Forged in Blood II

Epilogue

On the third evening after the makarovi fight, Amaranthe left her room in Haiden Starcrest’s guesthouse. Haiden, the admiral’s nephew, tended the family businesses in the capital and kept an estate on Mokath Ridge. His home hadn’t been damaged during the fighting and, with order restored to the city, it had proven a safe and quiet place to recuperate. And mourn.

Amaranthe walked toward a granite bench that sat before a fountain in the center of the courtyard. All of the guest rooms opened up on it, though she didn’t know who was around. She hadn’t answered knocks to her door during the first couple of days. She’d been too busy staring at the wall with her back to the world. Her meals had been delivered by an incurious servant, and nobody else had intruded upon her rest. Rest. Could she call it that? She’d slept a lot, her body finally demanding it whether her mind found respite in it or not. Her nightmares had lingered, and she’d seen Books’s death in them over and over, often waking with a lurch to realize she’d been dreaming… then to further realize that, dream or not, he was still dead.

Having grown tired of her self-imposed exile, she sat on the bench, hoping someone might wander out to sit with her, but quietness embraced the house. Along with the benches, exotic potted plants surrounded the courtyard, creating numerous private nooks, but she didn’t hear anything beyond the gurgle of a fountain. Outside, the snow and ice had returned, but glass windows covered the ceiling and the southern wall, and the late afternoon sun peeping through the clouds warmed the interior. In defiance of the exterior climate, flowers bloomed, their scents lush and serene.

Amaranthe didn’t hear anyone approach over the flowing water, not that she would have heard his approach anyway, and twitched in surprise when the black-clad figure slid onto the bench beside her. He held a pair of scissors and a newspaper.

“Planning to cut out an article highlighting your heroics?” Amaranthe didn’t think any of the knocks had belonged to him. If she had, she would have risen, and invited him inside so she could slump against him for comfort. They’d all seemed too… emotional though. She’d feared Maldynado would be out there, wanting to drag her off to a brothel to share drinks, his idea of commiserating. She hadn’t had the heart for it. All of the deaths over the last weeks had been difficult, but the loss of a friend struck at one’s heart with far greater acuity than the demises of thousands of strangers. Books had been the one to warn her, the year before-it seemed so much longer ago-that the most profound lessons were taught by failure rather than success and that one often had to lose something to realize how much she’d appreciated it.

“No.” Sicarius handed her the newspaper.

She didn’t yet know what it said or why he was sharing it, but she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I appreciate you,” she whispered.

A single blond eyebrow twitched. “Good.”

Sicarius was clean-shaven and smelled faintly of soap. He wore fresh black clothing-where did he find those identical, fitted, humorless outfits, anyway? — but for once wasn’t wearing his armory of knives. Though she knew he was still deadly without them, he seemed… not exactly naked, but like a man strolling about in his pajamas. A man at rest.

It had taken her a while to summon the strength to care, but she’d eventually bathed and combed the snarls, soot, and dried makarovi guts from her hair. Her clothing wasn’t new, but she’d washed and pressed it. She needed to go out and find something appropriate for Books’s funeral, but she didn’t want to venture into the city. She was glad Starcrest and Sespian had taken over planning… whatever it was they were planning. The world didn’t seem to need her, and for once she was glad to be forgotten.

“Are you going to read it?” Sicarius asked. “Front page.”

“Here we are in a pleasant courtyard, being serenaded by a gurgling fountain and enjoying lush fragrances one wouldn’t normally find in the winter. I thought you might like to enjoy the moment with me.”

“I could read the article to you.”

Amaranthe hoped his determination to share it with her meant it was good news. She was ready for good news. This rare display of impatience piqued her humor for the first time in days-after all, he was someone who could perch unmoving in the rafters for six hours, waiting for his prey to walk by.

“Really?” she asked. “You’ve never offered to read to me. May I lie on my back with my head in your lap and gaze up at you while you do so?”

Sicarius stared at her, his usual unreadable self, and she was about to pick up the paper, when he said, “Describe the gaze.”

“What?”

“Your gaze. What kind would it be?”

She had the feeling he was trying to be humorous, and though it didn’t sound particularly natural, she went with it. “Oh, an adoring gaze of course. Will that be acceptable?”

“Sufficient for now.”

Sufficient? What kind of gaze had he been hoping for? Hm.

Sicarius set down his scissors, took back the newspaper, and lifted his arms. Amaranthe rearranged herself on the bench, her back against the cool stone, and paused, her elbows braced. She hadn’t actually expected him to say yes to this scenario. Though there was nothing menacing about his features, at least not to her eyes-others never failed to find his expressionless facade menacing-but she couldn’t decide if they were actually inviting. She needed to teach him to smile. Even if it was only when they were alone.

“Sespian and I discussed this failing,” Sicarius said.

“What?”

“My inability to be… encouraging. Which facial expression or body posture would be appropriate now?”

Amaranthe blinked. “A smile is always appropriate. Surely you’ve heard the term encouraging smile?”

“I considered it, but thought you might believe I had an agenda.”

“Do you… always think this much when you’re deciding whether to emote?” She didn’t know if “emote” was the right word for those rare eyebrow twitches, but he’d know what she meant.

“Yes.”

Ah, she shouldn’t be surprised. “And… do you have an agenda?” She glanced at the scissors. Why had he brought them? Dare she hope he had a haircut in mind?

“Yes.”

Amaranthe waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

“Well…” She tried her own encouraging smile. “Maybe we have the same agenda.”

“An appealing notion.” Sicarius hesitated, then patted his leg.

Amaranthe decided not to tell him that’d be more appropriate for inviting a dog into his lap. Her elbows were getting tired anyway. She lay back the rest of the way, shifting about until she found a thigh sufficient for a pillow.

His lips parted, and she thought he’d say something more, but he looked at the newspaper and read instead. “Fleet Admiral Starcrest’s reappearance in the empire has brought what could have been an ugly and prolonged civil war to an end.” Sicarius’s tone was terse and clipped as always, and Amaranthe decided he’d never succeed as an orator or storyteller. She enjoyed having him read to her nonetheless.

“Only two lords remain of the Company of Lords,” Sicarius continued, “the ancient organization having been decimated by cowardly assassinations ordered by Ravido Marblecrest. Rather than electing new members, the survivors opted to dissolve the Company in favor of a new government paradigm being discussed by many, but being spearheaded by Starcrest. Proceedings are being held at the University auditorium and participation is open to those who wish to shape the future of Turgonia. Before the dissolution of the Company, its remaining members voted to place Lord Flintcrest in exile for treason and crimes against the throne, given that former Emperor Sespian Savarsin was still alive at the time of his would-be usurpation. Ravido Marblecrest was put to death for the assassinations of members of the Company of Lords, for setting explosives in the Imperial Barracks, and for his ghastly decision to bring makarovi into the city as part of his scheme. The deaths attributed to those monsters number over one hundred and fifty.”

