Forged in Blood II

Chapter 14

High above the factory floor, Sicarius sat cross-legged in the rafters, his chin propped on his fist, watching as men came and went below. Actually, he was watching Amaranthe’s door. She’d spent the remains of the night putting her team together, all of her usual men plus Yara and Sespian, then retreated “to get some sleep,” as she’d said. He should be resting, too, as the night would doubtlessly be a busy one, but he kept wondering if she was in there, plagued by nightmares. Before this… divergence with Kor Nas, he’d promised to teach her how to meditate. It would be negligent of him to rescind his offer now, but if he showed up at her door, would she think he expected more? Did he still? With so much fresh blood on his hands?

He sighed. He appreciated his freedom from the practitioner, and from the others who had caged him before and made his decisions for him, but admitted life was simpler when all one had to do was follow orders.

The back door banged open, and two young people entered amidst snow flurries. Starcrest’s daughter walked side-by-side with a relative of the professor’s, judging by the fair complexion. Speaking rapidly to each other, they were too involved with their conversation to shut the door-or acknowledge a half-asleep soldier on the floor who complained about the draft. With their arms full of shopping bags, they headed for the stairs. The lettering on the bulging canvas sacks read Madolich’s Insect Farm and Emporium in large text and in small print underneath: Lizard food, medicinal ants, venom sacs, and more!

Sicarius was familiar with the establishment, though he hadn’t visited in some time. A wizened woman who worked in the attic sold poison-making supplies. He wondered what sort of concoction the pair might come up with that could be used in a large-scale application.

They climbed the catwalk and the girl used her elbow to thump on a door. Starcrest himself answered, listened to their words, and watched the excited gestures, then pointed them toward the cafeteria. They scampered back down the stairs.

Instead of returning to the office-from his perch, Sicarius glimpsed other men sitting inside, including Sespian-Starcrest stepped to the railing and surveyed the floor. He yawned and rubbed his face. Taking a break? No, there was more to it than that; he was looking for something.

Sicarius sat taller. He didn’t have any reason to think Starcrest might want to speak with him, but might it not be so? He hadn’t decanted his information on Flintcrest’s camp, troop numbers, and last heard plans. Starcrest hadn’t asked for the intelligence, but he would doubtlessly find it useful.

Then why haven’t you talked to him yet, he asked himself.

Sicarius didn’t know where he stood with the admiral, not after coming to the factory with the intent of assassinating him. Twenty years earlier, they had parted… not as friends precisely, but not as enemies. It had taken time for Sicarius to unravel the admiral’s last words to him and to understand his reasons for not continuing to serve the emperor. A part of him wanted to tell Starcrest that he understood now, but an unfamiliar feeling of trepidation left him reluctant to speak with the admiral alone. Odd how one could face a boyhood hero as a youth, filled with confidence in one’s own abilities, brazen in one’s beliefs as to his own superiority, and not be intimidated at all. Now, older, he was less certain of the world and his place in it than he’d ever been.

Starcrest’s gaze lifted toward the rafters. Sicarius wasn’t hiding-if he were, no one would see him-but simply sitting where he could observe and nobody could approach him unaware. The admiral’s eyes met his. His face was hard to read. Interesting turnabout. Starcrest pointed toward the third office door, the one that Books and Akstyr had given up for him, and arched an eyebrow. An invitation?

Starcrest stepped inside, leaving the door open. Sicarius stood, trotted along the beam, and dropped onto the catwalk by the office.

Though bedrolls were spread for two, and Kyattese journals and notes cluttered the desk, only Starcrest waited inside. He stood, hands clasped behind his back in a loose parade rest.

Unconsciously, Sicarius came to a military-style attention, heels together and back straight, as Hollowcrest had once demanded from him when he was delivering reports. He launched into a description of Flintcrest’s numbers, last known location, and camp layout, followed by a point-by-point analysis of the general’s defensive and offensive capabilities.

“Thank you,” Starcrest said at the end, a hint of amusement in his voice. It made Sicarius wonder if he’d already possessed the information, via spies of his own. “It is good that you were able to keep your wits about you during your ordeal.”

As always, Sicarius kept his wince internal. “Yes, sir.”

“I appreciate your thorough report, but it was actually a personal matter about which I wished to speak with you. A matter of curiosity.”

