Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series

by Amy Raby

  The site was a large, grassy field, which had clearly been used for this purpose before. Large, circular bare patches told the story of fires once laid, while holes in the ground marked the locations of former tent pegs. Lucien’s staff was raising tents, some of them small, others immense. Farther away, in a separate field, cavalrymen were untacking and airing their horses and putting them on hobbles to graze.

  Remus approached them and bowed. “Sire.”

  “Yes, Remus?” said Lucien.

  “We’ve had another message from Tasox.” He glanced sidelong at Vitala.

  Lucien sighed. “Very well. Is my tent up yet?”

  “Partly, sire. It’s usable.”

  “Miss Salonius.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “I’ll send for you later this evening.” He rose and limped across the field.

  Vitala rubbed her arms and shivered, then scooted closer to the fire. She was glad to be rid of Lucien for a while. It was stressful being around him; she feared she would slip up and say the wrong thing. Gods, he’d offered her a job. A part of her was tempted to forget her mission entirely and just be the imperial Caturanga instructor.

  Which was ridiculous. While she idled away her days in the palace, her people would be starved and massacred.

  Still, what an opportunity to pass up. She needed another way to make a living. She’d thought her visions had stopped, but they hadn’t. The door guard had triggered one simply by resembling the young soldier who was the subject of her nightmares. Lucien resembled him too, just not as closely. It was sheer luck that only the door guard triggered her visions, and not Lucien himself.

  She wasn’t the first Obsidian Circle assassin to experience visions, and she wouldn’t be the last. But the others had all been removed from field duty. It could strike at any time; it made an assassin unreliable. And who could replace her? No one, not even Ista. No one else could gain intimate access to Lucien. She’d kept her problem quiet and spared her handlers from making a decision they wouldn’t want to make.

  Maybe after she killed Lucien, she would tell Bayard. But it seemed a shame. She had only one official kill, not counting the practice ones, while Ista had nine. At least Lucien would be a spectacular kill; an emperor was a more impressive target than the minor government officials and military officers Ista had gone after. Perhaps afterward she could step down and take a service role. Weapons trainer or something.

  She sniffed. Gods, who was she kidding? She’d be lucky if she got out of this alive.

  • • •

  “It’s all right, Vitala,” soothed Bayard. “He can’t hurt you.”

  Vitala stepped closer. Of course the soldier couldn’t hurt her. He was tied to a chair. He strained at the loops of rope pinioning his limbs, but he couldn’t break them. Since he was gagged, he couldn’t even hurl insults at her.

  He certainly wanted to hurl insults. He was sweating and red faced, his eyes bulging with hatred as he watched her approach.

  She broke one of her contact points. A Shard materialized from the Rift, and she caught the tiny bit of obsidian neatly between her fingertips. What had happened to the man’s comrade? There’d been two of them originally, a pair of unwise Kjallans who’d blundered into the enclave’s sentries.

  The soldier’s chin jerked—he was trying to spit at her. Ineffective, since he was gagged. Poor man.

  Bayard’s voice grew sharp. “Do it, Vitala. No more stalling. You need me to give you some extra motivation?”

  She gave Bayard a look of disgust. Then she jabbed the Shard into the soldier’s throat.

  • • •

  Lucien’s tent was a near replica of his rooms at home, with a sitting room up front, a door that led presumably to a bedroom, and furniture laid out in almost the same configuration. The bookcases and the magicked Caturanga set were missing, as were the wall hangings and the windows that overlooked the palace grounds, but a different Caturanga set sat on a table in the same spot—one of carved agate, similar to the one he’d given her.

  Lucien limped across the room. The guards who’d escorted her filtered out of the tent, leaving only Septian, who lurked quietly near the door. She hoped he would stay there and not follow them into the bedroom.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all afternoon,” said Lucien.

  She smiled. “Weren’t you supposed to be thinking about Tasox?”

  “Tasox—what’s that?” He winked, then followed her gaze to the Caturanga set. “Would you like a game?”

  Her mouth quirked. “Would you?”

  “Gods, no. How about dinner? Are you hungry?” He gestured toward a covered tray that sat on a table.

