Forged in Blood II (21 page)

“Tents?” she asked. “Someone’s moved his whole camp into the Preserve.”

Maldynado pointed. “Yellow armbands. Flintcrest.”

“He’s moved a
lot
closer,” Amaranthe said. “He must have marched yesterday or all night to get around the lake and over to this side of the city. Someone would have noticed that, but maybe he’s planning to make his move soon. While Heroncrest’s men are squabbling at the foot of the Barracks.”

“Is that a Nurian outfit?” Mahliki murmured and adjusted the image, pushing them closer to a silver-haired man in a vibrant yellow and red robe.

“Stop,” Amaranthe blurted. “That gray-haired fellow walking up to him. Is that…?”

Maldynado, more familiar with all the warrior-caste families, nodded. “Yup, that’s the satrap governor, Lord General Flintcrest.”

The man was pointing at something beneath the trees and seemed to be arguing with the Nurian.

“I wish there was a way to hear them.” Amaranthe supposed she should already be tickled with the degree of spy information the
Behemoth
was giving her. For the first time, she found herself understanding the temptation to study the ship rather than destroy it, or at least keep a few of the useful-in-a-non-deadly-way tools.

“I see it,” Maldynado said. “Ewww.”

Beneath the evergreens, poles had been thrust vertically into the frozen earth, and… Amaranthe’s stomach did a queasy flip. Severed heads were mounted atop them. The branches hid the faces of many of them—there had to be at least twenty—but her breath caught when their perspective drew closer, and she could pick out the features of one of the unseeing visages.
Familiar
features.

“Dear ancestors, that’s Ms. Worgavic.” She swallowed. “It
was
Ms. Worgavic.”

“The one who ordered you tortured?” Maldynado asked. “The one who was stroking the senior Lord Mancrest’s snake to get control over the
Gazette
? The one who happens to be a Forge founder?”

“Yes.” Amaranthe stared at the grisly trophy. Whoever had retrieved the head had brought Worgavic’s spectacles and mounted them appropriately on her nose.

“How is Flintcrest finding Forge people?” Maldynado asked.

Good question. It’d taken Amaranthe and Books the better part of the year to collect names, and even then, it hadn’t been until she’d been forced into that mind link with Retta that she’d learned who the founders were. “That might be why he brought in the Nurians.”

“Are those
all
Forge people?” Maldynado pointed at the decapitated heads.

“I can’t see all of the faces,” Amaranthe said. “I wouldn’t necessarily recognize them all anyway. One wonders what kind of message Flintcrest is trying to send and to whom with the poles. If they were in a public square somewhere, it’d make sense, however gruesome that sense, but is he trying to alarm his own troops with how dangerous and bloodthirsty he is?”

“Would Turgonian troops be alarmed by severed heads mounted on spears?” Mahliki asked mildly, though her face seemed paler than usual. She’d lowered her hands and was wiping them on her trousers, as if she might clean them from their association with the image. “It was my understanding that your people weren’t squeamish about such things.” She glanced at her mother, but Tikaya was frowning at some incomprehensible display of symbols.

“Oh, we’re not squeamish,” Maldynado said, “but like the boss said, the heads on a stick usually go in plain view of the
other
bloke’s camp, not your own.”

“Maybe that’s what Flintcrest was pointing out so vehemently,” Amaranthe said. “That his Nurian ally got it backwards. Mahliki can you pull away so we can see them again? Professor Komitopis, is there any chance you recognize the gray-haired man? I’m wondering if he’s someone important or powerful in Nuria. Is he a wizard?”

Frowning at the symbols, Tikaya didn’t respond. She may not have heard.

“Sometimes you have to poke her to get her attention when she’s deep into her research,” Mahliki said. “That’s what Father does.”

“He
pokes
her, eh?” Maldynado smirked. “It’s good to know the old admiral hasn’t grown too senescent for that sort of thing.”

Amaranthe swatted him. Not only was Mahliki too young to be exposed to his lewd commentary, but no one wanted to hear implications that one’s parents engaged in sexual exploits regardless.

Mahliki surprised her by saying, “Indeed not. Where the poking happens and with what depends on whether we kids are around, of course.” She walked over to Tikaya and tapped her shoulder.

While their backs were to him, Maldynado grinned and signed,
I like her.