Amaranthe wondered if Ravido had truly had a hand in the bombs, or if those had been the work of disaffected Forge lackeys deciding that if their side couldn’t run the Barracks, nobody else would either. If he was dead, it hardly mattered now.

Sicarius had paused, and he watched Amaranthe for a moment before continuing on. “Lord Heroncrest, another plotter against the throne, was also sent into exile, his death being promised should he return to Turgonian shores. In addition to attacking the loyal troops of the ignobly destroyed Fort Urgot, the siege determined that all the soldiers were locked inside the walls when the mystery craft crashed upon the site, destroying the fort and those poor, noble warriors within. The date of their funeral pyre will be announced, along with an awards ceremony to recognize the fallen.”

Amaranthe stared at the frost-lined panes of the ceiling windows. “So. Heroncrest gets the blame for that. I never even met Heroncrest. He was probably the most innocuous of those vying for the throne. No mention of how my squabble with the Forge people caused the craft to crash in the first place, eh?”

“No,” Sicarius said.

“This last year, I’ve come to think it terribly unjust to be blamed for crimes one didn’t commit. I fear it’s also terribly unjust not to be blamed for crimes one did commit.”

“You did not commit a crime; your recklessness merely resulted in deaths.”

“Thank you, I feel so much better now.” Amaranthe searched his eyes for judgment, but, despite his knack for the blunt, did not find any. No, not after he’d been that wizard’s pawn, killing and doing only he knew what else as a slave. He couldn’t be blamed for any of that, but the deaths had been at his hands nonetheless. No, he wouldn’t judge her. He might be the only one who understood fully. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m sure that’ll always be a difficult subject for me to hear about.” She wondered if it’d be hypocritical of her to attend the funeral pyre for those fallen men. Maybe so, but it might be worse for her not to.

“In regard to not being blamed for crimes you committed, Admiral Starcrest says it’s worse to be rewarded and praised when there are as many allies dead at your feet as enemies.”

“Yes, he understands too.” Amaranthe studied those panes a little longer, looking at the fading daylight and the deepening frost. “Sicarius, I don’t know Sespian’s mind on the matter, but… Starcrest is the logical next leader of Turgonia.”

Sicarius nodded once. “I had that in mind when I sent that letter.”

“You did? I thought you mainly wanted his and his wife’s help to deal with the ancient technology.”

“Yes, but he was also the logical choice for a ruler. As a Crest, his blood is good enough for those who care about such matters, and the reputation he gained when he was on active duty assured the adoration of the general populace. If anything, his reputation has grown in the last twenty years. In addition, he was the only person in the empire who could ensure peace amongst other nations. The tie to Kyatt assures they wouldn’t place themselves as enemies, and Nuria would not dare to take up arms against him either. More, he is respected amongst Nurians. Even the Mangdorians, Kendorians, and desert city-states have heard of him.”

“You were thinking of all that when you wrote that letter? I had… no idea you cared as to who ended up on the throne.”

“I did not foresee Sespian winning the position when word of his heritage got out. I thought he would approve of this alternative.”

“All along, I thought I was running things,” Amaranthe said, “and here it turns out you’re the mastermind.”

Sicarius touched his chin. “Here.”

“Pardon?”

“Your gaze of adoration. It’s focused on the window currently.”

She grinned and gazed at him. “I apologize.”

“Accepted.” He rattled the paper. “Do you wish me to continue?”

“Yes.”

“You may be further disturbed.”

Amaranthe’s grin faded. Her team hadn’t been mentioned yet. Would it be mentioned at all? Would that be so bad? She’d longed for a place in the history books once, but she wasn’t sure how history would see her at this point. “Go on,” she said.

“Admiral Starcrest, with family in tow, has not commented on whether his return to the empire will be permanent or not. Many pundits are tossing his name about as a logical leader for the new government that’s being bandied about.” Sicarius lowered the paper to say, “They’re relying heavily on Books’s constitution. Mancrest, Starcrest, and many top officers, professors, and notable non-warrior-caste citizens are being consulted and amendments are being made, but his work will not be forgotten.”

Tears welled in Amaranthe’s eyes. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Sicarius lifted the paper again. “The missing food stores that were a concern have been restored, and Admiral Starcrest admits he made the aqueducts appear to be damaged as a tactic to force the hands of those illegally vying for the throne. In fact, the water supply was never in danger and full service has been returned to the city. Starcrest, injured in the action, is grateful for the support from the city and trusts no further military actions will be required to ensure peace.”

Amaranthe snorted. Sespian had been so worried that they were treading a questionable line, but in comparison to the makarovi and the bombings, Starcrest’s tactics were so insignificant that everyone would doubtlessly forget them. Some historian would praise them for turning the tide in the skirmishes.

“Also,” Sicarius continued reading, “Admiral Starcrest wishes to make known the role Amaranthe Lokdon and a team of wrongfully-accused outlaws, including the assassin Sicarius and the deceased professor Marl ‘Books’ Mugdildor played in saving the city and himself from tragedy. Though they had no hope of reward for themselves, they fought the makarovi toe-to-toe and ultimately came up with the tactic that slew the vile creatures. In addition, they rid the city of much of its criminal element, sending the looting gangs to a similar fate as to the makarovi.”

“The assassin Sicarius,” Amaranthe said. “It sounds strange without the usual adjectives in front of it. Nefarious. Insidious. Cowardly. Does this mean people will stop trying to shoot you?”

“Doubtful. Starcrest wasn’t able to convince the two remaining curmudgeons on the Company of Lords to remove my bounty. He said he’d try again when the new government has taken power. Your bounty has been cleared though.”

“Oh, good.” She ought to feel more jubilant, she supposed. Hadn’t all of this started because she’d wanted to clear her name? She’d always imagined that victory would be more… triumphant. And less bloody. Why, she didn’t know; it wasn’t as if Turgonia had a history of bloodless victories. “What about Maldynado’s bounty? I know that two hundred and fifty ranmyas bothers him terribly.” Though the paucity of the amount had always bothered him more than the fact that it was being offered for his head.

“It remains.” Sicarius opened to the second page and pointed to the continuation of the front-page story. “I won’t read it all to you, but the Marblecrests are all being regarded with suspicion due to Ravido’s choices. The family has been tasked with funding the rebuild of the new government headquarters.”

“It’s not clear that Maldynado was disowned and didn’t have anything to do with the rest of his family’s scheming?”

“He is trying to make it clear. There is resistance.”

“The poor fellow is never going to get his statue,” Amaranthe said.

“He’s lobbying Starcrest now.”

Amaranthe chuckled. “No shame at all.”

“Now that I have read for you, I would request a favor.” Sicarius touched the scissors beside him on the bench.