  She hadn’t eaten since midday, but she feared she might throw up if she ate now. She forced a smile. “Actually, I’m feeling rather vulnerable right now. Too much Vagabond influence on the board, and my Principles are under threat.”

  He chuckled. “Are they really?”

  “And there’s only one answer to that. A bold move.” She went to him.

  He braced himself on his crutch to receive her. “You make a decisive strike, indeed,” he murmured, and greedily took her mouth.

  A decisive strike—if only he knew! She’d been a bundle of nerves all afternoon, stiff and anxious about the task that lay ahead, but now, in the warmth of Lucien’s embrace, she felt herself relax. Lucien did not close his eyes when he kissed; rather, his dark eyes studied her, calculating. It was a little disconcerting to think that this time he wasn’t analyzing the Caturanga board; he was analyzing her. And yet it pleased her to be, at this moment, the center of his universe.

  She barely noticed when his tongue entered her mouth. He’d been teasing her with it, and now he took liberties. A delicious tingle ran through her, and she pressed herself closer to him, suddenly wishing the clothes were not a barrier between them—wouldn’t his flesh feel lovely against hers? A soft sound purred from her throat, entirely unbidden. She wanted to devour him. She pushed a little too hard, and he stumbled backward.

  She helped catch him.

  “Careful,” he chided.

  His face was flushed, his eyes liquid with desire. “I’m not too solid upright. Shall we . . . ?” He gestured toward the bedroom door.

  She nodded.

  “I’d carry you, but . . .” He shrugged.

  She giggled, feeling like she’d had too much to drink. Some distant part of her marveled at her absurd behavior. He had stumbled, but she was the one who was off balance. What was it about this man that her body responded to with such enthusiasm?

  He’s a tyrant. You hate him.

  Her body wasn’t listening.

  He led her to the heavy leather tent panel that served as a bedroom door. He unfastened the panel, drew it aside for them to step through, and closed it behind them. Septian did not accompany them, thank the gods. However, the leather panel, thick at it was, would not muffle sound very well. She hoped it would not be an issue. If she did this right, there would be no struggle. And if there was a struggle, the bodyguard might still mistake the sounds of violence for lovemaking.

  Lucien pulled her across the floor to the bed. She had a brief glimpse of blue and gold—the color of his bedsheets—and then his crutch was on the floor and he was on all fours atop her, kissing her and tugging at the belt of her syrtos. Upright, he’d been clumsy, but on the bed he was agile as a brindlecat. In an excess of enthusiasm, he nipped her lower lip, and she gave a surprised yelp of pain.

  “Sorry,” he breathed. “Am I going too fast? It’s just . . . gods, Vitala. I want you so much.”

  “Not too fast,” she assured him. Really, the faster, the better. She started to help him with her syrtos, then realized she would be disappointed if he made love to her with most of his clothes on. She wanted to see him, all of him, before she committed the atrocity of killing him. She yanked him down onto the bed and climbed over him, reversing their positions. He was stronger than she, but he yielded, looking up at her in curiosity. “I want to see you,”
she explained, and wondered how best to remove his clothes.

  He was still wearing the glittering imperial loros. It was a precious thing, a Kjallan relic, and she hesitated to touch it. Her hands moved toward it, then retreated.

  “I’ll do that,” he said. He lifted the loros over his head, folded it carefully, and set it on the bedside table. He also removed his wooden leg, unbuckling a couple of leather straps that secured it in place, and set the device on the floor. Then he lay back, submitting to her once again.

  She sat atop him, mesmerized. She could stare at his face all day. It was a study in contrasts—pale skin, black hair, and reddened, kiss-bitten lips. Those cheekbones—what god had gifted him with those? She touched a single finger to his cheek and traced a line down to his chin and the soft flesh of his neck. The lump in his throat bobbed, and his pulse fluttered. His dark eyes followed her, intent.

  She began disrobing him, slowly and methodically, first untangling the knots of his two belts. She pushed the syrtos back, exposing his neck and chest. There was his riftstone on its chain—the yellow topaz of a war mage. That stone was the reason she had to seduce him. Any other mage, or a nonmage, she could have killed more simply.

