Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series

by Amy Raby

  “They did arrive by signal, at White Eagle headquarters. Then a runner delivered them to us on paper.”

  “So that’s one thing. What’s the other?”

  “We’ve captured the signal tower at Turos Tor.”

  Vitala glanced around at the marching battalion. “We have? What does that mean?”

  “The day after we arrived at White Eagle, I dispatched two squads on horseback to capture the signal towers at Emwar Pass and Turos Tor. All signals from the interior of Kjall pass through those towers. Once I have them both, not only will I be able to intercept all communications from Cassian, but I’ll also be able to send false signals in Cassian’s name.”

  “Three gods,” said Vitala, astonished at the power that would grant them. “What signals are you planning to send?”

  Lucien shot her a sly grin. “I’ll figure it out when we capture the other one.”

  • • •

  That evening in the command tent, Vitala sat with Lucien as he scratched out a letter with his quill. Their argument the night before, rather than driving them apart, had drawn them closer together. He didn’t have to love her people to help them, and it was a relief to have it known, at least behind the closed doors of the command tent, that she possessed no fondness for Kjall either. The burgeoning alliance between Riorca and Lucien’s army wasn’t a love match, and it didn’t have to be. Riorca didn’t have the resources to save itself; neither did Lucien. But if they worked together, however uneasily, they just might save each other.

  How she and Lucien felt about each other was something else. Lucien had outright told her he loved her. He knew her history, some of it, and hadn’t rejected her, which she regarded as a miracle. Unfortunately, there were still some things he didn’t know, like her problem with the visions. He was being patient in the bedroom and seemed content with activities other than intercourse, but how long could that last? Not forever. Their relationship could only be temporary.

  Lucien finished his letter and folded it up.

  “Who are you writing to?” she asked.

  “My cousin.”

  “Queen Rhianne? How are you going to get a letter to Mosar? Won’t Cassian intercept it?”

  “I’m sending it to her best friend, Marcella, under Quincius’s name,” said Lucien. “Marcella will send it on to Rhianne.”

  “You’re certain Marcella won’t betray you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think Rhianne might aid us against Cassian?” His cousin had recently been crowned queen of Mosar, a wealthy island nation, though it was small compared to Kjall and battered by a recent war. A war with Lucien’s father, in fact, which didn’t help Lucien’s case.

  Lucien shook his head. “I doubt Mosar has any aid to spare, and King Jan-Torres is no friend to me. But Cassian is claiming I’m dead, and word may have reached Rhianne by now. I hate the thought of her grieving.”

  She smiled, touched by his concern, but at the same time, she felt a hollow ache in her chest. She had no family members who would miss her if she died.

  One of the door guards poked his head inside the tent. “Sire, there’s a man here who wishes to see you.”

  Lucien frowned. “Can it wait until morning?”

  “Perhaps, sire. The man says one of his squad mates is hiding a woman, not one of the usual camp followers. Shall I dispatch the prefect on watch to deal with the situation?”

  “No, this can’t wait until morning. Send him in.”

  The young soldier entered the command tent, nervously running a hand through his hair. He bowed his head, knelt before Lucien, and recited, “Matho, Second Century, Green Squadron.”

  Lucien clasped his wrist and pulled him upright. “Matho, I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new to White Eagle?”

  “Yes, sire. I joined early this spring.”

  “Very good, and which of your mates in Green Squadron, Second Century, is the one hiding the woman? Would it be Protus, by chance?”

  Matho blinked, startled. “Yes, sire.”

  “Show me to Protus’s tent.” Lucien rose, grabbing his crutch.

  Vitala grabbed his arm. “Let me go instead of you. If the woman is an assassin, let’s not give her access to you.”

  He plucked her hand off his arm and checked the pistol at his belt. “I thought you said the assassin would be after you, not me.”

  “Could be both of us. Why make things easy for her?” Vitala wrapped her sword belt around her waist and began to tie the knots.

  “Why let her take us on one at a time? Besides, the woman probably isn’t an assassin at all, in which case this is a simple disciplinary matter.”