“A… haircut?” Dared she hope he’d finally let her tidy that blond nest?

“You have not been answering your door. I believed it might take a long-coveted prize to convince you to rejoin the rest of the world. And me.”

“You think I’d consider cutting your hair a prize?”

“You have often expressed the desire to do so.”

“Maybe it would delight my… fastidious streak.” Amaranthe smiled. “You don’t have to sacrifice your recalcitrant locks for me though. As for rejoining the world, I was just waiting for the right person to knock on my door.” That said, she was glad that he’d waited. Two days earlier, she would have wept all over him and left snotty streaks on his pristine black sleeves. Not much of a prize for him.

Sicarius lifted the scissors and held them out to her. He still wanted to let her do it? Even after she’d let him off the hook?

“You wish to look tidy for the funeral ceremony?” Amaranthe asked.

“I wish to look tidy for you.”

She swallowed. “That’s… thoughtful, but I like you fine the way you are. Well, we could work on your smiles, but physically you’re very… nice.” She blushed, reminded that she was lying in his lap. And that they were alone in the courtyard.

“You do not wish to cut it?” Sicarius asked.

“Oh, I’ve dreamed of cutting it since I met you. I don’t want you to think it’s some kind of requirement though, that I’m only willing to be seen in public with men with tidy locks.”

“I understand. Shall we do it in your room?”

Amaranthe suspected they were talking about more than haircuts, but either way, her answer was, “Yes.”

She lifted her head, and he helped her up. He handed her the scissors and gestured for her to lead the way. She opened the door to her room and walked about, lighting lamps. It had grown dim while he’d been reading.

Though comfortable, with a large bed, a desk, and a private tub and lavatory, it was a single room, and she grew aware of the fact that the bed dominated it.

Amaranthe avoided looking at it and pulled out the chair at the desk. “Have a seat.”

Sicarius removed his shirt. The lantern light drew attention to his lean, powerful back and torso, the valleys between his muscles delineated by shadow, the bronze contoured flesh taut even when he was relaxed.

“Uhm,” Amaranthe said as he folded his shirt and laid it on the desk. “It’s not necessary to disrobe for, ah…” He turned to face her, and she found herself staring at his pectoral muscles. “Never mind,” she said. “Sit down, please.”

He sat on the chair fully, not on the edge, like an animal poised to flee. He’d once remarked that his reason for cutting his own hair was that he wouldn’t trust anyone near his neck with a blade. When had that changed?

Amaranthe moved a mirror from the washbasin to the desk. Even if he trusted her, it might make him less uneasy if he could watch what she was doing. She pulled out a comb. Its wide teeth were meant for her thick locks rather than short tufts, but it would do.

Amaranthe positioned herself behind him and tried to comb his hair into order. Though she’d touched it a few times before, for some reason she always expected it to be coarse and prickly, a reflection of his personality. It was clean and soft, though, a pleasure to stroke, even if those strokes didn’t cause it to lie down nicely. She used her hand as much as the comb, letting her fingers trail down the side of his neck to brush his collarbone and those lovely shoulder muscles.

She wondered what he used for shampoo. Nothing scented that might give him away to some enemy, but would she catch a whiff of some cleaning agent if she lowered her nose to his scalp? She imagined those soft hairs tickling her skin and had an urge to turn the imagined into reality.

Under the pretext of addressing some knot, she lowered her face as she applied the comb and inhaled subtly. It was his scent that filled her nostrils, not that of some shampoo. Warm skin, freshly scrubbed, without the odor of weapons-cleaning oil that usually lingered about him. She didn’t mind that smell, indeed associating it with him, but it tickled her that he’d cleaned up so thoroughly for… his haircut. Maybe he’d remembered her words about preferring her lovers to be free of makarovi gore.

“We will not be disturbed,” Sicarius said.

Startled, Amaranthe stood up straight. It was silly but she was embarrassed, as if appreciating his scent while pretending to do something else was like being caught sampling flat cakes she hadn’t paid for. “What?”

“Sespian and the rest of the team have gone out to drink to Books’s memory, and the Starcrests are retrieving their other children from the family homestead.”

“So… you’re saying we have the guesthouse to ourselves?”

“For many hours.”

“Indeed?” Amaranthe squeaked, then cleared her throat. She distinctly remembered their previous discussion revolving around the word.

In the mirror, his dark eyes were intent, full of purpose. Their intensity was alluring, filling her with the heat of anticipation, but they made her nervous as well. What if, after all this time, she disappointed him?

“Let me wet down your feisty tufts then. I’m sure since you arranged so much privacy for us, you’d like me to do a good job.”

Amaranthe took a deep breath and told herself to get on with things and not burble. He was probably getting impatient. But Sicarius appeared relaxed as he watched her watching him. Even… pleased.

She retrieved a pitcher of water to dampen his defiant locks. Once she’d flattened them as much as possible, she lifted the scissors and considered where to start. The top she supposed, to even out of all those tufts. She was about to make her first clip when he spoke.

“You’ve done this before?”

“Many times,” Amaranthe said.

“On dolls?”

She smiled, reminded of the time she’d admitted that her wound-stitching skills had come via that route. “Yes, on dolls, but also on my father. He couldn’t afford the barber, so when I was old enough, I started cutting his hair for him.” She waved the scissors. “Are you ready now? Or do I need to apply for more official credentials before I can begin?”

“You may begin.”

“I’m so pleased.”

Though he’d granted his permission, Amaranthe started with a single snip, waiting to see if he’d object or perhaps critique. He did not. As she went on, alternating between clipping and combing, he closed his eyes. From someone else, it would mean nothing. But from him… It had taken a year, but he’d finally come to trust her fully. She wondered if it was strange that it meant more to her than a declaration of love would have from another. She dabbed away moisture gathering in her eyes.

“Tilt your head forward, please,” she whispered, wanting to cut a clean line across the bottom.

He did so without comment, and she let her fingers stray again, knowing she was almost done and wanting to savor the experience. All right, she enjoyed touching that warm, sleek skin as well, following the contours of the sinews beneath. The explorations were easier with his head down, without worrying about what thoughts lay behind his eyes.

“Amaranthe,” Sicarius said, “are you finished?”

“Er, almost.”

She shifted to his front so she could trim his bangs. They had to be even. Aware of his face, scant inches from hers, she licked her lips and concentrated on keeping her hands from shaking as she worked.

He watched that movement, the darting of her tongue. His eyes didn’t seem so intimidating now. She recognized his intensity for urgency, yearning. How long had she experienced those same desires for him?

“Are you finished yet?” Sicarius’s muscles might have been relaxed when she’d started, but they were alert now, like those of a sprinter poised at the blocks, ready to surge forward at the starter’s shout.