  She wanted to touch it, but she knew better. Mages guarded their riftstones more jealously than they guarded their privates.

  She continued undressing him. He lay tame under her ministrations, but a muscle jumped in his arms; he was struggling to remain still. She exposed his nether regions and found him erect and ready. But the sight of a hard cock was nothing new to her; she was more curious about his leg, the missing one.

  He swallowed. “Go on and look. It’s all right.”

  She peeled back the last bit of his syrtos. The stump of his left leg extended just a few inches below the knee. It was misshapen and ugly, mottled with red marks where the artificial leg and its straps had irritated it. She ran her hand over the area, and he winced.

  She pulled her hand away. “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just sensitive. Touch it if you like.”

  Her curiosity satisfied, she sat back up, looking over the whole of him. Except for the leg, he was a fine-looking man. Though he was not large in build, his body was hard and wiry and surprisingly well muscled. She wondered how that could be, given that the missing leg limited his exercise. Perhaps it was a gift of his war magic.

  “Enough of you staring at me,” he growled. His hands moved, almost faster than the eye could see, and her world flipped upside down. She was on her back again, and Lucien atop her. She marveled at his strength, but after a moment’s reflection, she knew it shouldn’t surprise her. Those were the war mage’s talents—preternatural strength and speed. Along with the most dangerous ability of all, the gift of anticipation. A war mage could sense any attack before it came. To get past a war mage’s defenses, one had to distract him to the point that he was oblivious to the outside world.

  He began tugging off her syrtos, occasionally pausing to kiss her roughly, as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted most—to look at her or devour her.

  In less than a minute, she was naked on the bed. He looked her over, his eyes clouded with desire. “Gods, Vitala.” He swallowed. “What do you like? What do you want?”

  “You,” she purred. “In me.”

  He paused, considering. Then he grinned. “No.” He lowered his mouth to her nipple and did something with his tongue. She gasped. Her whole body contracted and she shuddered in sudden, intense pleasure.

  He chuckled. “I think you like that.”

  “Lucien—”

  “Shh.” He worked her with hands and tongue, stroking and tasting. She writhed, utterly out of control, half-terrified at what was happening to her, half-consumed with yearning. She wanted him to stop. She wanted more. Lucien’s hands moved farther south. “How about this?” he whispered. Her body shuddered again, and an involuntary moan escaped her. He’d touched her gently, ever so gently, yet the effect was profound. She was thoroughly wet down there.

  This was ridiculous. She had to regain control. No more of this . . . whatever he was doing. She reached for his erection.

  He shuddered and pulled away. “Not yet,” he scolded, kissing her in apology. “Or we’ll have a very short night.”

  She reached for him again.

  He dodged. Gods-cursed war mage reflexes. She glared at him. He grinned and moved downward along her body, keeping himself well out of reach. Then his tongue parted her, and such pleasure coursed through her that she did not dare move, lest it stop. He wasn’t the first man to touch her there, but most men were too rough; they had no idea how sensitive she was. Lucien seemed to know the right amount of pressure to use. No doubt it was a skill born of practice; he’d pleasured many a woman before her. Why he should bother, she couldn’t imagine. He was the emperor; he didn’t need to be a good lover to lure women to his bed.

  But, for whatever reason, he’d made the most of his opportunities. He sensed her rhythm and adjusted to it, sometimes speeding his strokes, other times slowing them or stopping them entirely, until she was ready to burst with frustration. Then he began again, and the pleasure mounted, greater than before.

  As she began to buck, he gripped her around the hips. Then her world exploded and she thought of nothing but uncontrollable, shuddering pleasure. When it finished, she lay back, panting and sweating. She closed her eyes as her body throbbed gently. When she opened her eyes, Lucien was there, staring into them. He kissed her.

  Three gods, she realized. That was an orgasm. She’d had plenty of sex, practicing for this very night, but never had any of her partners cared enough about her pleasure to bring her to orgasm.

  The head of Lucien’s cock nudged her opening, poised to enter.

  She prepared herself mentally. The moment was coming when she would have to kill this man.

  He pushed himself inside. And the vision seized her.

