Forged in Blood I

Chapter 2

Soldiers and enforcers patrolled the cobblestone streets on either side of the canal passing in front of the Imperial Gazette building. Amaranthe and Maldynado crouched in the shadows beneath the closest bridge, waiting for night to deepen and for the foot traffic to dwindle. Most of that foot traffic was uniformed. Though numerous eating and drinking houses dotted the waterfront, the sounds coming from within them were muted. Few civilians lingered in the streets. She doubted it had anything to do with the frosty evening air-winter would grow far colder in the coming months, and Turgonians were used to the chill. Those civilians who did brave the streets did so using quick, purposeful strides, their coats pulled tight, their eyes watching the troops.

“Those soldiers are taking the joy out of people’s evenings,” Maldynado said as a squad marched across the bridge above them, the synchronized thuds of their steps echoing from the raised walls on either side of the canal.

Amaranthe eyed the metal support beams overhead. She recalled hearing that soldiers were supposed to break into unsynchronized steps when crossing bridges, thus to keep the vibrations from collapsing the structure, but perhaps that was only for poorly constructed wooden bridges out in the countryside. Still, if the bridge toppled-preferably when she wasn’t under it-it’d provide a nice diversion for her and Maldynado to enter the Gazette building. She didn’t want to light any houseboats on fire this time.

“They’re just following orders,” Amaranthe said when the soldiers passed without bridge mishaps. “It’s their generals we need to worry about. Have you figured out the armband code yet?” They’d seen soldiers with blue, red, and white sashes tied about their right biceps. Not all the soldiers wore them, and Amaranthe assumed they had to do with identifying allegiance to certain would-be successors. The military fatigues were otherwise identical.

“Aside from the fact that those men have dreadful fashion sense?” Maldynado asked.

“Yes.”

“Then… no. Except there seem to be more white armbands than any other color.”

“I noticed that too. Ravido’s people, you think? With Forge at his back, he should have all the advantages, and he’s had more time to gather troops than Lord Heroncrest and Lord General Flintcrest,” Amaranthe said, citing two other contenders who’d been named in a newspaper a few days earlier. She had, however, seen men on all sides carrying new rifles and old flintlocks as well. Maybe there was some bartering going on between the armies. Or maybe Forge wanted to confuse outsiders by selling to everyone.

“Ravido is thoughtless enough to choose white.” Maldynado sniffed. “White, on a soldier. They’ll be smudged with dirt and spattered with blood by the end of the week.”

“Perhaps so.” As of yet, Amaranthe hadn’t heard any gunshots or seen signs of fights between the different factions, but she doubted that would last. Right now, the soldiers seemed to be more focused on instilling martial law. Once all the contenders for the throne were ready to make their moves, things would start happening quickly. And violently. “It looks like most of the newspaper employees have gone home for the night.” She nodded toward the front of the three-story building across the canal. Several minutes had passed since anyone exited the front door. She hoped to find Mancrest working late, as she had once before.

“I don’t suppose, with Sicarius being elsewhere, we could just walk in the front door?” Maldynado suggested.

“With all the soldiers roaming about, I think we should go the same way as last time.” Amaranthe waved at the storm grate on the opposite canal wall.

“Are you sure that’s necessary? If you’re worried we’re not being sneaky enough, we could turn sideways and hug the shadows as we go up the front steps.”

“Come, come, you don’t want me to tell Yara you were whining, do you?” After checking both sides of the canal, Amaranthe left the shadows and jumped, catching one of the iron bars beneath the bridge. The cold metal bit into her hands, but she wouldn’t have tried the maneuver with gloves on. She swung her legs for momentum and caught the next handhold, then the next, trusting Maldynado would follow her, despite his complaints. Her short sword hung on her waist, too short to bother her legs as she picked her route. Maldynado’s rapier might be more of a distraction, but she trusted he’d be fine.

“We’ve been comrades for almost a year now.” Maldynado grunted as he jumped up and caught the first bar, probably wincing at the icy touch as well. “Shouldn’t your allegiance be to me instead of our newest and most untried member?”

“I think she was suitably tried on the riverboat mission.” Amaranthe reached the last bar and swung onto the stone walkway, catching herself against the cement wall.

“That is true.” Maldynado chuckled.

Somehow Amaranthe doubted he was thinking of the same sort of trying as she was. When he dropped down beside her, they headed for the storm grate, passing several tethered houseboats along the way. She looked for the one she’d inadvertently set fire to the summer before, hoping she’d see it repaired and little worse for the experience, but it wasn’t there. In fact, none of the houseboats looked familiar. Perhaps the fire had sullied the homeowners’ perspectives of the neighborhood. She sighed, longing for a day when her face no longer graced wanted posters, and she could work freely within the bounds of the law again. A day, she thought grimly, that would only come if they succeeded in getting Sespian back on the throne.

“Is it just me,” Maldynado asked when they reached the round grate set into the canal wall, “or is that padlock much bigger and sturdier than it was last summer?”

“Possibly.” Amaranthe pulled out her lock-picking set, undaunted by the shiny steel.

“Someone must have heard about all the unsavory outlaws roaming the city’s sewers, pumping stations, and aqueduct tunnels.”

Amaranthe slid a tension wrench and ball pick into the slot and worked on the tumblers. “Did you just call yourself unsavory?”

“Well, I haven’t been able to frequent the public baths as much as I like of late.”

Voices drifted down from the street above. Just civilians passing by on their way home, Amaranthe hoped.

“Stand watch, please,” she murmured, aware of people walking by on the opposite side of the canal as well. This portion of the path wasn’t well lit, but she doubted the shadows were thick enough to hide her, should someone peer intently.

“Naturally.” Maldynado leaned against the wall.