“Almost,” Amaranthe whispered. She stepped back to properly assess the evenness of the cut and noticed his hand poised in the air, as if he was merely awaiting her signal to pull her into an embrace. As eager to move on as he, she would have welcomed it, but… “Not quite.” She leaned close again. “Your bangs are still a little crooked. You wouldn’t want to-”

Sicarius stood suddenly and his lips covered hers, finally hushing her… burble, that’s what he would call it. She might have voiced an indignant-if muffled-protest, but all thought fled from her mind as his arms wrapped about her, and their bodies molded together. Her senses came alive at the feel of those hard muscles against her chest.

The scissors clinked to the floor.

After a moment, he pulled away, a question in his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, a little breathless.

“I did not come for the haircut,” he said as if he were sharing some shameful secret.

Amaranthe kissed him on the cheek. “I figured that out.”

“You… do not mind?”

His uncertainty touched her, though she hadn’t expected it. That kiss they’d shared in the factory-there’d been no uncertainty in it. His time with the wizard had changed something, she sensed, reminded him that he did indeed possess human fallibility and… frailty. Amaranthe stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. She understood. Oh, yes, she understood.

“I don’t mind,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you, for this a long time.”

Relief warmed his eyes, and more… A smile touched his lips.

When she returned it-oh, how long she’d been waiting for that little gesture from him-Sicarius stepped closer again, their bodies not quite touching this time. Mirroring her, he lifted his hand to hold the side of her face and gazed into her eyes for a long moment, then let his fingers trail lower. Light as the snowflakes falling outside, they ran down the side of her neck to her collarbone, stopping at her top shirt button. Senses alight, she scarcely dared to breathe as his deft fingers made quick work of the buttons. He slipped her shirt from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

A distant part of her mind protested this careless cluttering of the floor, but the warmth of his body invited her to step in instead of away to pick it up. She slid her arms around his waist and delighted in pressing her bare chest against his. Something between a growl and a rumble of pleasure reverberated in his throat, and he, too, embraced her.

His lips captured hers once more, the uncertainty replaced with surety and desire. And a willingness to please that might have brought her to tears if her body wasn’t so busy responding… His lips strayed from her mouth to tease their way down the side of her neck, then to flesh far more sensitive and alive than that.

How long had she dreamed of this? She buried her face in his hair, this time not hesitating to inhale, to breathe in his scent. It had taken so much to get here; she wouldn’t deny herself these simple things now.

He turned, his arms around her to keep her from falling-as if she would have let go so that could happen. Two steps and she was on the bed, the soft fur blanket against her bare back contrasting with his hard body against her chest and between her legs. Her hands roamed, delighting in what she’d never dared do before, to taste what she’d never dared taste.

Sicarius rose to his elbows, meeting her eyes again. “Do you trust me?”

The question surprised her. She’d been so pleased that he trusted her… It hadn’t occurred to her that he would wonder if she felt the same way. A monster, he’d called himself more than once. A dangerous monster. Did he wonder if she’d be afraid of being so vulnerable before him?

“Yes. With my life.” She hesitated-he knew that-and added, “With everything.”

His pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. Their eyes held for a long time, and she decided it didn’t matter if he never grew into someone who would share his every thought; if he simply looked at her like that… it was already more than she’d ever expected from him.

“Don’t you think we’re a little overdressed?” She glanced down. “Though I see you did find a moment to take your boots off. Was that before or after you unbuttoned my shirt?”

“After.”

His hand drifted downward from her face, as did his gaze, and she stifled an embarrassed urge to drag a fur over herself. He’d seen her naked before, but she’d never been one to flaunt her body even before she’d earned the makarovi scars on her abdomen. She couldn’t help but think, too, of the various beautiful women she’d seen express their attraction for him over the last year. But there was nothing disappointed in his eyes or in his hands, as their caresses drew shivers and promised there’d be more to come.

“I have,” he murmured, as he helped her remove her trousers, “longed for the moment when I could openly look at you… and touch.”

Yes, looking and touching were definitely more thrilling than that pretending not to look when he strolled past with his shirt off after an exercise session, with his chest gleaming in the morning sun. “Oh?” she asked. “Was there un-open looking before?”

“Yes.”

She was more than a little titillated at the idea of him lusting after her from afar-all this time, she hadn’t known if he had any urges whatsoever, or if he sublimated them along with the rest of his feelings. She ran her hand up his arm, along his shoulder, and to the back of his neck. “What did you think of doing while you were looking?”

“Much. Often.”

Amaranthe snorted softly. Terse and cryptic, as always, but it was enough to excite her imagination. She no longer felt embarrassed by his appraisal, but intrigued by it. She dug her fingers into his hair, and whispered, “Show me.”

As if he’d been awaiting the command, he lowered his head for another kiss, this one less playful and more intense, his desire blatant and hungry. She opened up to him, wanting him to enjoy this as much as she was, hoping her enthusiasm would please him, as his surely did her.

She slid her fingers down his back, relishing the restrained power quivering beneath the surface, and helped him out of his trousers. He would have managed it himself eventually, she was sure, but his hands-and his lips and teeth too-were busy attending to her, sparking her own desire.

When they came together at last, it was as much a binding as a release. Oh, he’d call it something prosaic like a biological necessity being fulfilled, but his caresses, his soft kisses, the way he watched her eyes for signs of discomfort or distress, the way he smiled ever so slightly when she cried out his name… it all meant more to him than biology. She could tell, even if he didn’t say a word.

Once she’d likened Sicarius to a caged tiger, too dangerous to keep around if one didn’t want people hurt. Others had called him a trained dog, ready to kill at the drop of a flag. He was neither of course. He was a human being. One scarred by life, by fate. Just like her.

Once, she’d chastised herself for being attracted to the “amoral assassin,” but she’d been as much of a different person then as he had. This journey they’d survived together… it wouldn’t make sense to be at the end of it with anyone else. Not the end, she decided, but the beginning.

“Tears?” he asked, lying atop her, his weight propped on his elbows, though she’d claimed him with her legs and her arms, not ready to let him withdraw.

She hadn’t realized the tears were running down the sides of her flushed face until he caught them with the backs of his fingers. He kissed her eyes, a hint of a crinkle to his brow, worry that he’d done something to hurt her. She shook her head and smiled-funny that he’d worry about that now after all the times he’d ordered another torturous lap around the obstacle course or an impossible number of chin-ups.

“What?” Amaranthe asked. “You’ve never had women so overcome by your tender ardor that they wept?”

His eyebrows didn’t twitch, but he scrutinized her, and she imagined him calculating the appropriateness of various witty responses and rejecting all of them. “No.”

“Huh. Maybe I’m odd.”

His features softened. “Yes.”

