Forged in Blood II ee-7 Read online

  “I thought we were going to visit Uncle Rias’s mother and cousins up north,” Lonaeo said.

  “That was the plan, but we may need your help in the ship.” Tikaya caught Amaranthe’s dubious gaze. “Though they didn’t choose to study archaeology or linguistics for their careers, they grew up around my work, and they’ve both proved useful in navigating other ruins before.”

  “How far is it?” Lonaeo asked.

  “About five miles,” Amaranthe said.

  “We’re walking?” Lonaeo peered toward the head of the dock. “No runabouts here?”

  “There are steam carriages,” Amaranthe said, “for those who can afford them. And trolleys, but that’s for the city. Street skis and lots of bicycles, though the ground’s a bit treacherous for that now. Actually…” She eyed the submarine. “Fort Urgot is-was-” she winced, “-a couple hundred meters from the lake. It has a dock, if that wasn’t destroyed. Maybe we could…” She gestured toward the submarine.

  “Boss,” Maldynado hissed, “haven’t we been underwater enough in this last year-” he caught Mahliki looking at him, and changed his complaint to, “-to develop a taste for that travel? Yes, indeed, I’d love to see that submarine.”

  Amaranthe rubbed her face. This was going to be a problem.

  “I suppose there’s room,” Tikaya said, though she eyed the four soldiers dubiously.

  “We’ll have to squish,” Mahliki said.

  “We’re fine with that,” Maldynado said brightly. The soldiers were quick to nod as well.

  Yara is going to pound you if you don’t quit that, Amaranthe signed tersely to Maldynado.

  He blinked. What?

  For once, his innocence didn’t seem feigned. Maybe it was some sort of reflex, and he truly didn’t realize he was flirting.

  “All right then,” Mahliki said. She’d noticed the hand signs and crinkled a brow at her mother, but Tikaya waved it away as nothing. Good. “Everyone in, I guess.”

  “By the way,” Amaranthe said, gesturing for the soldiers to cross the gangplank before her, “which way was that cube heading when you saw it last?”

  “North, I think,” Mahliki said. “It was hard to get a good look. We were busy diving back underwater and calculating the penetration speed and depth of those beams.”

  “She was doing that,” Lonaeo said. “I was trying to figure out how to crawl under a seat that was bolted to the deck.”

  Mahliki swatted him. “Which way is this Fort Urgot?”

  “North,” Amaranthe said.

  “Oh.” Mahliki grimaced.

  “Did you find a way to get under that seat?” Maldynado asked as he passed the scruffy young man.

  “Sorry, no.”

  “A shame.”

  When Tikaya drew even with her, Amaranthe quietly asked, “Any idea how many of those cubes are likely to be on a ship the size of the Behemoth?”

  Tikaya’s met her eyes. “A lot.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  • • •

  In an alley behind the Clearview Hotel, one block up from the yacht club, Sicarius set a canvas bag into the snow behind a waste bin. Bloodstains had seeped through the fabric, but it was dark enough that he doubted anyone would notice it. The information he’d pried from the Forge operative’s mouth before killing her had promised a meeting was taking place in Worgavic’s suite tonight, should he arrive early enough to find the attendees still there. He’d postponed the other assassinations on the Ridge to detour down to the waterfront.

  He eyed the rooftop of the five-story building, the eaves stretching into the alley above him, then listened without moving, his back to the wall, the shadows cloaking him. This early into the night, many sounds drifted from within the hotel, the clinks of glasses in the drinking room, the chatter of guests in the lounge, the chops of knives in the kitchen, and the moans of couples who had retired to their rooms for trysts.

  It was early to stage an assassination, but given the duress he’d applied to the Forge woman, he knew she hadn’t lied to him. He had experience enough to tell such things, even if he’d had little need to call upon it in the last year. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped pointing out to Amaranthe the effectiveness of torture. Because she always rejected it, he’d assumed, but maybe there was more to it. This evening it had bothered him. It might simply be that he’d had no choice in the matter. Before he’d had more than a thought that he had enough information and could make a quick kill, Kor Nas’s voice had sounded in his head, demanding he spend time with his victim before ending her life, productive time. He didn’t know if the practitioner had known she had information or if he’d simply relished the idea of torturing someone through Sicarius.