The lock proved challenging, but Amaranthe thwarted it eventually. She opened the grate, frosty icicles snapping, iron squealing. Someone had supplied a fresh lock, but nobody had thought to oil the hinges? Or perhaps that had been intentional. Thus to alert nearby denizens-or warrior-caste journalists? As soon as Maldynado stepped inside, Amaranthe closed the grate and replaced the padlock on the bars, though she didn’t fasten it, in case they needed to exit that way in a hurry.

“You’re being paranoid, girl,” she muttered to herself.

Even if people on the other side knew her team had returned to the city, they wouldn’t know what they were doing in the city.

“What did you say?” Maldynado asked, as they strode up the slick tunnel.

“Nothing important.”

“Ah. I was hoping you’d been proclaiming that I was in fact quite savory, baths notwithstanding.”

“So long as Yara believes that, you’ll be fine.” Amaranthe turned into the passage that ran beneath the alley behind the Gazette building.

“How could she not?” Maldynado asked, a smile in his voice.

For a while during their travels, Maldynado had seemed glum, due to everyone being suspicious of his motives, but Yara had apparently relieved him of those dark feelings. Amaranthe wasn’t sure if that was entirely a good thing. He’d been… bubbly of late.

A scraping sound came from somewhere ahead of them. She halted, flinging her arm out to stop Maldynado as well. At first, she thought the noise had come from the tunnel, but a shadow moved, interrupting the flow of moonlight through drains in the alley above.

“Someone else may be visiting via the back door,” Maldynado murmured.

“We’ll see.” Amaranthe patted her way to a ladder leading to the manhole they’d used the last time they visited. She climbed it and tilted her ear toward the cover.

A rumble sounded above her. A steam vehicle driving down the alley? Amaranthe remembered a loading dock in the rear of the building, but would the Gazette be shipping newspapers or receiving supplies at night? She dropped back to the ground.

“Company, eh?” Maldynado asked.

“So it seems.” Using the wan light filtering through the drains as a guide, Amaranthe headed farther up the tunnel. Frozen runoff water made the ground slick, and she flailed several times, scraping her knuckles on the wall once and smacking Maldynado in the jaw another time.

“No need to take it out on me,” he said with a chuckle.

A minute later, he butt-planted on the ice behind her. After that, there were fewer chuckles.

Treacherous footing notwithstanding, they made it to the next ladder. Amaranthe climbed up, listened at the manhole, and didn’t hear anything. They ought to be in the same alley but several buildings down. She unfastened the lid and lifted it a couple of inches.

No less than four army lorries idled in front of the Gazette’s loading dock. Soldiers idled as well, smoking and talking as they leaned against the vehicles. A few more stood near the doors on the loading dock. The casual stances hinted of boredom rather than alertness, but numerous rifles leaned within easy reach, cartridge-based rifles loaded with multiple rounds. White armbands adorned the men’s arms. The drainpipe Amaranthe, Sicarius, and Maldynado had once climbed to gain access to an attic vent snaked up the side of the building in plain view.

She lowered the manhole cover and climbed down again. “I believe it’s time to enact Plan Two.”

“Go home and snuggle with an exciting and surprisingly randy woman?” Maldynado asked.

“That’s your Plan Two. Mine is to wait for Deret at his flat.”

“So your Plan Two is similar to mine, except it employs a man.”

Amaranthe lifted a fingernail to her mouth and nibbled thoughtfully. Going to Mancrest’s home was plausible, though, with all the Gazette-worthy news occurring in the city, he’d likely be home late. He might even be sleeping in his office here. Also, she wondered what all those soldiers were doing behind the Gazette building. Was it possible Ravido was inside, meeting with Mancrest? She hated to think of Deret schmoozing with Forge’s chosen figurehead, but Maldynado had said the Mancrests and the Marblecrests had always been close. If such a meeting was happening inside at that moment, a chance to listen in could prove pivotal. Besides, if Deret was working for the other side, he’d be less than truthful when she questioned him.

Maldynado cleared his throat. “I notice we’re not moving. Won’t that be required? To enact either of our Plan Twos?”

“The Gazette building is a few hundred years old,” Amaranthe mused, too far down the trail of her own thoughts to answer his questions. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it had a basement. What are the odds that there’s access somewhere down here? Or… if it’s been retrofitted with indoor plumbing…”

“You’re not thinking of entering through the sewer, are you?” Maldynado asked. “That’s not whining, by the way. It’s righteous indignation.”

“Let’s take a closer look at the tunnel walls by the building.” Amaranthe led the way back past the first ladder. “As I learned in my enforcer days, there are lots of forgotten underground passageways in the city, especially in the older parts of town.”

“To facilitate secret trysts with lovers?”

“Not exactly.” Once near the Gazette portion of the tunnel again, Amaranthe started searching by touch. “The brothels, drinking houses, and hotels used to have deals with the gangs. They’d get their patrons drunk and lure them into the basements where thugs would knock them out, tie them up, and drag them out through the tunnels, all the way to the docks. The victims would wake up chained to an oar bench on some freighter on its way to the Gulf.”

“Oh, right, I remember reading about that in school. I think there was a Lady Dourcrest book that used that as a plot device. Of course it was a woman who was kidnapped, and the pirate who owned the ship was roguishly handsome and-”

“Finding anything?” Amaranthe interrupted. She didn’t need the plot summary.

“Not yet, no.”

She grimaced when she encountered a moist, fuzzy growth too hearty to succumb to the frost. She wiped her hand and contemplated finding a lantern. Of course, if she saw the walls she’d feel compelled to scrape off the grimy patches, not simply avoid them. The soldiers might notice the light seeping through the storm drains and the sounds of her scouring the tunnel clean of decades of accumulated gunk.

“Didn’t most of those old passages get walled up?” Maldynado asked. “On account of… Wasn’t some emperor kidnapped?”

“Yes, Guffarth the Third. Apparently, he was visiting a brothel to-”

“Get his snake greased?”