Amaranthe managed not to roll her eyes. Barely.
Allow me to remind you that I’ve become friends with Yara. If you intend to thrust your rapier into someone else’s sheath—

Maldynado waved a quick,
No, no. Even if I weren’t slightly intimidated by the fact that Starcrest,
the
Starcrest is her da, I wouldn’t wish to abandon Yara. Or jeopardize the progress I’ve made with her. I’m
this
close
—he held his thumb and first finger up, a hair’s breadth apart—
to getting her to let me use her first name.

Amaranthe snorted, but smiled. Good.
Only
slightly
intimidated, eh?

Gray hairs or not, Starcrest had an inch of height on Maldynado and still looked like a formidable warrior. And then there was all that reputation he could swing about.

Yes
, Maldynado signed.
I should think he’d have to glower at me for at least three seconds before I wetted myself.

Distracted by the conversation, Amaranthe hadn’t noticed when Tikaya and Mahliki turned in their direction. They exchanged glances, and Mahliki whispered, “Interesting how many of those gestures of theirs are straightforward enough to guess.”

“I didn’t catch much of the exchange,” Tikaya murmured back, “but I do hope we won’t be witnessing more of what was in that cabinet over there.”

Amaranthe cleared her throat, wishing the two had chosen to speak in their native tongue. Although she might have guessed the meaning of the words anyway. “I was wondering, Professor, if you recognized that Nurian with Lord General Flintcrest there.”

“Tikaya,” came the correction, then she added, “Which one?”

“Er.” The image, Amaranthe reminded herself, was live, so people came and went. The silver-haired fellow and the scowling general were still talking, this time with fewer gestures, but two more people in Nurian garb had joined them. These two were younger, in their thirties perhaps. “The older fellow. I’m guessing he’s in charge.”

“I’m guessing not.” Tikaya drew closer to the image and adjusted her spectacles. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the boy, but that flute he’s wearing, it means he’s a diplomat, probably in charge of the Nurian side of the mission. He also happens to be Prince Zirabo, son of the Great Chief.”

“
The
Great Chief?” Amaranthe found the Nurian way of organizing political and tribal power confusing, at least insofar as remembering which chiefs were which—they had, she recalled, everything from sub-chiefs to lieutenant-chiefs to big chiefs, and then there were hunt- and war-related ones, such as wolf, fox, and bear chiefs—but the Great Chief, that was their equivalent to an emperor.

“The ruler of Nuria, yes,” Tikaya said.

“Are any of the lords trying to get the throne
not
someone’s puppet?” Maldynado asked. “I’m not surprised my brother would let someone control him—he’s not clever enough to think up a usurpation plot on his own—but Flintcrest too? As a satrap governor, I’d expect him to have a brain of sorts. Those are appointed positions, after all, not inherited.”

Sort of, Amaranthe thought. One still had to be warrior caste to be appointed.

“It’s possible the Nurians are allying with Flintcrest, not trying to control him,” Tikaya said.

“Who’s that?” Mahliki asked, drawing Amaranthe’s attention back to the hovering image.

Her jaw dropped to her chest. In a clearing near Flintcrest and the Nurians, a blond-haired, black-clad man fought with four shirtless soldiers, each covered with fresh lumps and bruises, and two with blood streaming from their noses as well. Not fought, her stunned mind realized after watching for a few seconds,
sparred
. He was training with the men, taking on four at once for the challenge he required.

Maldynado made a choking sound. “The person who brought those heads in, I’ll bet. But
why
? What’s he doing with
them
?”

Sicarius spun, sweeping the legs out from beneath an encroaching opponent, and in that moment, that rotation of his head, Amaranthe knew. “Oh.” She goggled at the glowing stone stuck to—no,
embedded in
—the flesh of his temple. “Oh, no.”

I
n the dark tent, Sicarius listened to the soft exhalations of his Nurian roommates for a long time before rising from his spot at the foot of Kor Nas’s cot. Everyone had drifted off, he was certain of it. And tonight, for the first time since Sicarius had been in the camp, Prince Zirabo slept in one of the cots. There’d been one set up during the prior nights, but it had remained empty. Maybe he had a Turgonian lover somewhere. It didn’t matter. This was Sicarius’s chance—possibly his only chance.