“Though the tales of eld often speak of women being enraptured by doting paramours eager to go along with their every word, there are times when I wouldn’t mind you disagreeing with me.” Doting paramours? Tales of eld? Erg. During all those times she’d dreamed of being snuggled up with Sicarius in post-coital rapture, she’d imagined much more intelligent pillow talk.

“Your chattiness implies that your breathing has returned to normal,” he observed.

Amaranthe squinted at him. “You’ve said those words before, always during training, usually when I think we’ve completed our workout, only to find you have more rounds, sets, or repetitions in mind.”

“You’re not tired, are you?” Mischievousness lurked in his eyes.

“No,” she said automatically, having long since learned that admitting to weariness would win her no leniency, only an admonition that she must improve her stamina.

“Good, I’d like to acquaint you with my tender ardor several more times before dawn.”

“Acceptable,” she said, mimicking his tone from earlier, though she held a hand up before he could lower his lips for a fresh kiss. “But there’s one thing we simply must tend to first.”

His eyebrows lifted.

Amaranthe slid to the edge of the bed and groped about, having a vague recollection of hearing a clink earlier. Ah, yes. There. She retrieved the scissors and waved them triumphantly. “It’s a testament to your lovemaking skills that your crooked bangs didn’t distract me earlier, but we’re going to have to fix that before going another round.”

• • •

Sicarius walked hand-in-hand with Amaranthe through the Emperor’s Preserve toward a bier placed in a clearing made white with fresh snow. A waist-high bed of branches waited beside it, along with several of their comrades. It was a much smaller gathering of people than had appeared for the morning’s public ceremony to mourn all of those who had fallen during the Time of Incertitude, as some etymology-loving journalist had tagged it.

Basilard stood, hands clasped before him, his solemn face cast downward, his head bare to the cool air. Akstyr was there, too, looking perturbed and vaguely perplexed as he muttered to himself. For once, he was dressed in clothing that fit, a black ensemble with a gray overcoat that fell to his knees. He finally looked like an adult. Maldynado, Yara, and Sespian chatted quietly a few meters away. Ridgecrest and several of Starcrest’s other military allies walked up to the gathering from a steam lorry. There were also a few scholars who’d learned of Books over the last few days by studying his work. Discreetly placed guards ensured uninvited guests-such as those who might seek an opportunity to collect on bounties-would not enter the area.

Having accepted Books’s death, and reacquainted himself with the notion that there was little fairness in a universe that would prematurely end the life of a professor while sparing that of a murdering assassin, Sicarius had little interest in this public sendoff. He would have preferred to spend the morning in bed with Amaranthe, though he was mollified-and pleased-that she hadn’t let go of his hand during the earlier ceremony. Though he’d admittedly been the aloof one over the last year, she’d always been quick to hide any displays of affection when the rest of the team was around, and he’d wondered if she’d simply wanted to appear professional, or if she’d been reluctant to show others that she’d fallen in love with a cold-hearted killer. This seemed not to be the case though, for she’d not let him wander far at any point that day, the handgrip an open claim for all to see.

Basilard saw them approaching and walked over to give Amaranthe a hug. He looked like he might offer the same to Sicarius, but extended his hand instead. Sicarius clasped it and let go.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these last couple of days, Bas,” Amaranthe said, though Sicarius didn’t see why she felt compelled to apologize for the fact. “I’ve been mourning… or sulking.” She shrugged. “Something of that ilk.”

Basilard let his gaze fall to their clasped hands. Oh?

“I mean, I wasn’t mourning the whole time. Just until last night. Someone convinced me to stop. Not that you care. Or should. Uhm.” Amaranthe’s blush drew a smile from Basilard.

Sometimes Sicarius found it incongruous that Amaranthe had no trouble leading men into battle and jumping into the fray herself with all manner of self-poise and confidence, but that she tripped over her tongue in abashment when the matter of her relationships and feelings came up. Of course, he had his own difficulties in that area. The night before… it hadn’t mattered a speck to him if his hair were cut-more than once that morning he’d caught himself rifling his fingers through it in an attempt to find the defiant tousle again-but he hadn’t possessed the courage to knock on Amaranthe’s door without that pretext. Despite Starcrest’s talk, and the knowledge that she should be the last person to dismiss him out of some disdainful moral superiority, he’d worried that she might change her mind in the end. Her shy stroking while she’d been tending his hair and her covert glances at his chest had relieved him. Once he’d been certain of her desire, the rest had come naturally, though he’d wondered at one point if he was being overeager to please, having few other ways to let her know how much her loyalty-how much she-had meant to him this past year. But she’d never protested or teased. Indeed, the memory of her enthusiastic responses to his touch pleased him greatly. To care about the woman one shared physical intimacy with was a new and delicious experience. The memory filled him with satisfaction and… completeness. And an urge to steal off into the trees with her and to do it all again.

Basilard was watching him with an amused quirk to his lips, and Sicarius wondered if his inattention to his facade had allowed a few of these thoughts to slip out. He decided it didn’t matter. With these people, he no longer worried about threats or betrayal.

“What are your plans?” Amaranthe asked Basilard. “It seems that our outlaw-mercenary efforts won’t be needed here any more.”

“Outlaw?” Sicarius murmured. “I thought you’d upgraded us to revolutionaries.”

“True, but I’m hoping revolutionaries won’t be needed any more either.”

I want to return to my homeland for a time, Basilard signed. To find my daughter and make sure she is well, and… He glanced at Sicarius and shrugged, then gave a single nod to Amaranthe.

Sicarius had the sense of this being a follow-up to some conversation for which he hadn’t been present.

“Good,” Amaranthe said. “I hope your family accepts you back, but if things don’t work out or if you get bored without our wit…” She tilted her head toward Maldynado, who was striding down a slope arm-in-arm with Yara, heading to a black steam carriage that was pulling up. Starcrest’s conveyance presumably. “Come back to the capital, and we’ll take care of you. With your culinary knack, I bet you could open an eating house or a bakery that would rival Curi’s.”

Perhaps so. Basilard smiled again. Does this mean you two will stay in Stumps?

“I… we… hadn’t talked about it yet. Other than vague mentions of vacations on remote beaches far from bounty hunters.” A chilly gust of wind rattled the skeletal tree branches, and Amaranthe pulled her scarf up higher. “A warm remote beach.”

Admiral Starcrest stepped out of the steam carriage, followed by Tikaya, Mahliki, and two younger teenagers. Sicarius would have chosen to stand beneath a tree and endure this ceremony in silence, but Amaranthe still had his hand, so he perforce went where she did. It looked like she wanted to visit the Starcrests, but Maldynado had planted himself in the admiral’s path, so she walked up to speak with Akstyr instead.

“Have you been well these last few days?” she asked him.

Akstyr nodded. For a while, he didn’t speak, then he quietly said, “I thought he was the biggest lecturing pest, you know.” He tilted his head toward the blanket that wrapped Books’s body. “But he was all right. I’m going to miss him. I still don’t really get why…” His shoulder twitched.

