a pack full of gear and a harpoon launcher strapped to his back, as he waited for Sespian to catch up with him. An owl hooted from the trees near the lake, but the dense coin-sized snowflakes dropping from the black night sky made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Somewhere behind him, the walls of the fort rose. Ahead, thousands of soldiers waited, some snoring in their tents, but many on the night shift, awake and prepared to fight off intruders. Heroncrest would know Ridgecrest would want an intelligence report.

Several inches of fresh powder blanketed the field, meaning footprints would be problematic. If Sicarius and Sespian walked straight into the camp, the roving perimeter guards would see the evidence of the incursion.

Soft crunches and squeaks of boots on snow arose behind and to the right, preceding the appearance of a dark figure in army fatigues. Sespian. Not certain his son saw him, Sicarius took a few steps in that direction. Sespian twitched in surprise, then sank into a low crouch.

“I knew you were there,” he whispered. “It just startles me seeing you in army fatigues. Given how many soldiers you’ve… It’s disturbing.”

Sicarius did not respond, though an image of Amaranthe flashed into his mind. She always seemed to like the idea of him in a uniform, lamenting that the role of assassin had been chosen for him and that he’d never had a choice in the matter. Sespian knew his past now, some of it anyway—Hollowcrest hadn’t recorded everything—but he seemed less inclined to make allowances for it. Not that Sicarius wanted any allowances. He was too old to blame his youth for the man he’d become.

Sespian plucked at his own borrowed uniform. “I suppose it doesn’t really fit me either.”

Thanks to the snow, the night was bright enough that the dark army fatigues stood out on the white field. Sicarius had debated over the appropriate attire for the infiltration, almost choosing whites and grays, but once they slipped into the camp they’d be less noticeable if they blended in with everyone else. Like Heroncrest’s soldiers, they’d tied blue bands around their arms.

“This way.” Sicarius rose slightly, staying low as he picked a path through the curtain of falling flakes.

“I can’t see anything,” Sespian whispered as wind stirred, slanting the snow sideways, the icy kisses cold against their cheeks. “How do you know we’re going in the right direction?”

Sicarius would have preferred to use Basilard’s hand signs to speak, but, though the white blanket made the night brighter than usual, there wasn’t enough light to pick out gestures. They weren’t close to the enemy perimeter, so he responded—the snow would muffle their voices to some extent.

“My sense of direction is well-honed,” Sicarius murmured.

“If I said something cocky like that, I’d end up leading us into the lake.”

Sicarius did not think the statement cocky, merely an utterance of fact. “We approach the water tower,” he said, hoping Sespian would remain silent without needing to be told. As they’d already discussed, there might be soldiers guarding the tower. Normally Fort Urgot men would be out there, but they’d retreated inside at the approach of the invasion force. There was a well within the walls, so the tower was a matter of convenience rather than necessity—water that could be diverted for indoor plumbing, rather than the fort’s only source. It may, however, have been claimed by Heroncrest’s men, so they needed to approach with care.

Sespian did indeed fall silent, though when the first crumbled stone ruin came into site, a remain of the original brick water tower, he grunted a soft, “Huh,” at this proof of Sicarius’s honed sense of direction.

Sicarius held up a hand, silently instructing him to wait in the shadow of the half wall, then skirted the ruins, seeking signs of soldiers. Or other entities. Memories of climbing the tower with Amaranthe to escape the first soul construct came to mind. He hadn’t heard any howls yet that evening and hoped the new creature had simply been passing through the night before. It was possible it had nothing to do with Heroncrest’s army.

With the snowfall making visibility so poor, Sicarius lifted his nose at times, testing the wind like a hound. It’d be easy for a couple of soldiers to be stationed in a niche in the ruins, hidden by the shadows. He sensed nothing, though, except for the rumble of ambulatory vehicles patrolling the enemy’s perimeter and the occasional plops of snow growing too heavy for its perch and falling to the ground in clumps. The water tower had been abandoned, neither side willing to risk the lives of a team to guard it.

“We’re the only ones on the hill,” Sicarius whispered to Sespian when he returned, his words causing another twitch of surprise since he’d approached from behind. He recalled Sespian’s interest in learning from him in regard to stealth. Presumably that included defending against being caught unaware. “Keep your back to a wall when you’re waiting, so you can’t be approached from behind. Also, when visibility is low, it’s imperative to focus more on one’s other senses. Hearing is obvious, but you might also smell another’s approach.”