“Er, yes. But he went anonymously and without much in the way of security, so his shrewish wife wouldn’t find out. He was kidnapped and nobody believed his claims of imperial greatness. He died from an infection while at sea. It wasn’t until a year later that an enforcer investigator put the ore cart on the right rail and figured out what had happened to Guffarth. The freighter involved in the kidnapping was hunted down by the navy, and all the officers were put to death. It was surmised that such a mistake never would have been made if Guffarth’s face had been better known amongst the populace. After that, the mint started putting the emperor’s head on coins and ranmyas. And, yes, many of the tunnels were walled up, but some of them have been reopened by the gangs in recent decades. Kidnappings still go on, though the enforcers don’t look the other way anymore.”

Amaranthe’s probing fingers encountered a change in the texture of the wall stone. The cement had changed to brick.

“Thank you, Professor,” Maldynado said. “That was a story worthy of Books.”

“Sh, over here.”

When his shoulder bumped into hers, Amaranthe grabbed his hand and put it on the wall. She spent a few seconds following the crease where brick turned to cement. It definitely felt like a doorway-or rather a doorway that had been bricked over.

“There may have been a tunnel here, but it’s not accessible now,” Maldynado said, echoing her thoughts.

Amaranthe sighed. “We might have to try your idea about sneaking in the front after all.”

A number of slams and clangs sounded in the alley above.

“Maybe not,” Maldynado said. “Sounds like those blokes are leaving.”

That would make getting in easier, but it’d also mean the theoretical meeting she wished to spy on had ended. A few more slams sounded, followed by the heavy rumble of lorries rolling away.

A fresh slash of moonlight flowed into the tunnel. Maldynado had already climbed the ladder and pushed up the manhole. Amaranthe was of a mind to chastise him for being too hasty-they should have jogged back up to the other manhole to check in case anyone remained on the loading dock.

“All clear,” Maldynado said before she could phrase an appropriate chastisement. “Someone’s still inside too. I saw a bit of light as the back door was closing.”

“Coming.” Amaranthe climbed up after him.

Maldynado reached the loading dock first and, after eyeing the drainpipe for a moment, put a hand on the doorknob. He paused there, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

“Is it locked?” Amaranthe eyed the street and the dock to make sure they were indeed alone-and to see if the soldiers had left any clues. Only the lingering scent of burning coal remained.

“Nope.” Maldynado pressed his ear to the metal door, then turned the knob and peered through the crack.

The sounds of clanking machinery escaped.

“The presses are running early for the morning’s paper,” Amaranthe said. “It’s not even-”

Maldynado shut the door quickly.

“Did someone see you?” Amaranthe crouched, ready to spring off the dock and into the darkness if needed.

“I don’t think so.”

“We better go in through the attic. There’ll be a number of people around to man those presses.”

“Not people,” Maldynado said, “soldiers.”

Another time, Amaranthe might have pointed out that soldiers qualified as people, but not now. Soldiers? Had Ravido or one of the other erstwhile leaders taken over the Gazette? “The soldiers are working the presses? Or just in the room?”

“I only saw two men, but it looks that way.” Maldynado waved to the drainpipe. “Still want to go in through the attic?”

As Amaranthe knew from her prior trip, the attic would take them to a loft overlooking the journalists’ desks. They wouldn’t be able to see what was rolling off the presses from that perch. She had a feeling the army wasn’t here to simply oversee the production of the next day’s newspaper.

“Let’s see if we can slip in when nobody’s looking.” She reached around Maldynado for the doorknob. He frowned, not moving out of the way. She jerked her chin. Maldynado stood, jaw set, as if he intended to insist on going first. She gave him a firm I-appreciate-your-protectiveness-but-I’m-in-charge-so-move-your-round-cheeks look. His lips flattened, but he stepped aside.

Amaranthe eased the door open, pressing her eye to the crack. Sauna-like heat escaped, caressing her face with its warmth. The gas lamps mounted on the walls diminished some of the nighttime gloom of the printing room-a high-ceilinged open space that took up the back half of the building-but the shadows offered hiding spots. The bulky machines, too, provided nooks and obstacles to duck into or behind.

At the moment, she didn’t see anyone, so she eased inside, choosing a route between the side wall and a roll of paper on a spindle longer than Maldynado was tall. It supplied a two-story steam-powered press that clanked and thunked loudly enough to drown out voices and everything else that would have warned her people were nearby. She waited for Maldynado to join her, then poked an eye around the end of the roll.

A man in black fatigues was heading their way, and she pulled back. He walked past their spot, but didn’t glance behind the press. Instead, he headed toward the back wall where staircases led up and down, and a sign on their floor read WC.

As soon as the man disappeared into the water closet, Amaranthe checked both sides of the long press. Nobody else was in sight.

Stay here, she signed, figuring she’d have an easier time crawling under a machine or slipping into a nook than Maldynado.

He propped his fists on his hips.

Amaranthe slipped out before he could argue. She wanted to see what their roll of paper was being turned into on the other end of the press and didn’t know how much time she’d have before the man returned. Automatic cutters rasped on the next machine over, but she found the uncut sheets and, with her back to the wall, stopped to read. Light from a floor lamp illuminated the text, an unfamiliar one-column layout.

“These aren’t newspapers,” she whispered after she’d read a few lines. “They’re pamphlets.” She skimmed further, her gaze sliding over lines like, “…an end to dangerous progressive policies,” and “deportation of foreign plunderers.” “Propaganda pamphlets,” she murmured.

Figuring the soldier would return soon, she jogged back toward the rear of the press. She’d like to have one of the pamphlets to take back to Books, but tearing one off from the uncut sheets wouldn’t be terribly subtle. Maybe she could sneak around the cutting machine and grab one of the-

Amaranthe halted. Maldynado was gone.

Back out to the loading dock? Or out into the pressroom?