“Yes, sir?” Sicarius wondered why he felt like a youth again, seeking to impress a tutor with his rigid attentiveness. Oh, he recognized the psychological reasons, but he’d thought he would be past seeing Starcrest as more than a man. He’d thought he might… what? Ask him out to the drinking house to become inebriated and swap stories of adventures they’d had? An unlikely scenario given that Sicarius didn’t drink and few Turgonian warriors would be delighted by tales of assassination.

“Nearly twenty years ago, I sent sealed letters to old colleagues and relatives over here,” Starcrest said. “They included instructions not to be opened until a certain date which came and went some years ago. Emperor Raumesys was alive at the time. I had assumed there’d be, if not retaliation, at least some action taken when the contents were revealed to him. I believe you were still working for him then. Do you know anything about this matter?”

“Yes, sir,” Sicarius said. “It was revealed that the Kyatt Islands were originally claimed by Turgonian colonists, and that when the first Kyattese explorers landed, they sought the chain for themselves. They used a plague to weaken our ancestors, then kill them, so they couldn’t report back to the mainland.” Our ancestors, he’d said without thinking, forgetting that Hollowcrest’s records proclaimed him half Kyattese. But he’d been raised here. He’d never think of himself as anything other than Turgonian.

“I see. You know quite a lot about it then.”

“I was there when the emperor and Hollowcrest read the letter.”

Starcrest cocked his head. “What was their response?”

“Hollowcrest seemed indifferent, though he rarely grew impassioned about anything, at least not visibly.”

“Yes, the few times I met him, he struck me as… passionless, yes.”

Sicarius sensed that was a more civil word than Starcrest had first thought to use. “The emperor was livid. He wished to attack the Kyattese and reclaim the islands. Our ships were on alert in the Gulf at the time, due to all of the pirate raids, and Hollowcrest talked Raumesys into delaying hostilities. The emperor reluctantly agreed, but did wish to send an assassin to kill you.”

No hint of surprise made its way to Starcrest’s face. He nodded as if he’d expected nothing else. “You being the assassin who was in the room, I’ll assume he wished to give you the job.”

“Yes, sir. I refused it. That was when I looked up your postal address and tried to mail a warning. Your questions now lead me to believe it never arrived. I am not surprised.”

“Yes, either the emperor’s spies or the Kyattese government may have intercepted it. The Kyattese were particularly twitchy then-though presidents have come and gone, their government remained aware of the threat. I must thank you then for-” Starcrest looked at himself, then Sicarius, and gestured to chairs. “There is no reason to stand in military stances while we speak. Please, relax.” He sat in one of the chairs.

Sicarius hesitated. Relaxing wasn’t something he did while discussing important matters with people, nor had he ever found sitting in chairs particularly calming. People could sneak up on someone sitting in a chair with its back to a door, and one could not easily spring into action from the seated position. As a boy, one of his tutors had always squatted when he grew weary of standing, and Sicarius had adopted the habit.

“They’re not as comfortable as a hammock on a Kyattese lanai, I’ll admit,” Starcrest said, “but they aren’t booby trapped. You needn’t look at them so suspiciously.”

“Yes, sir.” Sicarius shifted one of the chairs around so his back wouldn’t be toward the door and perched on the edge of the seat.

“As I was saying, I thank you for refusing to assassinate me. Twice now.” Starcrest gave him a dry half smile. “Or is it three times?”

“Three.”

“Last night, a few years ago, and… in the tunnels? Did you have orders to kill me if I didn’t accept the emperor’s offer?”

“Yes, sir. But you used your superior strategic mind to outmaneuver an inexperienced young assassin.”

“That’s what you told the emperor?” Starcrest asked.

“I thought I might receive less punishment that way. ‘I let him escape’ sounded unpromising.”

“Ah, and did you? Receive less punishment?”

“It is impossible to judge since I have no way of knowing what the punishment may have been had I voiced the more succinct phrase.”

“Of course.” Starcrest leaned back in the chair. “Sicarius, I regret that your associations with me have always resulted in pain for you.”

Sicarius almost whispered, “Me too,” but only gave another, “Yes, sir.” Those punishments were long past and inconsequential at this point.

“Is there anything I can do for you now? I would offer you the use of a guest bungalow on Tikaya’s land on Kyatt, but if you can’t relax in a chair, I can’t see you swimming in the surf and lounging on a beach. Though I do recommend the practice. After years of constant fighting, the tranquility is a relief. At least for a time. Until your mind grows restless and dreams up a new challenge. Note, I do not recommend taking up surfing as said new challenge. Well, perhaps in your case, it would not be disastrous. You’re an agile sort.”