  “Lucien—” she began, but he headed out through the tent flap as if he hadn’t heard her. Two bodyguards moved to flank him.

  Vitala trotted after him. “Wait. I’m able to sense assassins through their wards. Let me do that before you send anyone into the tent.”

  Lucien halted, and his eyes lit. “How do you sense them?”

  “Relax my mind and feel for the contact points that conceal the Shards. But walk slower.”

  He continued at a slower pace, and Vitala softened her mind, letting the edges of her vision blur. The real world grayed into dimness, as in the faded moments before sunrise, and the colorful undercurrent of the spirit world sprang into view, soft blues and purples and greens. Usually she didn’t see so many wards at once, but she was in the midst of so much tightly packed humanity that her surroundings swirled with them. Yet she sensed nothing in range that suggested an assassin with Shards. “Nothing yet,” she said. “Tell me when we’re getting close to the tent.”

  Lucien took her hand and led her through the maze of squadrons.

  “It’s up here, sire,” called Matho, pointing. “The one with the green circle on the side.”

  Vitala sharpened her mind just enough to spot the tent with the green circle, then relaxed it again to see the wards inside. “No assassin,” she said. “At least, no one with Shards. And judging by the wards, there’s only one person in the tent.”

  Lucien’s forehead wrinkled. “Shouldn’t there be two?”

  “Well, there could be another person who’s not warded. I doubt it, though.” No one went without wards in Kjall or Riorca, not by choice.

  “Could the second person be dead? Can you see a dead person’s wards?”

  “No, wards dissipate when their hosts die,” said Vitala.

  Lucien shrugged. His bodyguards shadowed him as he approached the tent. “Protus,” he called. “Come out.”

  A disheveled-looking soldier appeared at the tent flap and blanched at the sight of the emperor and his entourage.

  Lucien exchanged a glance with Vitala. “Let’s go inside.”

  Vitala, Lucien, and the two bodyguards squeezed uncomfortably into the interior of a tent meant to house only two.

  “Where is she?” Lucien asked.

  Protus’s eyebrows rose in poorly feigned surprise. “She?”

  “Do not lie to your commander, Protus,” said Lucien.

  Protus cast an angry look outside the tent. “I don’t know, sire. I’m not even the one who brought her here. It was my tent mate, Matho. He’s trying to frame me because he thinks I stole his grain ration three days ago—”

  “No more lies, Protus.” Lucien’s voice was unusually quiet. He was one of those men, Vitala realized, who raised his voice in passion when arguing a point but lowered it when truly angry. “You’re already getting the lash. How thoroughly and accurately you answer my next question will determine whether or not you also get the stake. Who is the woman, and where has she gone?”

  The soldier turned beleaguered eyes on each of Lucien’s companions, wordlessly begging for support. When he found none, he stammered, “Sage’s Honor, sire, I truly don’t know! She was here. Then Matho left, I guess to squeal on me, and I went out to kill a tree, and when I came back she was gone. As for who she was, I didn’t catch her name. I thought she was just one of the camp
followers.”

  “You or Matho thought that?”

  “I thought that when Matho brought her here.”

  Lucien turned to Vitala. “You want to question him?”

  Vitala leaned forward eagerly. “What did she look like? Was she Kjallan or Riorcan? How old was she? How tall?”

  “She was Kjallan,” said Protus. “About your age, maybe, or a little older. Kind of short. Big here,” he said, cupping his hands at his chest.

  Vitala turned to Lucien. “That could be Ista.”

  Lucien nodded. Vitala followed him out of the stuffy tent into the cool night air, where Matho waited, along with a small audience of curious spectators. Tribune Quincius stepped forward. “What’s the situation, sire? I heard you might have found an assassin.”

  “There might be one loose in the camp—we’re not sure. Pass the word among the soldiers. We’re looking for a young Kjallan woman, not one of the usual camp followers, big-chested and a few inches shorter than Vitala. No one is to attack her, but report any sightings immediately.”

  “Yes, sire. And . . . ?” His thumb gestured toward Protus.