  A drunk couple walked past the front of the alley, supporting each other as they staggered off to their next destination. It reminded Sicarius to get to work. The meeting would allow him to kill several Forge people in one spot, but only if he arrived before they departed.

  Would Kor Nas require another round of torture?

  Sicarius lifted his fingers, sliding them beneath a black wool cap, and touched the smooth opal. The size of a robin’s egg, it nestled against his skull. It’d grown into his flesh, and he couldn’t feel a separation between stone and skin. Like a tumor. He didn’t think it’d be possible to pull it out, but what if he tried to cut it out with his knife?

  At the thought, a tendril of pain shot from the stone and into his brain. It wasn’t agonizing, nothing to bring a man to his knees, or certainly not to bring him to his knees, but the warning came through sharp and clear. Why fight this anyway? Hadn’t he wished to kill these Forge people regardless?

  Yes, he decided. He didn’t know whether the thought was truly his or not, but he left the sack and climbed.

  The building’s drainpipes weren’t sturdy enough to support a man’s weight, but his fingers found sufficient handholds in the mortar gaps between the stones. He reached the eaves, gripped the edge of the roof, and pulled himself over the side. He trotted across the snowy tiles to the front of the building. According to the seer’s notes, Worgavic’s suite overlooked the lake and lay behind the third and forth windows from the south side.

  The hotel had an attic so there was a twelve-foot gap between the roof and the tops of those windows. He uncoiled thin, strong cable from his waist and tied off one end. A trolley clanged below, coming to a stop in front of the hotel. People were still about on the street, entering and exiting the hotel. Sicarius would have to wait or choose his moment carefully.

  Waiting would be more prudent, perhaps taking the role of sniper and killing the Forge women as they departed from their meeting, but a thought entered his mind: Finish your task and return to me.

  Maybe Kor Nas had another list of people to be assassinated.

  Sicarius pulled out a few clips and fashioned a rappelling setup that would allow him to descend headfirst. A minute later, when the street lay momentarily clear, he lowered himself over the edge. Gas lamps blazed at either side of the hotel’s front door, leaving the stairs and the piles of cleared snow on either side of them well lit. He doubted anyone would see him in the shadows near the roof, but worked quickly regardless.

  Lamps burned behind shutters in the room marked by the fourth window, so Sicarius chose the third. This one wasn’t shuttered. When his eyes reached the top of the window he confirmed that it was dark inside. By the embers of a fire burning in a hearth, he could just make out a large canopied bed, the sheets turned down, waiting for its occupant.

  With one hand holding his body weight above him on the rope, he pulled out his black dagger with the other. It’d proven effective at cutting any number of materials in the past and had no problem scoring the window. He returned the blade to its sheath, pushed the glass circle free, and caught it before it dropped out of reach. He unlocked the window from within, pulled the larger pane open, and slithered inside.

  Sicarius landed in a soundless crouch on the rug and paused, senses s
tretched out to verify that nobody occupied the room. It smelled of lavender perfume and freshly laundered linens, with a hint of tobacco smoke lingering in the air. Worgavic’s vice? Or that of a lover? Amaranthe had seen her with the senior Lord Mancrest, he recalled.

  Amaranthe. The thought of her caused a lump to swell in his throat. He’d been trying to keep her out of his mind, not wanting to be caught thinking of her, not when the practitioner could rifle through his thoughts like pages in a book. Amaranthe’s memory was private, not something to be shared with an outsider.

  Muffled voices came from the door between the rooms. He padded across a lush carpet to listen, detecting four, no five distinct voices. This close, he could make out snatches of conversations. Several of the speakers seemed to be standing, some with their backs to his door, and at least one was pacing. And drinking. The clink of ice cubes in a brandy glass sounded more than once.

  “-crest can’t figure out what to do next? He needs you to come up and hold his hand?”

  “He’s done what we asked, taken the Barracks.”

  “…asked him to deal with the Company of Lords.”

  “He said he would, but I think he had something bloody in mind.”