“One of the more endearing qualities to human beings is their willingness to sacrifice themselves to make someone else’s life better,” Amaranthe said. “My father did that for me, not by stepping in front of an arrow, of course, but in the work he chose, work that killed him far too young.” She gazed toward the unlit pyre, the sadness of memory in her eyes.

Sicarius wondered if he should say or do something for her. And if so, what? He squeezed her hand, and she returned the gesture with a smile for him.

“Well, I never thought anybody would sacrifice anything for me,” Akstyr said. “How do you… What do you do if you’re not sure their, uhm, sacrifice… was worth it?”

“You make it worth it.” Amaranthe looked like she might say more, but she closed her mouth, letting him figure out what her words meant.

He studied the snow at his feet. After a time, he said, “All right.”

An improvement over his whatevers.

Amaranthe must have found the response acceptable, too, for she patted Akstyr’s arm. “Have you heard anything about… Well, with the gangs decimated, I hope nobody will be worrying about that bounty. Do you know if your mother is still…?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Akstyr pulled an envelope out of his pocket. With some bemusement, Sicarius wondered when he’d stopped worrying the boy might be pulling out a weapon to use on him. Akstyr held out the envelope for Amaranthe. “Professor Komitopis gave it to me. I guess someone mentioned to her that I wanted to study the Science at the Polytechnic.”

Amaranthe opened the envelope, revealing tickets for a westbound train along with a berth on an ocean liner heading to the Kyatt Islands.

“I’m leaving in two days,” Akstyr said. “The professor said I could stay with her family while I study. She said her mother still cooks up piles of food for all the hands and wouldn’t hardly notice if one more person showed up at the dinner table, and…” Distracted by something, his words trailed off. He was peering toward the Starcrest family, his eyes alighting not on his fifty-year-old benefactor, but on her youngest daughter.

“Two days?” Amaranthe looked at him, then toward Basilard, chagrin in her eyes. “I…” She focused on Akstyr again. “I mean, that’s wonderful. I know that this is your dream, and I’m sure you’ll be safe there. I heard this morning that the enforcers are already routing out the remains of the gangs. There’s talk of finally renovating the old part of the city, getting it on the sewer and making sure the people living there have the same educational opportunities as everyone else.”

Akstyr, having failed to catch the young woman’s eyes, pulled his attention back to Amaranthe and waved dismissal. “Same educational opportunities as other Turgonians maybe, but I’m sure it’ll still be forbidden to study the mental sciences.”

“I wouldn’t be certain about that. If Starcrest does indeed get elected to office, at least one of his children practices the mental sciences.” She grimaced and rubbed her forehead at some memory; Sicarius would have to get the details of what had happened while he’d been ensnared by the Nurian. “He might push for some reform in that area too.”

“Maybe so, but the population won’t be quick to accept that. Superstitious donkey lickers. I won’t be in a hurry to come back here.”

“Ah,” Amaranthe said.

Akstyr, displaying surprising percipience for him, noticed her downcast expression. “But you could visit Kyatt, right? You don’t have any reason to stay here either, do you? I could show you around.” Akstyr glanced at the hand Amaranthe still had clamped around Sicarius’s, then added, “Uhm, both of you,” though he didn’t quite meet Sicarius’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Amaranthe said. “I’d like that.”

Akstyr, his gaze drawn back to the Starcrests again, said, “I’m going to go see how long she’s-I mean they’re-going to be staying and if they’re going back to Kyatt for their studies…”

Amaranthe started to walk in that direction, too, and Sicarius wondered if he might talk to Starcrest while she chatted with whoever was next on her list. He could certainly make that happen if he released her hand, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to yet. Later perhaps, when he’d grown used to the idea that she’d return to reclaim it if they parted.

As if she could guess his thoughts, Amaranthe paused and gazed up at him. “I’m sorry, I’m dragging you all over the place. Would you prefer to find a nice tree to lurk beside?”

“Perhaps later.”

“I just want to make sure and see everyone before… Akstyr’s leaving in two days. Dear ancestors, I never thought I’d miss the boy, but he’s finally getting interesting.”

“If that is true-” Sicarius didn’t know if he’d go so far as to deem Akstyr interesting, “-then you have made him so.”

Amaranthe leaned against him. “We’ll see them again, right? Basilard and Akstyr? This almost feels like losing Books all over again.”

Sicarius had no way of divining the future, and anything he said would be useless conjecture, so he did not speak. But he wrapped his arms loosely about her, in case that would lend comfort.

Amaranthe turned her head to rest it against his collarbone. “You’re not leaving me anytime soon, are you?”

“No.” He waited until she snuggled close to add, “Who, then, would cut my hair?”

She snorted and swatted him on the chest. “Nobody, and don’t forget it. You look quite dapper today.”

The crunch of footprints alerted Sicarius to others’ approach long before the pair drew close-he’d noted their arrival a few minutes prior in a second steam carriage parked farther down the hill. But at the noise, Amaranthe turned.

“Good day, Deret. And Ms. Curlev. Thank you for coming.”

Mancrest and the Forge woman stood as one with their arms linked, each wearing expensive fur coats snugged up to their necks. Though it seemed Mancrest had found a new love interest, Sicarius couldn’t help but feel pleased that Amaranthe had taken his hand again.

“Of course, Amaranthe,” Mancrest said. “I regret that there wasn’t time to get to know him better. I’m pleased to hear that much of his work is being incorporated into the new constitution.”

“Constitution.” Curlev smiled ruefully. “There’s a notion that’ll take time to grow accustomed to.”

“Are you finding it… if not exactly what Forge wanted, a fairer government paradigm than what we’ve had for the last seven hundred years?” Amaranthe asked.

“Oh, undoubtedly so,” Curlev said. “I don’t suppose you’ll believe this, but I had very little knowledge of what was going on with Forge back here these last ten years. When we were… dreaming it up, it was to be about scholarships to empower entrepreneurs and lobbying for equality for businesses in the eyes of the law. What it became… I’ll regret the loss of so many of my colleagues, of course-” she threw a quick, wary glance at Sicarius, “-but I’m not positive you did the world a disservice.”

Sicarius noticed that Maldynado was still standing in front of Starcrest, gesturing vigorously while Yara stood back and rolled her eyes toward the bare branches of a tree overhead. Squirrels ran across the boughs, no doubt hoping some of these humans had brought food.

Sicarius could guess as to the nature of the words accompanying Maldynado’s gestures. A man recovering from an injury should not have to suffer such inanity. Sicarius squeezed Amaranthe’s hand again before releasing it, then headed over to Starcrest.

“I’m not certain a president, having less absolute power than an emperor, should do something so megalomaniacal as having statues commissioned,” Starcrest was saying when Sicarius drew near.