  Lucien frowned. “Twenty lashes.”

  Quincius saluted and turned to give orders to his subordinates.

  “You don’t believe Protus’s story about being framed?” asked Vitala.

  “Not a word of it,” said Lucien. “What now? Shall we walk the whole camp, and you try to sense her?”

  Vitala nodded. “I think so. I—” She blinked as something fell suddenly into her hand. Without thinking, she grabbed it, but it stabbed her finger, and she released it with a hiss of pain. She looked down to see her own Shards, ward-broken and released from their hiding places in the Rift, raining from her fingers. Biting back a curse, she grabbed the nearest one from the air, then dropped to hands and knees to scoop the others out of the dirt. Dead Shards, every one of them, their death spells released and lost forever. Only a wardbreaker assassin, someone with the same training as herself, could have done such a thing.

  Vitala stood, clutching the Shards, and cried out, “She’s here! Close by!”

  “The assassin?” asked Lucien.

  “Yes.” She started to relax her mind to sense the assassin—Ista. It has to be Ista—but stopped. It was too dangerous. Maybe Ista hoped Vitala would do that; then she could shoot her or rush her with a sword while Vitala’s mind was focused on sensing wards.

  Soldiers sprang into action all around her, their movements chaotic and disorganized. Lucien was shouting something, the bodyguards had drawn their weapons, and everyone was running about.

  “Don’t attack her—she’s dangerous!” cried Vitala.

  “I found her!” cried a voice behind her.

  Vitala whipped around, looking for the source of the voice. Gods, what perfect cover this was for Ista—hundreds of nearly identical tents in all directions, with only the open road that passed through the center of the camp providing a reference point. “Where? Don’t touch her.”

  “I’ve got her!” cried the voice.

  Vitala scraped her sword from its scabbard. She grasped the hilt in both hands for better control and power, and raced toward the row of tents where the voice had come from.

  “Vitala!” cried Lucien.

  She ignored him. As she ran, she waited for another shout from the unknown soldier to help her locate him more precisely, but it never came. And when she rounded the row of tents and entered the more open space of the road, she saw why. He was on the ground, twitching away the final moments of his life.

  A breath of wind tickled her from behind, and she turned just in time to meet the sword that sang toward her. She knocked it away with the flat of her blade and countered with a thrust to her enemy’s midsection, pushing her back. Her guess had been right—it was Ista. Her fellow assassin circled warily in a hanging guard stance.

  “Whore,” Ista spat. “Traitor.”

  Vitala adopted high guard and sized up her opponent. No visible weapons except for the sword—she’d probably stolen the blade from the man she’d killed. Good. It would not be the right weight or size, though it was slender enough for her to handle. Ista would have Shards too, but there was no time for Vitala to ward-break them; she’d just have to keep her distance to prevent Ista from using them. “Did Bayard recover?” she asked.

  “Yes, no thanks to you.”

  Ista made a high thrust at Vitala’s neck, which Vitala easily parried—not a serious attack. Ista was feeling her out. Vitala had never beaten Ista in the training room, but the last time they’d sparred had been three years ago. Vitala had a slight height and reach advantage, and she’d improved a lot in those three years.

  Soldiers from White Eagle were beginning to reach them, but they didn’t know what to do. They hung back, watching and awaiting orders.

  “Bayard said it was a mistake taking you on, that you were never a proper assassin,” said Ista.

  “He’s such an ass.”

  “He meant it.” Ista tilted her blade upward, shifting into high guard, and aimed a brutal stroke at Vitala’s shoulder. Vitala parried it, feinted high, and attacked low, but Ista’s blade was there to meet it. The strength and speed of Ista’s blows surprised her—her old rival had lost nothing during her years in the field. Vitala pressed hard with another feint followed by a flurry of blows. None of them landed, but she forced Ista to take a step backward.

  Vitala smiled. “I seem to be better suited for it than you are.”