  “Men, ach. We’ll deal with them. But do we buy them or force their votes?”

  “Those old sods have lived too long not to have some tidbits that can be used in blackmail.”

  “Blackmail, Lorsa, really. You’ve grown so felonious of late.”

  Sicarius had heard Worgavic before, in that meeting beneath Lake Seventy-Three, and he thought one of the voices belonged to her, the one speaking of forcing or buying votes, but he couldn’t be certain. Listening through a door made it difficult.

  He intended to wait for an opportune moment to attack, or at least long enough to make sure there weren’t six guards standing silently about the room, but Kor Nas’s voice whispered in his mind.

  No delays. Kill them all. Emotion came through the mind link as well as the words, an eager anticipation with a tinge of arousal in it. It reminded Sicarius of Emperor Raumesys. Hollowcrest had been dispassionate and logical, but Raumesys had darkly enjoyed having an assassin at his disposal, relishing ordering prisoners tortured and standing back to watch. Fortunately, Sicarius had never had to share a mind link with the man. Such emotions distracted one from one’s work.

  They are all enemies to your general Flintcrest, came Kor Nas’s next words, a touch defensive perhaps.

  All of the heads won’t fit in that bag, Sicarius thought in return, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. Had he spoken, he would have swept it from his voice, but the practitioner was in his head anyway, so it hardly mattered.

  Bring Worgavic’s for your general to see. The others don’t matter. No, wait. Bring them all, and leave a mess in the room. I want this story in the newspaper. I want Forge to know someone is hunting them and to be afraid.

  Sicarius’s sarcasm, his derision for the practitioner, might be misplaced. Hadn’t he killed a number of the Forge people for the same reason? After he’d learned they intended Sespian’s death? He’d done it to protect Sespian though, not simply to kill, not because he enjoyed it.

  Yes, tell yourself that, my pet, Kor Nas purred. We two, we are not so different. We serve our masters, but we enjoy our work, don’t we? We could have found other work long ago if we did not.

  Not caring for the conversation, Sicarius pulled out his dagger.

  Kill them all, Kor Nas repeated. And leave your mark. I want them to know it was you.

  Sicarius paused, his hand on the door. My mark? I have no mark.

  No? Too bad. Perhaps they’ll figure it out on their own. I want the world to know we own you. A chuckle followed the words. I want the world-your empire-to be afraid.

  For a long moment, Sicarius stared down at the dagger. A couple of quick movements would cut out the stone.

  It’ll kill you if you try to remove it.

  Sicarius didn’t doubt it. But wouldn’t death be nobler than this slavery?

  You want to kill that one anyway, Kor Nas thought, the words coming quickly. With a tinge of… desperation? No doubt he didn’t want to lose his “pet.” Worgavic. She ordered the torture of your woman. Kill the others, too, for they are all of the same ilk. They enjoyed hearing about your woman’s torture.

  Sicarius recognized the arguing, the bargaining, for what it was, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He found his mind made up for him. Yes, he’d kill these women and add to the heads in the sack below.

  Before turning the knob, however, a new thought arose. He remembered the female shaman he’d seen running out of the Behemoth, the one who might have been responsible for Amaranthe’s death. If the woman at her side had been Worgavic, that shaman could be in the meeting room with the others. She’d be more of a concern than guards. The Forge women weren’t likely to be capable fighters, but that shaman would be a different matter, especially if she had time to marshal her power.

  If there is a practitioner, I will handle her. Again, emotion accompanied Kor Nas’s words, this time conveying a sense of satisfaction at the notion of pitting himself against another.

  Your powers will be diminished when channeled through me, Sicarius responded.

  I am still strong enough to deal with one of those barefoot, tattooed Kendorians. They are uneducated, and their Science is weak.

  Sicarius thought to point out the foolhardiness of arrogance, but what did Kor Nas care? If he failed, Sicarius might die, but the practitioner would remain safe in his tent. He might suffer the discomfort of a mental backlash, but nothing more damaging.