The water closet door opened, and she shifted into the shadows without getting a chance to search. The man returned to the front of the press and resumed his job at the paper cutter.

Amaranthe drummed her fingers on her thigh. Search further into the pressroom or slip back outside? She hadn’t felt a cold draft that would have signified the outer door opening. Using the press to hide her advance, she crept farther into the room. A soldier with a box walked past the front end of the machine. She hid in the shadows of the machinery, halting all movement. He said something to the man working the cutter, but the clanking machinery drowned out the words. Someone else called a question from the other side of the room, then a third man walked past with an empty box, heading for the freshly cut pamphlets.

There were too many men around. This hadn’t been a good idea. It’d be best to find Mancrest at his tenement building, then, if they couldn’t get the truth out of him, return to the Gazette at a later hour.

She’d barely finished the thought when she spotted Maldynado. He had indeed gone farther into the room. He’d used a support column to hide his back-most of it-and had climbed up an inactive press to peer over the other side, toward the desk-filled front of the building.

Amaranthe let her head clunk back against the machine behind her. Though he wasn’t near any lamps, he wasn’t that well hidden. Any of those soldiers strolling about, filling boxes, might spot him when they walked past. Emperor’s teeth, she wasn’t well hidden either. She wanted to get his attention, to sign to him-what was he looking at that was worth risking discovery for? — but his back was to her.

She dropped to hands and knees to get close to him without being seen, and advanced into the room, peering through the legs of the press as she went. The man at the paper cutter had his back to her. The two with the boxes did too, for the moment. She rose to a crouch and slunk toward Maldynado’s column.

She almost made it, but the draft she’d been thinking of earlier came, a cold blast from the rear. One soldier held the door open while a second pushed a wheelbarrow full of coal inside. Turning her slink into a sprint so she could escape the influence of the lamps, she darted around the column.

The man with the wheelbarrow had been facing in Maldynado’s direction as he entered, and he squinted into the gloom.

Maldynado raised his eyebrows at Amaranthe’s appearance and pointed to whatever he was looking at over the press. She was too short to see it, and there was no time to climb up the column. The soldiers at the door had abandoned their wheelbarrow and were walking her way, their hands resting on weapons, one a short sword and the other a pistol.

Maldynado leaped from his spot, sliding out his rapier before he landed, and he charged the pair. Amaranthe didn’t know whether he assumed he could handle two trained soldiers on his own, or if he meant to distract them so she could sneak up on them from behind, but as soon as they were focused on him she sprinted from hiding too. She circled wide to stay out of their peripheral vision if possible. The one with the sword had swept his blade out to square off with Maldynado, and the man with the pistol was skittering back, lifting his arm and lining up a shot. Amaranthe didn’t want either gunshots or sword clashes ringing out, or the rest of the soldiers in the building would descend on them in heartbeats.

Maldynado feinted a few times, deliberately not touching steel to steel, but maneuvering to put his opponent in his comrade’s line of fire. He seemed to know what Amaranthe had in mind.

Yanking out her dagger, she ran up behind the pistol wielder, trusting the noisy machines to bury the sounds of her footfalls. She flipped the weapon and smashed the hilt into the back of his head. Taking advantage of his moment of surprise, she kicked at the inside of his knee, then darted about to wrest the pistol from his grasp. He recovered and spun toward her, tearing a dagger from a belt sheath, but she thrust the firearm into his face.

“Drop it,” she mouthed.

He blinked in surprise a few times, taking in that she was a woman, perhaps taking in that her face adorned wanted posters around the capital. The dagger clattered to the floor. He almost threw it-hoping the weapon would make noise and alert his comrades? Thus far, the fight had taken place behind the press, the bulky machine hiding them from the views of the other men, but that luck couldn’t hold for long.

Maldynado stood a couple of paces away, near the wall, his rapier sheathed and the newly acquired short sword in his hand. He yawned, standing casually with his elbow on his opponent’s shoulder, the blade resting across his neck.

“Who left the slagging door open?” someone called from the other side of the press.

The wheelbarrow stood on the threshold, propping open the door and letting frosty air inside.

“Let’s get out of here,” Amaranthe mouthed, unable to make hand signs while holding the pistol, and jerked her head toward the exit.

Maldynado tilted his own head toward his prisoner, silently asking what they were going to do with their captives.

“Take them for now.”

Amaranthe twirled a finger, indicating her prisoner should spin and start walking for the door. He glowered at her and eyed the pistol, perhaps wondering if a woman would fire, but he decided in favor of acquiescence, at least for now.

Before Amaranthe, Maldynado, and their prisoners had taken more than two steps toward the door, another soldier stomped into view, this one rounding the paper roll by the wall. Amaranthe and Maldynado flattened themselves to the side of the press, yanking their prisoners with them. She kept the pistol pressed to her man’s ribs to ensure silence.

The soldier pulled the wheelbarrow inside, then stuck his head outside. “Evik, Rudev, what are you doing out there?”

Amaranthe’s man inhaled and tensed, as if to shout and try to escape. She stood on tiptoes to clasp her hand across his mouth as she dug the pistol in deeper. “Nobody will hear the shot over the sound of the presses,” she growled in his ear. A lie, of course, but maybe it would give him something to think about for a few seconds. In that time, the fellow at the door stepped outside. He waved to someone, and lights flashed out there before the door closed, blocking the view. Another lorry driving up?

Maldynado looked over his shoulder at her, a question in his eyes. What now? He must have seen the lights too.

There weren’t any other doors within sight that they could escape through. Amaranthe eyed the stairs and finally nodded that way. They could go up to the loft, leave these two tied, and escape through that vent in the attic.

Still pressing the pistol into her captive’s ribs, Amaranthe guided him toward the stairs. They had to halt twice to duck behind machines. The two men who’d been carrying empty boxes earlier walked toward the door, their boxes full of pamphlets now.

