Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series

by Amy Raby

  The officer grinned, his eyes bright. “Need help?”

  “Nah.”

  As they walked, Vitala analyzed the layout of the pavilion. The tents were of different shapes and colors and sizes. The size of each tent, she inferred, was a function of rank, with the larger tents reserved for the more senior officers. One tent, located in the center of the pavilion, towered over the others. That one must be Cassian’s. Her heart beat faster. She and Ista were getting close.

  Glavius’s tent was one of the smaller ones, red in color. Two battle standards leaned against each other at the entrance; a human skull dangled from one of them. Vitala softened her mind to check for wards and found an enemy ward across the doorway. Before she could ward-break it, it fizzled away into the Rift. Ista had broken it first.

  Inside the tent, Glavius tidied up a little, grabbing clothes, a helmet, and a mail shirt off the backs of chairs and his cot and tossing them haphazardly into a leather-bound chest. He grinned and uncorked the wine, then sat in a chair and bade them sit together on his cot. “Let’s play a game,” he said. “For each swig, you have to take something off.” He handed the bottle to Vitala.

  Vitala tilted the bottle, blocking the opening with her tongue so that only a little wine leaked into her mouth. Then she removed one of her belts and passed the bottle to Ista. The officer watched her every move, his eyes shining. As the game continued, she glanced around the tent and at the cot. The cot wasn’t large enough for three people. What was Ista planning? What role was Vitala intended to play? Glavius seemed to like being in charge, so their best bet might be to follow his lead for now. Ista would make her move when she was ready.

  Vitala took another pretend swig from the bottle. After several rounds, she’d removed her two belts, her cloak, and her shoes. There was nothing left to do but take off her syrtos, so she did so, stripping down to her chemise. She shivered, and her nipples tightened. Glavius stared at her chest.

  “Glavius, dear.” Ista drank from the bottle and removed her own syrtos. “You know mine are better.” She brandished her ample chest. “And it’s no fair taking off things like your sword and your pistol. Look at all those clothes you’ve got on compared to us. Take off something that counts.”

  He grinned and pulled down his trousers. “Like this?”

  “Yes, exactly like that,” said Ista, as he drank deeply from the wine bottle.

  His gaze moved from one of them to the other, and he licked his lips. “So, do you ladies often do this together?”

  “Indeed we do, sweetie,” said Ista.

  “Say.” His eyes lit. “Do you ladies ever . . . you know . . . with each other?”

  “Glavius, we’re sisters. That would be incest.”

  “Oh. I suppose you’re right.”

  “So it’s one at a time, love. I’ll go first.” Ista peeled off her chemise, revealing creamy white skin.

  Glavius stood and moved toward her, but Vitala caught the barely perceptible hand gesture Ista had sent her.

  “No, me first.” Vitala pulled off her own chemise, shivering as the cold air tickled her bare skin.

  Glavius goggled at her, then at Ista. “Maybe both of you could, um . . .” He turned to the cot, which could barely fit two people, let alone three. “Hmm.”

  Though disrobed from the waist down, he was still wearing his unbelted syrtos and a mail shirt and undertunic. Ista removed the syrtos and began pulling the mail and undertunic over his head. Vitala stepped forward to help. Lying against his lightly furred chest was his riftstone, the topaz of a war mage.

  “I go first,” crooned Ista, meeting his lips with hers as they emerged from the shirt. She led him to the cot and he followed, unresisting.

  Vitala trailed after them, feeling awkward, but if Ista was going to take the lead on this, she wouldn’t object. Not that she would hesitate to sleep with this man if that was what it took to save Lucien, but she certainly didn’t relish the idea. And what if she had one of her “events”?

  Glavius climbed atop Ista and, as far as Vitala could tell, penetrated her almost instantly. Ista moaned. Vitala assumed she was faking, but it was hard to tell; Ista was an awfully good actress. Vitala turned away and waited, having little desire to watch or even think about what they were doing. It reminded her too much of those awful practice sessions. After a time, Glavius’s breathing grew heavy, his movements stronger, jerkier, which meant the end was near. Vitala swallowed uncomfortably.