  Ista returned to hanging guard. Vitala knew well the vulnerabilities of that stance. She struck from middle guard, forcefully beating Ista’s sword point off to the right so that Ista’s wrists were twisted. Then she followed up with an attack to the left shoulder. Ista, still untangling herself, could not parry, but she leapt aside to avoid Vitala’s sword point.

  Then something exploded in Vitala’s ear.

  For a moment, Vitala had no idea where she was or what was happening. Ista was on the ground, screaming soundlessly as blood welled from her leg.

  Vitala spun around. Lucien was behind her. She smelled acrid smoke and followed it to its source: the barrel of Lucien’s pistol. “Why’d you shoot?” she cried. She could hear a little bit out of her left ear, but not at all out of the right.

  Soldiers raced toward Ista.

  “No, no!” Vitala shouted, but her voice sounded hollow and distant. “Don’t touch her! She’s still dangerous.”

  The soldiers hesitated, but only for a moment. Then they moved forward again.

  “Obey her!” barked Lucien. “Stay back.”

  Quickly, Vitala relaxed her mind, saw the nine contact points that held Ista’s remaining Shards, and broke them one by one, forcing the dead, useless Shards to spill into Ista’s hands. Then she kicked the sword away. “Now you can grab her.”

  A soldier came forward and picked up Ista.

  Lucien said something she couldn’t make out, and the soldiers reluctantly dispersed. Vitala stood where she was for a moment, staring at the pool of Ista’s blood as it soaked into the ground. Lucien took her by the arm and led her gently away.

  • • •

  Vitala followed Lucien into the infirmary tent, holding a hand over her right ear. It throbbed slowly. The pain built steadily and agonizingly until it reached an excruciating climax, then there was a moment of relief, and the cycle began all over again.

  The infirmary tent was smaller than its more permanent counterpart on the command terrace at headquarters, but large enough to hold six cots, five of which were empty. The sixth held a sleeping soldier. Someone laid Ista down on one of the empty cots.

  Lucien was giving orders. She couldn’t hear them very well, but the infirmary staff leapt into action. A pair of Healers ran to Ista’s side, pushed away her syrtos, and revealed the bullet wound, a near-perfect circle in her thigh, red and pulsing blood. One of the Healers placed his hands on her leg and closed his eyes. Vitala stared.

  A hand on her shoulder pulled her aside. Luci
en’s mouth moved. She heard only the faintest echo of his speech, as if he were standing on the far side of the camp, not right in front of her.

  “I can’t hear,” she said. And when that didn’t seem to register, “Gods curse it, Lucien, I CAN’T HEAR.”

  Lucien patted her shoulder, nodding acknowledgment, and directed her to sit on a cot. Soon a third Healer laid his hands on her and murmured something. She couldn’t feel the magic, but the pain began to recede, each throb a little less powerful than the last. She was startled to discover the infirmary tent was quite loud, with lots of people talking over each other and shouting orders.

  “Better?” asked the Healer.

  “Yes, thank you.” She glanced at Ista’s cot, which was surrounded by people. Lucien walked up. “You didn’t have to shoot her,” said Vitala. “I was going to win that fight.”

  Lucien shrugged. “I saw my opportunity and I went for it. You said she was the best assassin in your enclave.”

  “I said she was the oldest, not the best.”

  “Longest surviving, I figured that meant the best. And let me guess. You were the young upstart with something to prove?” He smiled, which irritated her.

  “Gods, I don’t know why I’m trying to explain this to you,” she said. “Do you realize you nearly destroyed my hearing? What if you missed and shot me by mistake?”

  “I’m a war mage. I never miss. And why didn’t you just shoot her yourself?” He indicated the pistol still tucked into Vitala’s belt.

  Her cheeks warmed as she realized how much easier that would have been. “I didn’t even think of it. Once I turned and parried that first stroke, everything was instinct.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “What are you going to do with Ista? You can’t interrogate her—she’ll use her deathstone.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  “Send her home.” Vitala bit her lip. As much as it worried her to let a dangerous enemy go, there really was no other way. “The Obsidian Circle will reconsider allying itself with you once they learn you’re freeing villages. This would be a bad time to antagonize them by killing one of their best assassins.”