  An image flashed into his mind then, a memory. He was back on Darkcrest Isle with the vengeful spirit of Azon Amar in his head, the incredibly powerful Nurian warrior mage who had assassinated Emperor Morvaktu. Before dying to a platoon of Hollowcrest’s soldiers, Azon Amar had cursed the island, leaving his spirit to haunt it and aid any Nurians who stepped foot upon it. Though he’d been familiar with the story and the curse, Sicarius had followed Amaranthe out to Darkcrest Isle for a mission, and the spirit had taken over his body, forcing him to chase her, to try and kill her. She’d escaped, swimming back to the mainland. Compelled by Azon Amar, he’d given chase, but as he’d swum away from the island, the fount of the dead practitioner’s power, the grip on his mind had faded and he’d broken away.

  He’d reached the mainland before Amaranthe, but he’d hidden while she finished her swim, crouching in the bushes and catching his breath, terrified at what he’d almost done, horrified at the memory of the tender flesh of her neck beneath his hands. In that moment, he’d been fighting the powerful spirit with every ounce of his mental strength, using every trick he’d learned from the Nurian wizard hunter who’d been one of his tutors, yet he would have failed if not for Amaranthe’s cleverness. He’d taken a moment to recover his equilibrium-and brush moisture from his eyes-before walking out to the dock to rejoin her. Her wariness-no, her outright fear-as he approached had made him want to fall to his knees in abject apology. He’d hugged her. He should have done more, but it’d been all he could manage at the time. More might have… he might have lost his composure and cried in front of her. He’d been a fool to think that would have been some world-ending failure on his part. The failure had been in being arrogant enough to go out to that island and in falling prey to the wizard in the first place. And now, he was in the thrall of another one.

  One who isn’t dead, Kor Nas whispered in his mind. Do not accuse me of arrogance, and do not doubt my power over others. Or over you.

  You’re no Azon Amar, Sicarius thought back mulishly. That Nurian had been so powerful people around the world had heard of him.

  Perhaps not, but think about how much trouble he gave you from beyond the grave, his powers a mere fraction of what they were when he lived. Do not believe you can defy me; you will only harm yourself if you try.

  The opal at Sicarius’s temple throbbed, its light radiating through the wool cap, c
reating a bizarre yellowish-green pattern on the closest wall. With no other choice, Sicarius pulled out a throwing knife as well as his dagger. The throwing knife would be for the shaman. If she was in the room, she had to go down first.

  He listened again before barging in, placing people by the distance and direction of their voices.

  When someone on the far side of the room was in the middle of talking, Sicarius chose his moment; other people’s focus should be toward the person, away from the door.

  Silent as always, he’d entered and launched three throwing knives before the first startled shriek filled the room or before anyone leapt from her chair. The tattooed shaman wasn’t there. His first blade took a guard by a fireplace in the throat. The next two hammered into the chests of security men stationed by the main door. They hadn’t been prepared, hadn’t expected an attack in this relaxed parlor.

  With his throwing knives spent, Sicarius lunged after the next target, a familiar dark-haired woman with spectacles. Worgavic. She was running for the hallway door, a shout on her lips. Sicarius leaped a table and dropped behind her before her hand reached the knob. He gripped her shoulder, yanking her back, and sliced his black dagger across her neck, severing her arteries with the very technology she’d thought she’d controlled.

  In seconds, Sicarius finished the other four women in the room. He acted quickly, in part to ensure their prolonged screams wouldn’t bring additional security, and in part so Kor Nas wouldn’t have time to demand more torture.

  Directed by the opal, he knelt to collect Worgavic’s head. He glanced around the room as he worked. No one remained alive. No one had tested his abilities. Odd that he should find himself missing Amaranthe’s crazy plans, the challenge inherent in them. In her insistence that they leave people alive, or suborn them to her side, she’d often made things difficult for him. And for herself. Too difficult in the end.

  Grimly, he finished cutting and went to the next head. Sicarius felt nothing for the dead. There was no one left among the living whom he cared about.

  As he stood there, amidst the blood and bodies, a new image flashed into his mind. This time he was standing with Amaranthe on a road outside of Markworth at the southern end of Lake Seventy-Three. He was penning a letter, dredging up a remembered military encryption key from two decades earlier to encode it for its recipient. Former Fleet Admiral Sashka Federias Starcrest.