  “Gods.” The young soldier’s eyes fluttered closed as he penetrated her. His dark hair, overlong, fell across his brow. She could feel his energy, his excitement, his masculine strength. His mouth found hers and kissed it eagerly. “Who are you?” he asked. “Tell me your name.”

  She said nothing. She lay still, submissive, waiting for her moment.

  He sighed with pleasure, his hips moving. “You’re so beautiful. Say something,” he begged. “Are you a prisoner here too?”

  She remained silent and motionless beneath him.

  He smiled sadly and twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “I don’t understand. You offer yourself to me, but you won’t talk. Have they cut out your tongue?”

  “Vitala, what’s wrong?” Lucien asked, waking her from the unwanted memory. He stilled. “Pox. I hear it. I hear it!” He rolled off her.

  Vitala sat up, blinking back to full awareness. She heard it too. Shouts and the clashing of steel. Nearby.

  “Septian!” cried Lucien.

  There was no answer. By the sound, Vitala placed the action at roughly the entrance to Lucien’s tent.

  Lucien flung himself off the bed and hopped to a bedside table.

  Vitala sat up in bed, trembling and confused. What in the Soldier’s hell was going on? Had Lucien’s enemies chosen this moment to move against him? And if so, what should she do? Fight? Do nothing?

  Lucien fished a pistol and a wicked-looking knife from a drawer. He caught her eye and said, “Get my crutch.”

  His words ended her paralysis. She flung herself out of bed, grabbed the crutch, and shoved it at Lucien. Gods, they were stark naked, both of them. He would need the peg leg too, so she snatched it up, but Lucien was already in motion.

  He scrambled across the bed on all fours, then, half hopping and half supporting himself with the crutch, made his way to the back of the tent. “Bring that here,” he said. Vitala joined him as he knelt on the floor and jabbed the knife into the tent wall. He began to haul it downward, opening a gap. The leather was thick. He strained with the effort
, gripping the knife with both hands, his muscles trembling. Without his war magic, he probably couldn’t have done it at all.

  He’d opened an arm’s length of leather when a sword point stabbed through the opening. Vitala shrieked, and Lucien jumped back with a shout of surprise. He looked around helplessly. They were trapped. “Get under the bed.” He yelled again, “Septian!”

  Vitala heard someone unhooking the door panel—the intruders were close. She dove to the floor, still holding Lucien’s wooden leg, and scrambled beneath the bed. She still had no idea what to do. Her job was to kill Lucien. These men probably intended the same. Should she just leave the task to them? But what were they going to do with her? Kill her, probably, since she would be a witness.

  Should she fight? Naked as she was, she couldn’t do much, not against men with guns and swords. With crippled Lucien as her only ally, the odds were impossibly long, especially if they’d already dispatched Septian, and she suspected they had. Or worse, Septian was among the traitors.

  She heard the door panel open. She peered out from under the bed, and several pairs of boots crowded into the room. A gunshot rang out, and a man in a Legaciatti uniform hit the floor. Blood welled from his forehead. More pairs of boots entered. Lucien’s pistol clattered to the ground, useless now that its single shot had been fired. He had only the knife left. She counted six pairs of boots, and there might be more outside.

  The boots shuffled forward. Steel clashed. Lucien moved with surprising agility despite having only his crutch. A man shouted in pain. There was more clashing, and Lucien fell with an anguished cry, clutching his right leg. From her vantage point, she saw his taut, ashen face, but he did not make eye contact or even glance in her direction. She realized with a twinge of shame that he was protecting her.

  “Worthless cull,” said one of the men. She recognized the voice as that of Remus, and her anger rose to the boiling point.

  Lucien lunged with the knife and stabbed it into the leg of the man nearest him.

  Chaos erupted. “Gods curse it, get that away from him!” roared Remus. One man stomped on Lucien’s wrist, trapping his knife hand, and someone else kicked the weapon away. Then Remus was on top of Lucien, punching him in the face with his fist, once, twice, three times. Vitala winced with each blow. Lucien’s breath was ragged. She could sense his fear, but he did not give his attackers the satisfaction of crying out.