  He grunted, and the cot began to shake. Vitala heard the sounds of a struggle and forced herself to look, in case Ista needed help. Glavius was shuddering in his death throes, and Ista was trying to squeeze out from under him. “Get him off,” she choked.

  Dry-mouthed, Vitala rolled the twitching Glavius off the bed.

  “Gods, he’s like an ape.” Ista scrambled off the bed and grabbed a blanket, which she used to wipe off Glavius’s sweat and spittle.

  Vitala stared at Glavius. He wasn’t dead yet.

  “What are you doing—daydreaming?” snapped Ista. “Get dressed.”

  Vitala tore her eyes away from the living corpse. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “What—killing this sapskull?” Ista pulled on her chemise, then her syrtos.

  “Killing anyone. Doesn’t it give you nightmares?”

  “Anyone who’d let himself get suckered like that deserves what he gets.”

  Vitala picked her syrtos and chemise off the floor and began to get dressed. “What happens now?”

  “I don’t know. I got us into the pavilion. Now you’d better come up with some ideas. Whatever we do, it’ll have to wait for morning. There are too many officers here now, resting in their tents.”

  “Won’t Cassian be away in the daytime, along with his officers?”

  “Probably, but we could have a look around his tent, maybe set up an ambush.”

  “You don’t think this can be done by seduction?”

  “No. He’s not interested in whores. There’s a woman who goes to his tent most nights, a mistress he’s known for a long time. I doubt we can impersonate her, so we’re looking at something more straightforward, like putting a sword through his gut.” Ista went to the first of Glavius’s two leather-bound chests, opened it, and rifled through it. “Clothes. Hmm.” She went to the second, but it wouldn’t open. “Find the key.”

  Wrinkling her nose, Vitala went to Glavius’s corpse—he was dead now—then realized she wouldn’t find anything on a naked body. She found his clothes and fished through the pockets. “Here.” She handed Ista a ring of keys.

  Ista opened the second chest and whistled. “Guess who’s a weapons aficionado.” She lifted a couple of beautiful, high-quality pistols from the chest.

  “Too noisy for this kind of work,” said Vitala. “But nice in case of emergency.”

  “Agreed.” Ista took one pistol for herself and gave the other to Vitala, then resumed looking through the chest. She set a couple of lesser-quality pistols on the ground, then several swords and knives. “Oh, look.” She pulled out several wine bottles and set them on the ground. “Make him look like a drunk, will you?”

  Vitala uncorked the bottles one at a time. She poured their contents over Glavius, then stashed the empties around the tent, making it look like he’d drunk himself into a stupor. When she finished, the whole tent reeked of alcohol, and Ista had amassed a pile of weapons next to the chest. Vitala selected a sword and a pair of throwing knives from the pile. Ista brought out a selection of poisons she’d hidden in her clothes, and they coated the knives with a paralytic. It would have no effect on a war mage like Cassian or Glavius, but it should work beautifully on anyone nonmagical they came across.

  “We’re going to have to sleep in here, aren’t we?” noted Vitala. “With the corpse.”

  “Yes, unless you have a better idea,” said Ista. “He’s my kill, by the way. I was working on him before you arrived. Don’t you even think of claiming him!”

  “Of course. He’s your kill.”


  Ista nodded, satisfied. “You sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

  33

  Vitala was startled out of the quiet of her early morning watch by a thundering roar that shuddered through her body. Had the storm returned, or was it a cannon? Moments later, there were answering booms, accentuated by the staccato crackle of musket fire.

  She ran to the cot and shook Ista. “Wake up.”

  Ista rose silently, armed and clothed.

  The camp began to rouse. Vitala heard shouts, movement, footsteps.

  “Glavius!” The voice came from just outside the tent. Vitala slipped behind the cot and covered herself with the blanket. Ista ducked behind a chest. There was a rattling sound. Vitala flinched, wondering what it was, and finally figured out it was the skull banging against the battle standard. “Wake up, Glavius. We’re under attack!” A pause. “Glavius?” The tent flap opened. The voice, closer now, was full of scorn. “Gods, Glavius.” The tent flap closed and the footsteps ran off.