Surfing? For… relaxation purposes? How odd. “I would find it difficult to lie on a beach, visible from afar, vulnerable to anyone who walks past on a bluff above.”

“Perhaps a deserted island would be more amenable to you than one full of people who might wish a Turgonian assassin… a bad day.”

“Yes, sir. Amaranthe has suggested seeking such a place.”

“Good. You two should go somewhere after this is over. Time out of the empire would do you both good, I suspect.”

“I… don’t think she’ll wish to go off with me now.” Sicarius didn’t know why he’d admitted that. He hoped his voice hadn’t sounded as plaintive as it had in his head. He should have simply repeated another, “Yes, sir.”

“Oh?”

Was it too late to voice that, “Yes, sir?” Sicarius suspected so. “During the short time I was Kor Nas’s slave, I killed and tortured many people for him. I did these things once for the emperor too, but found them less palatable this time. Of late, I have been less inclined to…” Sicarius was used to being able to say what he meant in a succinct manner. Why couldn’t he find the words to explain this? “This last year, working with Corporal Lokdon…” he’d already used her first name-why try to put distance between them now? “I resented the lack of a challenge in capturing and torturing the Forge women. They were not worthy opponents.” There’s more to it than that, Sicarius forced himself to acknowledge. “Amaranthe would not have used such tactics on them. She would not have needed them. Through working with her, I have not needed them. I have grown… accustomed to not needing them.”

“So, she’s made you a less cruel man, and you appreciate her for that.”

That was succinct enough, Sicarius supposed, though he’d always seen himself as pragmatic, rather than cruel. “Yes.”

“But you fear she’ll see this relapse as an unforgivable failing.”

“I did not fight Kor Nas as hard as I could have,” Sicarius said. “While he was sleeping, I could have killed myself to prevent him from using me so.”

“I doubt she would have wanted to see that.”

Sicarius said nothing.

Starcrest leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “When I was a junior officer, I had a captain who took an interest in developing my career, as good captains are wont to do. I performed my duties diligently, but he saw that I preferred my books or the machine-filled solitude of the engine room to working with other men. I was teased a bit in school, you see, for being younger than the others, and smaller, and rather bookish. I had faith in my ability to become an officer, but I’d always figured I’d be an engineering officer, someday to command a small crew below decks, a crew that I assumed would be made up of bookish sorts not dissimilar to myself. Captain Orndivit had other ideas. He forced me to spend time above decks, ordering around grizzled enlisted men twice my age and commanding the cannon crew when we went into battle. It was because I was up there that my ideas were heard, and I even took command once when the captain and first mate were injured and all manner of chaos descended upon us.”

“Ensign Starcrest and the Blockade Runners’ Revenge,” Sicarius said.

Starcrest blinked. “Pardon?”

“It’s a book.” Sicarius wasn’t one to blush, but he did feel a tad mortified at bringing up a fictional account of the story the admiral was trying to tell. He shouldn’t have spoken. Some delight at recognizing the favorite childhood tale had bestirred him.

“Ah, yes,” Starcrest said. “I’d forgotten about those. They don’t turn up much in Kyatt.”

“It details your adventures with Captain Orndivit. It doesn’t mention you being bookish and teased.”

“No, I’d imagine that some authors think military admirals are born knowing how to command men and outmaneuver enemies.” Starcrest pressed a finger to the desk. “My point is that Orndivit was the sort of man who made you uncomfortable by demanding the application of skills and traits you didn’t believe you possessed. It tended to make one a better man.”

“Yes,” Sicarius said. Starcrest understood. Amaranthe had been that person for him. Not just for him. Maldynado, Books, Akstyr, and Basilard were all different men-better men-than they had been a year earlier.

“Now, I don’t know Corporal Lokdon well enough to know which types of men she likes to go off to deserted islands with, but it’s my understanding that she’s taking personal responsibility-blame-for the crash of the ancient ship and the subsequent deaths of those trapped in Fort Urgot.”

“Typical,” Sicarius said.

“Command tends to be glorified, especially here in the empire, but it’s been my experience that the downsides often outweigh the upsides. In fact, the so-called upsides are typically greater responsibility, more pressure, and more work. Recognition from your superiors can be heartening, but it can never fully make the downsides go away. Those who are injured or killed as a result of your decisions, their spirits haunt you for the rest of your days, even when they belong to nameless people whom you’ve never met. Sometimes those are the worst. People whose deaths were incidental, part of the power plays of puppet masters they never knew and never cared to know.”