Amaranthe and the others reached the staircase leading down without being seen. She was on the verge of releasing the breath she was holding when the back door opened again, letting more soldiers in. There were shadows around the stairs, but not that many shadows. Further, her captive took that moment to test her again. Maybe he’d figured out that she wouldn’t shoot after all.

He pretended to trip. She saw the ruse for what it was and adjusted her weight, pulling back to keep him up and on his feet.

“Someone’s looking this way,” Maldynado blurted and went for the closest set of stairs, the one leading down.

Still struggling to keep her captive on his feet without shooting him, Amaranthe almost tumbled down the stairs after him. If not for Maldynado, pushing his man down at a more measured pace, she would have ended up somersaulting down the hard stone steps, her limbs entangled with those of her prisoner. His broad back acted as a nicely meaty barrier, though, stopping their progress, and she found her balance. Her soldier had a harder time righting himself, and his foot slipped off a step. He lurched to the side, smacking his head on the stone wall. Amaranthe failed to feel sympathetic toward him.

“Anyone coming?” Maldynado whispered at the bottom, all four of them crowding onto the tight, musty landing, hemmed in by looming stone walls and an old but solid oak door.

“Not yet.”

The two soldiers were muttering something to each other. Amaranthe, fearing her threats with the pistol weren’t proving effective, caught one of his arms with her free hand, digging her thumb into a pressure point in his wrist and twisting the limb behind his back until he sucked in a pained gasp of air. He stopped muttering. One of Sicarius’s comments drifted through the back of her mind: the promise of pain is often more effective than the application of pain, for the mind conjures fears greater than reality. Sure, that worked for a scary-looking fellow dressed in black with a reputation darker than an eclipse, but for her? It was ever a struggle to convince men that she’d go through with her threats, hence her preference for avoiding the taking of prisoners. But they could hardly let these men go now. They’d charge right up the stairs, and, judging by the numbers of orders shouted above, there were more soldiers than ever up there. At least nobody had come over to peer down the staircase at them. Yet.

“Why’d you dart over to that press?” Amaranthe asked.

“Sorry about that,” Maldynado said. “Seeing Mancrest and that woman surprised me. What are we going to do with these two? They’ve seen our faces.”

Amaranthe was more interested in finding out more about “Mancrest and that woman,” but she could ask him for details once they escaped the building. Maldynado’s point was pertinent. She didn’t want Forge, or anyone else, knowing her team was back in town already.

“If we can get out, we could take them with us,” she said. “Tie them up back at our hideout for a few days so they can’t blab.” Having to guard prisoners would reduce the number of team members she could employ in the field, but maybe, given a little time, she could convince the soldiers to throw in their lot with Sespian. They were young. They might be influenceable.

“We don’t have a hideout yet,” Maldynado pointed out.

“I’m sure we do.” Amaranthe trusted the others had found something. “We just don’t know where it is yet.”

“How is that-”

“Discuss later. Is that door unlocked, by chance?”

Before he could answer, two people walked into view. No, they stopped within view. Ugh.

Amaranthe tightened the arm hold on her soldier in case the urge to call out revisited him. He sucked in a pained breath and rose to his tiptoes. Maldynado’s prisoner made a similar hiss.

The people who had stopped up above weren’t soldiers. It was a man and a woman. The man, a gray-haired fellow in a black and gray suit of immaculate cut, leaned his back against the wrought iron railing at the top of the stairwell. His face wasn’t visible, though he seemed to be talking and pointing to his comrade. The woman… she was facing the man, her arm linked with one of his, so Amaranthe could see more of her features. She sucked in a breath almost as sharp as the one her prisoner had made, for she recognized the short, buxom woman with the spectacles perched low on her nose. Ms. Worgavic. Amaranthe’s old teacher and one of the Forge founders, Worgavic had been the one to allow-no, order-her interrogation.

Anger surged into her chest, a hard tight ball of emotion that dug in behind her breastbone. She forgot about her prisoner. Her hand tightened so hard around the pistol that her fingers ached. She lifted it, no longer aiming it at her captive but at the woman leaning against the railing above.

Had Maldynado not grabbed her arm, pulling it down, she would have fired. The couple pushed away from the railing, disappearing from sight, and it was too late. The door must have opened again, for a cold draft wafted down the stairs, startling some of the thoughtless fury out of her system when it hit her cheeks.

“What were you doing?” Maldynado let go of her arm, but his whisper was harsh. “I thought we weren’t letting anyone know we were here. If you’d shot Mancrest, that woman probably would have gotten away. Not to mention everyone left up there would have heard you fire.” He jabbed his hand upward.

“Mancrest?” Amaranthe stared at him. What was he talking about? That hadn’t been Deret.

Despite her and Maldynado’s distraction, the prisoners were being still. Maybe because she was waving her pistol around with a crazed look on her face.

“Lord Colonel Armott Mancrest, retired. Deret’s father.” Maldynado peered into her eyes. “You didn’t recognize him? Why were you going to shoot him then?”

“Not him, her. That was one of the Forge founders. The one who-” Amaranthe’s voice cracked and she looked away. She was still clenching the pistol like a carpenter bent on smashing an irritating nail into oblivion. Calm down, girl, she told herself. We’re past this.

“Tortured you?” Maldynado asked, all the harshness gone from his tone.

Not trusting her voice, Amaranthe nodded. Her prisoner peered back over her shoulder at her.

“Blast it,” she said, “let’s get these two tied up, so they can’t…” What? Hear about this? “Escape,” she finished.

Maldynado started removing belts and shirts to obey her order. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… Cursed ancestors, I should have helped you shoot the hag.”

“Don’t worry about it. It probably wouldn’t have fixed anything.” Besides, she didn’t want to become an assassin herself. That was no way to create a better Turgonia. Instincts, angry vengeful instincts, had been guiding her hand.