He crossed to the Nurian’s cot and considered his options before acting. If he woke Kor Nas, his chance would be gone. He wouldn’t be able to explain what he was doing without thinking of Starcrest and the letter in his pocket, one he’d written the night before, before the practitioner woke for the morning. It’d been hard enough keep his thoughts away from the topic during the day. Kor Nas had sent him off to collect a few more heads, and that’d served as a distraction. After that, he’d asked for a practice session, ostensibly to keep his skills sharp, but in truth, he’d needed to keep thoughts of his plan away from the surface of his mind, from where Kor Nas kept plucking thoughts, even when Sicarius tried to disguise them.

With few other options, he gently shook the prince’s shoulder. In the darkness, Sicarius couldn’t see Zirabo’s eyes open, but he sensed it in the sudden rigidness of the body, followed by the reaching for a dagger at his waist.

Sicarius had hoped curiosity might stay the prince’s hand, and that he might be led outside for a quick meeting, but it seemed not. Sicarius dropped a hand across his mouth and caught the wrist before the fingers found the weapon. Before the prince could recover, Sicarius hoisted him from the cot and propelled him through the tent flap, barely stirring it despite his captive’s attempts to struggle. The prince tried to yell, and some noise escaped through Sicarius’s muffling fingers, but by then, they were outside, and there were other sounds to mask their quick walk away from the Nurian tent.

This close to the city, with the potential for an attack high, a full night shift remained awake with numerous soldiers patrolling the camp, the inside as well as the perimeter. Sicarius hunted about for a quiet place to take his prisoner, one where they could talk openly, but that wasn’t far from the Nurian tent. From experimentation, he knew he had the freedom to walk off far enough to piss without the stone implant chiming an alarm in Kor Nas’s head, but not much farther.

A lorry rested in the shadows behind the chow hall. Lanterns burned inside the tent, and a few voices and the thunks of tiles being played drifted from within, but the back of the lorry lay dark and empty. Sicarius forced his prisoner in that direction. When they reached the cargo bed, and had to climb up to enter it, the Nurian tried to tear free. He was smaller and lighter than Sicarius, without a lot of muscle on his frame, truly a diplomat and not a warrior, and it didn’t take much to squash the outburst. In a few more seconds, Sicarius had him inside, pressed against a tall pile of bags of rice. There were benches along the walls, and two men might sit, facing each other to converse, but he had to convince the Nurian to talk to him first.

“I wish to speak with you, that is all,” Sicarius whispered. “It’s about Admiral Starcrest.”

The prince didn’t relax, but he did stop struggling.

“You did not seem to want him dead.” Sicarius loosened his grip on the man’s mouth, ready to clamp down again if anything except a quiet response came out.

He didn’t get a response at all. Not surprising. The Nurian would not see him as anything other than an enemy, one that couldn’t be trusted. That Kor Nas had… domesticated him would not change anything. Judging by the exchanges Sicarius had witnessed, the prince didn’t consider the practitioner a close ally anyway. He’d have to keep talking, convince the man they had a common interest. Too bad none of Amaranthe’s charisma had fallen into his boots the time she’d tried them on.

“I do not wish him dead either,” Sicarius murmured.

The prince snorted. “Of course not. He’s one of your people.”

“I’ve killed many of my people in the last two days.”

“Because Kor Nas forced you to through his artifact.”

“I’ve killed many Turgonians in the last few years too,” Sicarius said. “There are few who have ever mattered to me one way or another. Most of those who do—who
did
—are gone now.”

The prince, still pressed into the rice bags, heavy iron pots hanging on racks all about his head, said nothing. Sicarius searched for something else that might draw him into a conversation. He didn’t know how much time he had. As soon as Kor Nas woke up and found him gone…

“Except Starcrest?” the prince asked.

“Yes. I’ve only met him twice, but he was a brilliant commander in the eyes of our people. In my eyes as well,” Sicarius said, suspecting he’d have to be more open with this man than he was wont to be with others if he wanted to earn his trust in such a short time. “I read all of his books as a boy and those written about him.”

“Strange then that you chose to become an assassin.” Coldness had crept into the prince’s voice. “Enemy Chief Fox was honorable. You are Sicarius, are you not? You were Emperor Raumesys’s personal assassin. You came to Nuria over twenty years ago and killed my uncle. He was my father’s older brother, and he would have been Great Chief. Your emperor did not think my father, who was studying medicine at the time, would be accepted as a leader; he thought there’d be war.”