  Vitala stood up from behind the cot.

  “Are Lucien’s forces attacking the pavilion?” whispered Ista.

  “No, those cannons are distant,” said Vitala. “I’m sure the officers are being roused so they can help at the front lines. I think Lucien’s making some kind of desperate push.”

  “Could be an opportunity for us,” said Ista.

  Vitala nodded. She and Ista waited in the tent while the camp emptied. When the sounds of activity faded, Vitala poked her head out the tent, ascertained there was no one watching, and emerged with Ista behind her.

  The grumbling and groaning of the cannons sounded horribly near as they worked their way toward the imperial tent, but Vitala knew from experience that they were farther away than they seemed. How far? she wondered. Wherever the action was, Lucien was probably close by. He could be within walking distance. Of course, with thousands of hostile troops in between the two of them, the physical distance didn’t matter at all.

  Two guards stood in front of the imperial tent.

  Vitala peered at them from behind a weapons rack and grimaced. “Legaciatti.”

  “Yes and no,” whispered Ista. “Most of the Legaciatti are dead, killed during the coup or afterward during the purge. Cassian has been assigning ordinary soldiers to Legaciatti positions.”

  “Really?” Vitala brightened. “Then these might not even be magical.”

  “They might not be,” said Ista. “But we shouldn’t assume.”

  “I don’t think we should kill them,” said Vitala. “It leaves too obvious a calling card.”

  They crept around to the back of the tent, where they found more guards. These she and Ista dispatched with the poisoned knives. From the outside, the tent appeared to have the same shape as Lucien’s old imperial tent, the one she’d burned. Assuming it was also the same on the inside, she worked out where the bedroom would be and crouched in the dirt along its back wall. Vitala began cutting a slit near the floor of the tent. The leather was thick, and she strained with the effort. Ista shoved the guards’ bodies up against the tent wall and kept watch. Vitala had dulled the first knife and switched to a second by the time she’d opened enough of a gap that they could slip through.

  She peeked through the opening. It was indeed a bedroom. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Go in,” said Ista. “We’re still clear outside. I’ll shove the bodies in after you.”

  Vitala pocketed her knives and squirmed headfirst through the small opening. She was just tugging her hips through when something landed on her head.

  She bit her tongue to keep from crying out and fought silently, twisting to free her trapped shoulder. She flung the weight off of her, surprised at how light it was. She turned and located her attacker, a boy with a knife.

  He launched himself at her, swiping inexpertly with the knife. Vitala dodged the blow and caught his hand. She applied pressure to the wrist, making him drop the weapon, then scooped it up herself. She grabbed her assailant and held the knife to his neck, but it wasn’t a boy at all. Her attacker had long hair and a delicate, feminine face. She’d been fighting a teenage girl. Celeste.

  I should put down the knife and let her go, Vitala thought. But no, that was a bad idea—she needed to explain herself first, or the girl might summon the guards. I should put down the knife and let her go. The thought recurred, forceful and persistent. And strange. Nonsensical. Vitala blinked in confusion. Then something rose in her, so virulent she almost vomited, and shoved the thought from her mind as if it were a foreign invader. In the moment of clarity that followed, she realized that was exactly what it had been. Celeste, like most Kjallan noblewomen, was a mind mage.

  “Nice try,” she said, keeping her voice low, “but I’m magical. Your tricks won’t work on me.”

  “Who are you?” squeaked the girl.

  “Believe it or not, I’m the Empress of Kjall,” she said. “Lucien sent me.” A pang knifed through her; looking into the girl’s black eyes was like looking into Lucien’s, and she missed her husband terribly. But there were differences. Celeste’s hair was lighter than Lucien’s, and she had a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. Where had those come from? Vitala didn’t know Lucien’s ancestry beyond a couple of generations. Did his line carry foreign blood?

  Ista squeezed in behind her and gasped. “Is that Celeste?”

  “Yes,” said Vitala. “Get the guards’ bodies in here.”

  “What’s going on?” hissed Celeste—but quietly, as if she didn’t want the guards out front to hear.

  “I’ll explain in a moment,” said Vitala. Then, to Ista, “Get the bodies.”