“What? Of course, you should,” Maldynado said. “Surely, it’s your prerogative to redecorate during your time in office.”

“It’s premature to assume I’ll be the one to take that position, but what exactly would you like redecorated?”

Sicarius stopped behind Maldynado and folded his arms across his chest, trusting him to notice eventually. Starcrest had already acknowledged him with a small wave of his hand-the other hung in a sling across his torso.

“In this case, it’d be more of an initial decorating,” Maldynado said. “We’re building a new government building to replace the Barracks, right? Stumps is known for its statues, however decapitated many of them are. Don’t you think the square in front of this new building will need a sculpture or two? Visitors from all over the world will stop by. You’d want the destination to reflect our culture and our veneration for the heroes of old. And new heroes as well. Perhaps even one of the heroes who helped bring down the pretender emperor. One of the more handsome heroes that is. After all, you wouldn’t want to scare away those tourists by sticking up some dour-faced assassin.”

Yara had noticed Sicarius standing there, and he thought she might warn Maldynado to sew his lips shut, but she merely smirked and waited.

“Not that anyone would think an assassin heroic enough for a statue anyway,” Maldynado said. “People would probably come up in the middle of the night and drape washout paper all over it. Now if you want someone that would invite visitors into the building with a warm smile and a noble pose…”

Maldynado propped one hand on his hip and lifted his other to his forehead as he gazed toward a distant horizon. In turning toward that horizon, he finally noticed Sicarius standing behind him. He skittered backward, and his heel caught on an icy patch. He slapped his arms down, legs coming up in an unarmed combat fall designed to protect the body from injury, but the commotion irritated one of the squirrels overhead, and it fled from its branch. Clumps of snow fell in its wake, one sizable ball landing on Maldynado’s forehead.

“Oh, yes,” Yara chortled. “That’ll make a fine statue.”

Sicarius gazed coolly down at Maldynado. “Washout paper?”

“Er. Uhm. Yes, to polish it of course. To make sure it stays shiny.” Maldynado scrambled to his feet and offered Yara his arm. “My lady, I need to say a few words to my fallen comrade before the pyre lighter comes to free his spirit. Will you join me?”

“I better. Someone has to keep you from offending the spirits of the dead as well as the living.”

“Sicarius,” Starcrest said by way of a greeting when they were alone. Mostly alone. His wife and children stood nearby, talking to some of the other funeral attendees, while Akstyr lurked on the edge of the group, trying to muster the gumption to chat with the younger daughter.

“Sir.” Having only intended to rescue Starcrest from Maldynado, Sicarius hadn’t planned anything grand to say to the admiral. “Have you decided to take the position of president?”

“There’s a vote to be held in a few days, and I understand there are other candidates who are scrambling to make cases for themselves, but the limited time frame will make it difficult for them to become suitably known by the populace.”

“That is good,” Sicarius said. “You are what Turgonia needs now.”

“Hm. That’ll remain to be seen. At least Tikaya has allowed that a few years living here wouldn’t be the worst fate in the world. Either that or she feels guilty about objecting to living in Turgonia after I spent all these years in her homeland. Not much of a sacrifice admittedly. A very pleasant island once the people get over wanting to kill you. We will have to watch the girls carefully here. Imperial men are more forthright than Kyattese men, and I don’t tower so fearsomely over people here, insomuch as you can tower fearsomely once all your hair turns gray.”

Sicarius did not know how to respond to this effusion of familial material. He wondered if Starcrest would like to discuss one of his texts on strategies or perhaps new work that had been published in the field. Sicarius hadn’t found time to keep up to date this last year, but he’d been reading most of the publications by notable military professors and field officers before then. Would it be rude to suggest a detour in the conversation? He’d never cared about inflicting rudeness upon people before, but Starcrest was different.

“You seemed chipper at the state funeral this morning,” the admiral said.

Sicarius stared. “Chipper.”

“By your standards. There was an uncharacteristic springiness to your step.”

This was not the new course of conversation Sicarius had had in mind. Further, he found it disheartening that others had so easily read his mood. He’d kept his face neutral, as always, but springy steps? He’d never had to worry about such betrayals from his body before.

“Do I gather that you and your lady have found yourselves, after due consideration, as compatible as you’d hoped?”

Sicarius supposed he couldn’t respond with a question of his own along the lines of, “Sir, did you read Earnestcrest’s paper on insurgencies and counter-insurgencies, and did it influence your decisions at all as you sought to take control of the capital?” Instead he reverted to his simple, “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” Starcrest said. “What are your plans going forward? I regret that it may be difficult to place you in employment to the thro-presidency, if that is something you desire. At least for a time. Your work for Flintcrest, however inadvertent, did add once again to your notoriety, and the general population will not understand the concept of being under a practitioner’s control.”

“I understand. I had thought to take a break-” Sicarius glanced at Amaranthe, who seemed to be getting along fine with Mancrest and the Forge woman, “-a vacation regardless.”

Starcrest smiled. “I thought that might be the case.” With his good hand, he fished in his pocket, jangling something as he pulled it out. “Allow me to facilitate.”

“Sir?” Sicarius held his hand out when Starcrest made it clear he wished to give away the item.

A set of keys dropped into his palm. “Corporal Lokdon knows where it’s berthed. You’ll need to requisition some supplies and remove my daughter’s… collections-and please take care not to kill anything she has caged, cached, or otherwise netted up in there. There’s a technical manual full of operating instructions-I have a Kyattese gentleman to thank for that, as they insist on documenting everything over there-and I’m confident that you’ll be able to master them quickly. Take as long as you like out there. There’s a journal penned in Tikaya’s hand that points out some of our favorite spots along with their latitude and longitude. Do read the entries before deciding on one. A handful would be suitable for… vacationing, but some are favorite spots because of the archaeologically significant finds she located there, beaches full of cannibals wearing finger-bone necklaces not withstanding. Ah, but I’m rambling. You’ll figure it out on your own.” He patted Sicarius on the shoulder and headed toward the bier, where more people were gathering in preparation for the ceremony.

Sicarius stared at the keys in his hand, the meaning of the admiral’s monologue sinking in.

“What’s that?” Sespian asked, walking up.

“I believe it is… a vacation.” Huh. They wouldn’t even need to find a remote beach to take advantage of privacy. Simply descend ten meters in any lake or sea, and who would bother them?

“For you and Amaranthe? That’s good. She could use it for sure.”

Sicarius lifted his head. “Only her?”

Sespian eyed the scar at his temple. “I’d say you, too, but do you even know how to… vacation?”

“I will learn. She will help me.”

“Good. Ah, how long do you think you’ll be gone?”

Sicarius wondered if that meant Sespian would miss him and wanted him to return eventually. “I do not know.”