Sicarius thought the admiral should be having this discussion with Amaranthe rather than with him. More sensitive than he, she needed it more. He’d learned to harden himself long ago, and though he might have regrets now and then, few spirits haunted him. Perhaps, he mused, because he’d so rarely been in command. Always a puppet, never the master.

Starcrest seemed to be waiting for a comment.

“It is curious that people choose to seek out command positions,” Sicarius said.

That drew a sad chuckle. “Indeed, it is. Some people are driven to it though, by seeing unfairness or injustice in the world and believing that such calamities could be lessened if they took on the responsibility of leadership.”

“That is Amaranthe, yes.”

“I hope that in the end she will find that the prize-if there is one to be achieved in this situation-was worth the cost,” Starcrest said. “In the meantime, I suggest to you that she is probably not going to feel she’s in a position to judge you for anything you did under this wizard’s control. From what little I’ve seen of her, I doubt she would have anyway. Decisions you make under your own control, that might be a different matter.”

Yes, she’d always been disappointed in him-even when she hadn’t said it, he’d sensed it-for killing as a solution, even those who’d declared themselves their enemies. “I shall consider your words, sir.”

Starcrest nodded, and Sicarius believed himself dismissed. He headed for the door.

Starcrest spoke again. “Sicarius?”

“Sir?”

“Perhaps you already know this, having read the book, but Captain Orndivit was killed at the Battle of Savage Harbor.”

Sicarius nodded. “He fell in action along with his first mate, and you had to take command of the ship. Even though you weren’t the senior officer remaining, your force of will and what became known as the Wricht’s Channel Tactic caused the others to listen to your wisdom.”

“Force of will and wisdom, eh? That author certainly put a grandiloquent slant on me and those events. Regardless, my point is that Orndivit died before I had a chance to thank him for the encouragement that he gave me. Being eighteen and still having some of the surly stubbornness of youth, I was occasionally… if not disrespectful, then sullen about the lengths he forced me to-I often felt he was picking on me, over the other ensigns. It didn’t occur to me that he might have seen something in me that was worth drawing out. Anyway, it is one of my longest standing regrets-dear ancestors, it’s been over forty years now-that it was only after he was gone that I fully learned to appreciate the man.”

“I understand, sir.”

Hand on the doorknob, Sicarius didn’t move for a moment, wondering if he should let Starcrest know he appreciated him and his counsel, but he sensed that Starcrest would wave in dismissal of the idea. The admiral meant his story to apply to Amaranthe, not himself.

Still… “I appreciate your advice.”

The half smile returned, and Starcrest inclined his head once.

Sicarius stepped out of the office and approached the one two doors down. He knocked lightly, but didn’t receive a response. The door wasn’t locked so he eased it open.

There weren’t any lanterns burning, but some daylight crept in from the factory’s tall outside windows. Four sharpened pencils, all the same length, all in a tidy row, lay next to a sheet of paper with notes written in Amaranthe’s neat hand. Plans for the Barracks endeavor? It was too dim to read the page. He was more interested in checking on her, anyway. She occupied the blankets on the floor behind the desk, scrunched in a ball again, her back to the wall, though she wasn’t thrashing about this time. Her chest rose and fell with soft, regular breaths. Perhaps she’d been too exhausted for the nightmares to take hold.

Though Starcrest had inspired him to talk to her-to offer to teach her the meditation he’d promised before-Sicarius would not wake her up to do so. She desperately needed sleep. He thought of returning to his perch in the rafters to find rest of his own.

Or, you could lie down with her, he mused.

Would she mind, if he presumed to do so? He had promised to stand guard the last time they’d been alone together in this room, and she’d been amenable to the notion.

Careful not to touch her, lest it waken her, Sicarius lay down beside her and closed his eyes.

He drifted in and out of his meditative rest. Many hours passed before Amaranthe stirred. Her eyes remained closed, but she yawned and stretched out a hand. Her fingers bumped against his leg. Her face scrunched up, and she patted about, trying to identify the unexpected object.

“Musharup?” she mumbled, then blinked bleary eyes.

“I suspect I would need to consult Professor Komitopis for a translation before finding a suitable response for that,” Sicarius said.