  Instead Ista launched herself at Celeste.

  “No!” cried Vitala. She flung herself at Ista. Spying a poisoned knife in Ista’s hand, she grabbed it, forcing it away from Celeste’s neck. Celeste squeezed herself out from under the two of them and scrambled away, and Vitala and Ista crashed to the ground, wrestling over possession of the knife. Ista kneed Vitala in the crotch, a tactic that didn’t accomplish much, and Vitala, unable to free up a fist to strike with, elbowed Ista in the face. She had a height and strength advantage. Grunting with the effort, she used that advantage to maneuver the knife blade to Ista’s throat. “Yield,” she whispered. “Or I finish this mission alone.”

  Ista let go of the knife and stared up at Vitala. “We have to kill her. Don’t you understand?”

  “You’re mad,” growled Vitala. “I am not killing Lucien’s sister.”

  Pounding footsteps approached. Vitala froze with the knife in her hands and turned to see the two guards standing in the doorway, weapons drawn, ready to attack. Celeste moved to intercept them. Though only half their size, she faced them down.

  “Everything’s all right,” said Celeste. “You may go back to your posts.”

  The guards stared at Vitala and Ista. There could be no question that they were aware that intruders had broken in, and yet their eyes whirled with foggy indecision. “You’re certain, Empress?”

  “I’m certain,” said Celeste. “Return to your posts.”

  The guards turned to leave, and Vitala shuddered. Mind magic was the creepiest thing she’d ever seen.

  “I can call them back at any time,” said Celeste, with a pointed look at Ista. “So you’d better not touch me again.”

  “Your guards are no threat to us,” Ista sneered.

  “We’re not here to kill you,” said Vitala. “At least I’m not. I’m here on Lucien’s behalf, to assassinate Cassian and get you out of here. Is Cassian here now?”

  “No, he’s gone to the front,” said Celeste. “Why do you call yourself empress? And how could Lucien have sent you when he’s being held prisoner?”

  “He’s not being held prisoner. Here, you’ll want proof.” She fished through her pockets and found the letter he’d written her. “He and I were married not long ago.”

  Celeste read the letter and wrinkled her brow in confusion. “How can this be? Where is he?”r />
  “He’s leading the rebel army.”

  Her eyes widened. “How did he get there? Did he escape?”

  “Yes. I helped him escape.”

  Celeste looked more confused than ever, but handed the letter back. “That’s his hand; I’d know it anywhere. But I don’t understand how he got away. Also, according to this letter, he didn’t send you here. He wanted you evacuated to Mosar.”

  “I interpreted his words somewhat creatively.”

  Celeste peered at her. “How does he even know you? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “You have, but you don’t remember. I can’t tell you the whole story right now,” said Vitala. “Lucien is alive, but you’re right: his army is losing. We must end this war before his troops are overrun, and the only way to do it is to assassinate Cassian. Will you help us?”

  “I would,” said Celeste. “But you can’t kill Cassian. He’s a war mage. If it were possible, I’d have done it already.”

  Ista broke in. “Celeste is right. It’s not possible to kill Cassian, not with only two of us. That’s why Celeste has to die instead. She’s the one who makes his claim to the throne legitimate. Without her, he is nothing. If Celeste cares about her country, even she must agree with me.”

  Celeste gaped at her.

  “We came here to kill Cassian!” cried Vitala. “I would never have agreed to come here and murder Lucien’s sister.”

  Ista smiled grimly. “Plans change. What’s more important to you: the life of one girl or the future of your entire country?”

  Vitala shook her head, refusing to view the conundrum as a math problem. “Killing Celeste won’t save Lucien, and it won’t save Riorca. Cassian is too well entrenched as a leader to be thrown out just because Celeste has been killed.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Ista. “Besides, what choice do we have? We can’t kill Cassian. It takes three trained warriors at least to challenge a war mage. We have two.”

  Celeste swallowed. “I’ll help you.”

  “You are not a trained warrior,” snapped Ista. “You’re a little girl.”

  “The reason you need three people is you need him distracted,” said Celeste. “I can’t fight, but I can distract him.”