Maldynado finished tying up the men and lifted an arm, offering a hug if she needed it.

Amaranthe waved a hand. She appreciated the gesture, but said, “I’m fine.”

She was relieved it had been Maldynado here with her instead of Sicarius. That fit of rage… that had been a moment of weakness. She didn’t want Sicarius seeing her like that. Not when she was working hard to make him believe she was all right. And she was all right. She would be. She just needed to finish with this mess and take a vacation.

And remember how to sleep through the night, the voice in her head added.

A shadow fell across the stairwell above-someone moving past the railing.

“We better get out of here before someone looks down the steps,” Amaranthe said.

“Up or in?” Maldynado asked. “And with or without them?”

“Up and out, ideally.” Amaranthe didn’t want to be trapped in the basement, though there were more sounds of activity than ever coming from above.

“What are all those spirits-licked people doing here after hours?” Maldynado growled.

“Picking up their seditious pamphlets probably. If I’d known the newspaper office would be such a hotbed of activity, I’d have brought Sicarius.”

“I’m not manly enough for you?”

“You’re fine. I’m just worried that we missed a good chance for spying. I could have sent Sicarius off after those two.”

“He probably would have stuck daggers in their backs.”

Amaranthe bit her lip to keep from asking what would be wrong with that. It bothered her to think that her experience under Pike’s knife had changed her, but she kept thinking that it’d be much easier for their side if they simply ended Forge, Ravido, and their key allies the most efficient way possible. Was it worth turning oneself into a monster if it made the world a better place for everyone else? Or, once one chose the path to monsterhood, could one still accurately assess what qualified as a “better place” anymore? She feared this last year as an outlaw had already tainted her judgment.

She considered their captives. It’d be hard to escape back up the stairs, forcing them every step. Perhaps it was time to leave them and hope for-

“Can’t find Evik and Rudev anywhere,” someone called out upstairs. “We may need to search the building, sir.”

“Uh oh,” Maldynado said.

“About that doorknob…” Amaranthe said.

Lights jittered up above-people entering the room with extra lamps.

“It’s unlocked,” Maldynado said.

Finally, a bit of luck. Amaranthe stepped past him and eased the door open. Darkness waited inside, so she didn’t think they’d have to worry about being jumped by soldiers, but she crept into the basement warily regardless.

A few steps inside, she bumped into something and decided to stop and light a lantern. She was about to tell Maldynado to close the door so their flame wouldn’t be seen when someone spoke from the depths of the shadows.

“It’s not mealtime,” a man said. “I can only surmise you’ve come to your senses and are here to unlock me.”

• • •

“Job’s the same, pay’s the same, don’t really make a difference,” one maid said, snapping the sheets in the air before lowering them onto the bed.

“I know,” a second maid said, the rasping of a straw broom accompanying her words, “but I liked young Emperor Sespian. He never ordered you around like you were some raw soldier to be broken in. He always said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ when he asked for something.”

“Piles of good that did him. He’s deader than that roach you stomped on earlier, and I don’t think the new regime will appreciate you waxing fondly on the old.”

“Marblecrest isn’t the new regime, not officially, and I won’t call him emperor no matter what he’s demanding.” Another firm snapping of the sheets accompanied the statement. “Just because him and his troops showed up at the door less than an hour after the papers announced Sespian’s death doesn’t mean he’s the rightful emperor. I don’t even figure he’s the rightful landlord here. Are you sure about our pay being the same? Because we haven’t seen any money yet.”

“Bite your tongue, Naniva, or some owl will swoop down and tear it out. Or at least lower your voice. Door’s open. Never know who could be about listening.”

Outside in the hall, Sicarius twitched an eyebrow. He otherwise remained motionless, braced in a corner above the wall molding, his short hair brushing the ceiling. He couldn’t see into the room the maids were tending, but he tracked their movements with his ears, even as he watched other maids and butlers coming and going below him, building fires in stoves for room occupants who would be heading to bed soon. He’d listened to a half dozen servants’ conversations so far, enough to verify that Lord General Marblecrest had moved into the Imperial Barracks with hundreds of troops. Marblecrest had tried to wrest control of Fort Urgot out on the northern side of the lake as well, but the commander there, General Ridgecrest, hadn’t been cowed by his threats. Ridgecrest had refused to back a new candidate for the throne until the Company of Lords had met with the satrap governors to decide on the official successor.

Sicarius took special note of the information; Ridgecrest and his troops might be available to the right man. The only other pertinent information he’d gathered, more through a lack of mentions or sightings than via positive confirmation, was that the Forge people were not staying in the Barracks.

A maid pushing a squeaky mop bucket passed below Sicarius without looking up. He’d wait for the talkative two to leave, then return to his comrades. They’d be restless, waiting for him to come back to the furnace room where he’d left them, and he didn’t want to be away from Sespian for long regardless, not with some other potential assassin roaming the Barracks, agenda unknown.

The maids closed the guest room door and trundled away with their linens cart. Sicarius waited for silence to descend upon the hall, then dropped to the marble floor without a sound. He unscrewed a vent cover, wriggled into the warm duct inside, affixed the grate again, and improvised with a curved lock pick to refasten the screws from within.

Traveling through the Barracks’ hypocaust system was neither quick nor efficient, but it allowed him to bypass halls full of soldiers, guests, and guards without notice. He crawled a few dozen meters, then slipped down a vertical shaft, descending three floors to come out in the furnace room in the basement.

Sespian, Books, and Akstyr were still waiting, though hiding. They stepped out from behind the coal bins when Sicarius popped out of the vent. Someone must have come in to stoke the fires while he’d been gone. It didn’t matter, so long as his team hadn’t been noticed.

“Did you run into trouble?” Books asked.

“An opportunity to eavesdrop.” Sicarius brushed the cobwebs and dust off his black clothing, though he knew he’d return to the ducts again shortly. “Ravido has taken the Barracks.”