“Oh. Hello.” She pushed the dyed hair out of her face, rubbed her eyes, found them crusty, and grimaced. “I see I’m looking my best for you. I wasn’t drooling, was I?”

“No.”

“Good.” Amaranthe pushed herself to a sitting position, the blanket falling about her lap. She looked him up and down, perhaps noting that he hadn’t removed his boots or knives. “Are you here to… stand guard?”

Sicarius knew what she meant, but pretended to misunderstand. “I have been doing that for several hours now.”

“Hours, eh? By yourself?”

He contemplated whether to respond. With her, there might be hours. By himself? Such needs could be taken care of more quickly. The topic seemed too crude to voice to her in blunt terms, and he was not practiced in coming up with humorous innuendoes.

When he didn’t answer, she blushed and waved away the joke, a sheepish expression on her face. He should have risked the faux pas and replied with an answer.

“Do you know what time it is? Or how much time we have before… er, what do you have in mind anyway?”

What did he have in mind? To see if she slept better when he was there, holding her in his arms. To see if she might sleep even better after a couple hours of vigorous horizontal exercise. All he said was, “Teaching you meditation.”

Her shoulders drooped. “Oh. It’s not that I don’t need that-and I appreciate your willingness to teach me-but I thought… I had something else in mind.”

“I did as well when I entered your room hours ago, but you were sleeping. Hard. You may have been drooling.”

Eyes chagrinned, she lifted a hand to her mouth. “I was? That’s not-you shouldn’t just… No, wait. I want you here. No matter how pathetic I look. It’s not as if you haven’t…” She squinted at him. “Are you… smirking?”

“No.” Sicarius flattened his lips into their usual deadpan expression.

“You were. I saw it. You’re teasing me, aren’t you? Was I really drooling?”

“No,” he said, more softly this time, and lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “I did not wish to wake you. We will be up all night.”

She swallowed and leaned her head into his hand. He cupped her cheek.

“How long do we have until it’s time to go?” she asked.

“A half hour.”

“That’s long enough to do… things.”

“Some of the others are milling downstairs, making preparations. Someone will doubtlessly come to ask you a question before it’s time to go.”

Amaranthe opened her mouth to voice some protest.

“I do not know if I could keep from throwing a knife at Sergeant Yara a second time,” he said bluntly.

She stared at him, her open mouth forming the word, “second,” though no noise came out. It didn’t take her long to remember what he was referring to, and her lips curved into a smile.

“Besides,” he said, letting his eyelids droop halfway. “I want those hours.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

“Days, perhaps.”

“Days?”

Still cupping the side of her face, he brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Days. I’ll bring water. Rations.”

“Not those awful bars,” she blurted.

“Hm.” Sicarius lowered his hand.

Amaranthe caught it and held it in her lap. “All right, you can bring them, but I insist on a couple of pastries as well.” She stared into his eyes, serious as she made this proposition.

She’d started stroking the back of his hand, her fingers tracing the tendons, and it distracted him. What had they been discussing? Appropriate food for sustaining physical exertion, yes. He ought to tell her that sugary treats weren’t suitable for activities requiring stamina, but a memory flashed through his mind, that smudge of frosting on her nose and his interest in… cleaning it off.

“A compromise would be acceptable,” he found himself saying.

“Good.” Her gaze lowered to his lips.

Was she contemplating a kiss? Her strokes to the back of his hand were already stirring sensations in his body, along with thoughts he’d been quelling while she slept. If she kissed him, he might forget his resolve to postpone their amorous acts until they had more time. Much could be done in a half hour. But a frenzied rush? Surely she’d want more. He wanted more for her, and for himself.

Amaranthe dropped her gaze to her lap. “Ah, meditation, was it?”

“Yes,” he said. Did his voice sound raspy? Odd. They hadn’t even kissed. He put more effort into finding his emotionless tone when he launched into an introduction of the history of meditation.

“You’re sure you don’t need hours for this too?” Amaranthe asked after a few minutes.

“It can be taught in stages.”

“I see. Carry on then, carry on.”

She kept stroking his hand while he spoke, eventually turning it over and running her fingers along his callouses. He prevailed against urges that called for him to drag her into his arms and show her exactly what he’d been thinking of while she slept. As he spoke, he did, however, indulge himself in the planning of what they’d do when they did find their hours.

All too soon, a knock came at the door. Amaranthe released his hand. It was time to go.