“It’s just that I talked to Rias, and mentioned that I’d had a position in mind for Amaranthe. That diplomatic spot.”

Rias? Sespian was calling Fleet Admiral Starcrest by his first name? How much time had they spent together while Sicarius had been… unable to return?

“Do you think she’ll want it?” Sespian asked. “If Starcrest is elected, he said it’d be simple enough. He has a few contemporaries in mind for positions, but agrees that some young blood would be healthy.” The way Sespian smiled suggested he’d been the one to point this out.

“I do not know if she wishes to remain,” Sicarius said. “We have not discussed much beyond the vacation.”

“Do you actually do that?” Sespian asked.

“What?”

“Discuss. You’re often… monosyllabic.”

“She discusses enough for both of us.”

“Ah.”

“Are you remaining in the capital?” Sicarius asked, wondering if Sespian, too, sought a position or if he wanted a break from government. Sespian had launched a few speculative gazes toward Starcrest’s oldest daughter.

“For a while,” Sespian said. “It’s strange though, that I don’t have a place to live now. Or any money. Or a job. I hope Trog’s last couple of months roaming free in the Barracks have prepared him for a life of scraps instead of choice kitchen treats.”

“What happened to the money you paid us for your kidnapping?”

“Oh, Amaranthe was good about toting it around-we’d figured we might need it to buy weapons and bribe troops-and she had it stored in a safe nook in the factory. I understand the molasses flood rather thoroughly took out bedrolls, rucksacks, and suitcases of ranmyas.”

“It’s on the bottom of the lake?”

“Most likely,” Sespian said. “And encased in a sticky goo.”

Sicarius wondered how deep Starcrest’s submarine could descend. He doubted Sespian cared overmuch about the money, but retrieving it might prove a good training exercise, a chance to learn the boat’s capabilities.

Sespian noticed someone’s wave and started walking toward the bier. The director had come with a lantern and the oil-doused lighting torch. They were ready to begin.

Sicarius thought about finding a tree to lean against, but Amaranthe, standing with Tikaya and Yara, met his eyes across the bier. There was no request or demand in them, but he thought he read a hint of vulnerability. Maybe he simply wanted her to need him. Either way, he chose to walk over and stand beside her before the pile of logs and branches arranged, as was tradition, in the shape of a shield. Bearers laid Books’s body across the wood, as a fallen warrior might once have been carried off the battlefield on his shield.

Though Sicarius watched, he was also aware of Sespian coming to stand beside him. They listened in silence as the director spoke at length of Marl “Books” Mugdildor, pulling up information from his past that Sicarius hadn’t known. He wondered if Amaranthe had given the history to the director, or if he’d researched independently.

“Who will speak before his spirit is sent into the next world?”

Akstyr mumbled, “He saved my life,” but shifted uncomfortably under everyone’s gazes and didn’t say anything further.

Maldynado stepped forward, removing a sedate beaver fur cap and pressing it to his chest. “Books was the sort to harass you with lectures, but I think it was because he was stuck in a situation where he didn’t know how to interact with any of us uneducated louts, and he did the best he could. I wish he’d surviv…” Maldynado’s fingers curled into a fist. “Cursed ancestors, Books, what’s wrong with you? Why couldn’t you have made it another night? Another hour? We were almost done with every-” He broke off, blinked rapidly, then brought the fist to his chest in a salute and bowed. More softly, he said, “Goodbye, Booksie.”

Maldynado stepped back. Yara took his hand, and they leaned against each other.

After a silent moment, during which Amaranthe and a few others wiped their eyes, Basilard stepped forward. He nodded to Amaranthe and she translated his words for those who didn’t understand the signs.

Though fate forced him down a road on which he reluctantly turned himself into a warrior, Books had the heart of a peaceful man. He would have been liked and honored among my people. Perhaps one day, Mangdoria as well Turgonia will benefit from the documents he constructed.

When Amaranthe translated the mention of Mangdoria, Basilard lifted his head, meeting Starcrest’s eyes. They must have discussed Basilard’s issues at some point, for Starcrest returned the nod. The idea of the number of deals, negotiations, and overseer duties waiting for the admiral, assuming he took office, was enough to make Sicarius glad nobody would put his name on a ballot for anything. He’d rather go through the rest of his life with that bounty on his head than spend a year in charge of a nation.

Amaranthe stepped away from his side to speak at the head of the bier. “I regret that Books-Marl-didn’t live to see his work adopted or the results that we as a team fought so hard for this last year. It’s been a far bloodier resolution than any of us would have wished, but I have hope that the future will be a good one, one that will make our sacrifices-his sacrifice-worth it.” She wiped her eyes again and took a deep breath before continuing. “I wish he’d known more happiness in his life, but I hope his spirit will find a peaceful rest with the awareness that he made a difference. Losing his son always plagued his heart, and one of his biggest regrets, he once told me, was that his last words to Enis were harsh. It ate at him that he didn’t get a chance to say, ‘I love you’ one last time before his son’s loss. I hope that they’ll find each other and make amends in the afterworld.”

Basilard shifted his weight, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Sicarius found it odd that a people could deny the belief in deities, magic, and other mysticism, but had no trouble accepting that the human spirit was eternal and lived on in some everlasting incarnation. Perhaps the other things weren’t required for the sanity of the human mind, but the idea of mortality being final was too depressing a concept to accept for those who inevitably drew closer to such an end themselves.

He noticed Sespian watching him, but when he turned to make eye contact, Sespian lowered his gaze.

“Does anyone else wish to speak?” the director asked.

Those who had not known Books that long or that well deferred. Maldynado, Amaranthe, and Basilard all looked at Sicarius though. They expected him to speak? What would he say? No words could change the fact that Books was dead, nor did he require some ceremony to accept a person’s passing.

They did, though. His comrades sought something from this experience that he might never understand fully. For them, he took a step forward, though he didn’t know what to say. What wouldn’t be inane? What wouldn’t be boorish? They probably wouldn’t be impressed if he spoke of Books’s progress in his training over the last year, and that it was unfortunate that chance had killed him even as he’d grown into a competent warrior.

Aware of all the gazes, of Amaranthe’s and Sespian’s in particular, Sicarius finally said, “In our memories he will survive.”

So much for not uttering anything inane.

People nodded though, and Amaranthe gave a sad smile. “Perhaps that’s where it matters most, and the history books are just… vanity of a sort.”

Sicarius stepped back into the circle of bystanders, and she took his hand. As the boughs were lit beneath the body, Sespian took his other hand. It startled Sicarius, but he managed to keep from commenting or staring with incredulity.

The branches, doused with oil, caught flame quickly. The faces of those watching as the fire enveloped the body were sad, but Sicarius couldn’t help but share Amaranthe’s belief that the future would be better than the past. With her on one side and his son on the other, his future already was.