“Not surprising,” Books said. “I’m sure he moved quickly and without asking permission.”

Sespian scowled. “Did he wait a week after the announcement of my death to move in? Or was he taking over the imperial suite the very next day?”

“The same day,” Sicarius said.

“Lovely,” Sespian said.

“That’s disgusting,” Akstyr said. “He’s probably in your bed right now, sheet wrangling with some serving wench.”

“Ravido is married,” Books said. “Or he was. I wonder if he’s learned of Mari’s death.”

“Do you think being married would matter?” Akstyr asked. “If he’s half as horny as Maldynado…”

Sicarius was on the verge of saying something to end the pointless diversion, but Sespian spoke first.

“I doubt Ravido has time for wrangling anyone right now. Regardless, I hadn’t moved out of my childhood suite, the last year having been rather fraught and busy.” Sespian scowled again, and Sicarius wondered what wringers the Forge people had mashed him through since Hollowcrest’s death. He had the impression they’d started applying pressure promptly. He’d like more details, but Sespian still didn’t deign to talk to him without Amaranthe in the room, encouraging them to “bond.”

Sespian released the scowl and met Sicarius’s gaze. “I don’t suppose you saw a tan-colored cat with dark brown paws and a mask when you were eavesdropping about, did you?”

“A cat?” Sicarius had been thinking of pains his son had endured in the previous year, and he was worried about… a cat?

Sespian cleared his throat. “Yes, I’ve been worried… I mean, it’s just a pet of course.” His wave of dismissal wasn’t genuine. “But I’m hoping someone’s been feeding him, and that he hasn’t met with… trouble with all those extra soldiers stomping about.”

“I have not seen such a cat,” Sicarius said.

Books patted Sespian on the shoulder, drawing a quick, sad smile.

Sicarius realized that he’d done something wrong-again-in dealing with his son. He should have offered sympathy, or at least the appearance of sympathy. He didn’t know if it was within him to honestly dredge up such an emotion, but the trying might matter to Sespian. Yet Sespian would shy away from a hand pat from him, and that would leave him feeling… awkward. That emotion he could somewhat understand. Unfortunately.

“I will watch for it going forward.” Sicarius pointed to the vent. “Come. I will lead the way to Hollowcrest’s suite.”

“Maybe your cat will be in there, pissing on the old general’s shoes,” Akstyr said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Sespian chuckled. “He has a feisty streak.”

Halfway through the vent opening, Sicarius paused to stare at him. How could Akstyr’s crude, ill-considered comment evoke laughter. Pleasure?

Sespian caught the stare and shrugged self-consciously. “I may have trained, er, encouraged him to do such things. When I was much younger of course.”

“How much younger?” Books asked, his eyes sly.

“Uhm, not as young as you’d think for something like that.”

Akstyr smirked. “He was probably eighteen.”

Feeling the conversation had grown pointless again, Sicarius headed into the ductwork. The others would follow. And if they didn’t… he wasn’t positive he wanted people digging into Hollowcrest’s old files and snooping into his past. He doubted there was anything aristocratic in his heritage that would change the populace’s opinion of Sespian’s right, as an assassin’s son, to rule. Amaranthe was being idealistic. Or maybe she’d designed this side trip so that Sespian would have a glimpse into the harsh childhood Hollowcrest and Emperor Raumesys had inflicted on Sicarius. No doubt she thought it’d evoke sympathy in the boy. Sicarius did not blame her for trying-he’d come to appreciate that she cared enough to do so-but some things were best left forgotten.

He reached the vertical duct that led to the upper floors and paused, listening for the scuffs and exhalations that would tell him the others followed. Akstyr and Books bumped their elbows and knees against the tile walls numerous times. It pleased him that Sespian moved more quietly, as if he’d had training in the art of stealth. Weaponsmaster Orik’s lessons must have been more thorough than Sicarius realized-or Sespian less adept at evading them than he’d heard.

“Make no noise as we climb,” Sicarius said when the others, Books and Akstyr in particular, were close enough to hear. “As we continue, the ducts will travel between floors and room walls. People inside will be able to hear noises.”

Not surprisingly, the grunts of acquiescence held a sullen undertone. Sicarius found it interesting that Amaranthe always managed to command the men without evoking similar displays of disgruntlement.

Sicarius removed her from his thoughts. He would need his concentration for climbing and remaining silent. It would not do for him to make noise.

Hot air swirled about him as they climbed up the shaft. The main arterials of the hypocaust system were made from ceramic tile, and the grouted spots between them offered the only semblances of handholds. He ascended, his palms alternately pressing to either side, feet likewise braced. His mind flashed to a recent instance where he’d been in a similar position, wedged into that smokestack on the steamboat with Amaranthe, her body scant inches from his. It took more effort to push that memory out of his thoughts, but he did so ruthlessly, reminded of Hollowcrest’s oft-repeated words, “A distracted warrior is a dead warrior.”

When he reached the third floor, where the suites of the royal family, commander of the armies, and honored guests awaited, he slipped into the horizontal duct that led to Hollowcrest’s old office. He had to wait for the others to catch up and, to keep his mind from straying into distracted territory again, ran through a sensory check-touch, smell, sound, feel-of the dark area. He did such checks automatically, whether he thought of them or not, but the formality of raising it to a conscious level occupied his mind in an acceptable manner.

He turned his nose toward the darkness ahead, detecting… what? He sniffed. It was the Nurian smoke again.

“We’re all here,” Sespian whispered.

“I know.” Despite testing the environment, Sicarius had been aware of the others reaching the horizontal duct and crawling into it. “Come.”

He swirled through the maze of ducts he’d memorized long ago, bringing them into the wall between Hollowcrest’s rooms and the guest suite to their side. One of the vents opened to the bedchamber and another to the office. Sicarius veered toward the latter. As expected, darkness filled the room beyond the grate. The air smelled stale-nobody had opened a window and freshened the suite in some time. Good. Sicarius had begun to wonder if they would encounter the other intruder, going to the same place as they were, but the ducts had branched a few times since he’d last smelled the smoke odor.

Using one of his more versatile picks-and painstaking patience-he once again unfastened the vent screws from within. Soundlessly, he set the metal grate to the side and slipped out. While the others exited, he prowled about, ensuring his first instinct had been correct and that the rooms were indeed empty. He checked the main door leading into the hall and found it locked, no doubt to discourage casual snooping. He wondered who had the key.

“I pulled the curtain so nobody will see any light,” Books was saying when Sicarius returned to the office. “Any thoughts on where we should start searching?”

“Yes.”

In the darkness, Sicarius walked to a coal stove in the corner and pushed one of the rear legs with his toe. He didn’t hear the secret door open, but its draft stirred his hair. In the narrow, windowless room inside, he had pulled several files out of cabinets by the time Books lit his lantern and found him.

“This is disappointing,” Akstyr said when he stepped inside. He ticked a nail against one of the featureless wooden cabinets that lined one wall. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases occupied the others. There was barely room inside to squeeze past the desk and sit in the chair. “You’d expect a secret inner chamber to be more interesting than a little office.”

“By interesting, do you mean full of decapitated heads and various other grisly trophies of defeated enemies?” Books asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“My fath- the emperor’s tastes were more along those lines.” Sespian squeezed into the room behind Akstyr.

“Can we visit his offices?”

“No,” Books said.

Aware of the confined space and the number of people blocking the exit, Sicarius twitched a finger toward Books, then left the files on the desk and returned to the main suite where there’d be room to maneuver in a fight. He would have liked to remove himself further from the conversation, which devolved into further speculation from Akstyr on what the old emperor’s vices might have been, but was reluctant to leave Sespian unguarded. Sicarius should check on the imperial suite though. It wasn’t much farther down the hall, and Amaranthe would want to know what Ravido planned next. He might have left documents secured in his new quarters.

Of course, if Sicarius simply killed Ravido, the general’s plans would be moot, and Forge would have to pause to develop a new strategy. Nebulous and elusive, the organization itself would be difficult to decapitate, especially if its members continued to hide behind their technology, but Ravido was a single man, a single target, one who might be on this floor of the Barracks at this very moment.

A throat cleared. “Hear something?”

It was Sespian. He had returned to the larger office and was probably wondering why Sicarius stood motionless, staring at the door.

“No,” Sicarius said. In truth, three people had walked by in the hallway while he’d been contemplating assassinations, but none of their footfalls had slowed down, so he judged them inconsequential.

“Do you think…?” Sespian started, then faltered. He plucked at the seam of his trousers.

Sicarius faced him and attempted to look approachable, though facial expressions were not his strength, especially when he was trying. Between his weapons, his black attire, and the shadows, he’d probably fail utterly at “approachable” anyway. “Yes?” he asked, settling on an oral prompt.

“If Ravido is in the Barracks,” Sespian said, “maybe we should do something about him while we’re here.”

By now, Sicarius knew that “do something about him,” didn’t mean kill him, at least not when Sespian or Amaranthe said it. “Such as?”

“I don’t know. Kidnap him?”

“To what end?” Sicarius imagined Amaranthe trying to talk Ravido over to their side. He doubted it’d be possible, but watching her attempt to do so might elicit sensations of levity.

“If we could keep him away from Forge and the army while we enact our plan…”

Killing him would be much easier. Sicarius resisted the urge to say it, though the dozens of difficulties inherent in a kidnapping stampeded into his mind. Even if they found Ravido alone, how could they force him to navigate the ducts-or drag his unconscious body through them-without making noise? Sicarius ought to squash the notion, but if nothing came of his backup plan, and Sespian ended up back on the throne, he’d have to take orders from the boy eventually. That had been what he wished once, he recalled, what he’d had in mind when he poisoned Raumesys.

“I will check to see if Ravido is here,” Sicarius said. “It’s moot otherwise.”

“Agreed. And don’t… I know what you must be thinking. Please don’t take it into your hands to kill him. While I have no reason to love the man and admit there’s a certain practicality to the idea, I can’t win the throne back that way. I don’t deserve it if I have to become the very monsters I wish to displace. Besides, in the people’s eyes, if I had him assassinated, I’d be no better than…” Sespian had been looking Sicarius in the eyes as he spoke, but he broke contact now, studying the floor instead. “It wouldn’t be a popular choice with the people or the rest of the warrior caste. Given that I’m no longer the automatic blood choice, I’ll need a majority vote from the Company of Lords to be reappointed. They’d only approve of me eliminating Ravido if I bested him in a duel or some blood-flinging, eye-gouging, one-on-one grappling competition. Those aren’t exactly my fortes.”

Though Sespian grimaced as he spoke those last sentences, Sicarius wondered if the thoughts represented an opportunity. “If you feel you’re deficient in martial endeavors, I could instruct you.”

“Uhhhh,” Sespian said, drawing out the syllable in a way that ensured a rejection would follow.

“I have trained the others. They are better fighters for it.”

“I don’t-”

“I know you prefer cerebral solutions to problems, but, as you said, the people will want a strong warrior to rally behind.” Sicarius knew he was “trying too hard,” as Amaranthe would say it, and he lifted a hand to signify he was backing away from the argument.

“I’ll think about it,” Sespian said.

Not an outright objection. Good.

“I’ll see if Ravido is here.” Sicarius paused, thinking Sespian might volunteer to come along. He’d be more efficient on his own, but found himself hoping for his company nonetheless.

“Thank you,” was all Sespian said and headed back into the secret room.

Sicarius bowed his head. So be it.