Forged in Blood I

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Out the back,” Sicarius said, diverting him into the kitchen.

  He passed the other two and reached the door first. Basilard was waiting on the steps.

  Trouble, he signed.

  “We gathered that,” Maldynado said.

  Squads of armed soldiers, their gear clattering with each step, were jogging toward the various sets of stairs leading to the parapet on the wall. All of the guard towers were lit now, and lamps were coming on in buildings all over the fort. Shouted orders echoed through the streets, with the words “attack” and “siege” repeated over and over, amidst commands for soldiers to join their units and find their battle posts.

  “We’re not going to get near those walls without someone seeing us,” Sespian said. “I’m joining Ridgecrest.”

  “Sespian.” Sicarius gripped his arm.

  “You heard him. He hasn’t committed to anything yet. Regardless, nobody here is going to shoot me. I agree that you may want to stay in hiding, but I’m going to see what’s happening.”

  Sespian pulled away. Sicarius could have kept him from going—indeed, he wasn’t entirely sure soldiers wouldn’t shoot Sespian if word was getting out about his true parentage—but he’d probably be safe tonight. The soldiers would have other things to worry about. They might put aside their other concerns if they saw Sicarius, though, so he searched the buildings in the fort for a less populated place that would afford him a view. A clock tower rose from the square near the front gate. That would have to do.

  “Want me to go with him?” Maldynado asked. “I think Ridgecrest is past wanting to hit me. Much.”

  “No,” Sicarius reluctantly said. “Our team is too notorious. The soldiers would capture—” or kill, “—us if they got the chance. Among them, Sespian should be safer without us.” Though Sicarius resolved to acquire a rifle on the way to the clock tower in case anyone standing near his son did make a hostile move. He ought to be able to hit most targets from that vantage point.

  Basilard signed, Where to?

  “Follow me,” Sicarius said.

  He jogged through the alleys, taking to the rooftops to avoid troops jogging for the walls. At one point, running along the gutters of a barracks building, he spotted a straggler coming out of the front door. The soldier paused, leaning his rifle against the wall to tug on his helmet and fasten a chinstrap. By the time he turned around to retrieve his weapon, it was gone.

  With the rifle and an ammo pouch in hand, Sicarius skimmed behind evergreen hedges fronting the building until he reached the corner. From the alley, he climbed a downspout, regaining the roof again before the private asked, “Did anyone see my gun?”

  Maldynado was waiting with Basilard, sharing hand signs and snickers. More booms reverberated through the night, and something slammed into one of the fort walls. Their faces sobered. Sicarius sped past them, across two more rooftops, and down into the square with the clock tower in the center.

  By this time, most of the troops had reached the walls and were lining the parapets, several teams manning weapons. In front of the massive double doors leading out of the fort, two infantry companies formed precise squads, rifles in hand, swords hanging from their belts. Nobody had opened those doors, but if someone gave the order, the soldiers would storm out.

  With their faces forward, none of the men saw Sicarius, Maldynado, and Basilard running through the shadows behind them. The clock tower was unguarded, so they slipped through the door and jogged up the spiral staircase unopposed. Chains and gears filled the empty air to their right, but Sicarius’s only interest was in the view from above. He outpaced the others and reached the wooden platform several stories above the square. After ensuring no enemies occupied the space, he ran to a window facing west, the direction from which that first round had been fired.

  The snow had picked up, but it didn’t hide the sea of lanterns burning a half mile from the walls. Not just to the west, but to the east and north as well. The cold, dark lake lay to the south, making it difficult to move companies of men into position in front of the fort’s double doors, but lanterns meandered through the trees along the jogging path there as well. There were thousands of soldiers out there, maybe tens of thousands. And they’d brought weapons. The lights revealed the hulking shapes of steam trampers, armored lorries, and all manner of mobile projectile launchers. It was Turgonian technology, not that there’d been much doubt. There was no way a foreign invasion force of this size could have come up the river, along the roads, or over the mountains without being spotted. This was another warrior-caste competitor for the throne, someone doing a much better job of rounding up troops than Sespian.

  “Oh, that cannot be good,” Maldynado said, coming up beside Sicarius.

  We’re surrounded, Basilard signed. We can’t even go back to the city.

  “Not easily,” Sicarius agreed.

  He suspected he could make it—he thought of his promise to return to Amaranthe and “stand guard”—but he wouldn’t go without Sespian, and Sespian… Sicarius pulled out his spyglass and searched along the wall until he found General Ridgecrest, gesticulating and barking orders. Yes, there was Sespian at his side, his hood pulled up to hide his face as he gazed thoughtfully out at the massed troops. He didn’t look like a man thinking of fleeing; he looked like an opportunist seeking an opportunity.

  A faint howl floated across the fields. It was distant, originating somewhere beyond the sea of troops, and someone unfamiliar with it might have mistaken it for a wolf. Sicarius did not.

  Basilard didn’t either. The soul construct?

  “Is it with them?” Maldynado pointed toward the besieging army. “Because they don’t look like they need magic and monsters in addition to all those people and artillery.”

  “Unknown,” Sicarius said. What he did know was that he wouldn’t be returning to the city that night, perhaps not for some time.

  Chapter 10

  “Halt, and identify yourself,” came a voice from a nook beside the back door to the molasses factory. At first, Amaranthe didn’t recognize it, but then she remembered. It was one of her new “recruits.” Private Rudev. Not only had the two soldiers not wandered off, but they were standing watch. Huh.

  The sun had long since set, and she supposed he couldn’t identify them in the darkness. “Amaranthe and Sergeant Yara,” she said.

  “You may enter, Sergeant and, er, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  Amaranthe shifted the book she was carrying under one arm and opened the heavy metal door. Inside, a single lantern burned beside the entrance. The only other light came from the offices on the landing. The dusty machinery and empty vats lay dormant and dark. Amaranthe lamented that she hadn’t had time to tidy the place up much yet.

  “I’m going to find something to eat,” Yara said and headed for the cafeteria.

  Amaranthe waved. “I may join you later.” Her stomach protested at the delay of food, but she wanted to check on the others and examine her pillaged book.

  Coldness hugged the inside of the factory, so she hustled for the steps. Snow had started falling outside. If the temperature dropped much more, they’d have to start one of the furnaces to heat the building. Or start sharing bedrolls. Her lips twitched into a private smile.

  The light was coming from the office next to hers. Inside, Books and Akstyr sat on opposite sides of a desk. Stacks of papers and tomes in foreign languages, along with a pile of gnawed pork ribs, covered the surface, no plates in sight. The scent of a honey-apple glaze lingered in the air. Amaranthe’s stomach issued a pitiful whine.

  “You missed dinner,” Akstyr said. “Basilard made some tasty sauce.”

  Her stomach’s whines grew more plaintive.

  “You’ve been gone a long time.” Books sat at the desk, his hands folded over a stack of papers, a bright and alert expression on his face. He’d combed his hair and shaven, something he hadn’t bothered with the last few weeks. “Were you at your old business school the whole t
ime? Did you run into trouble?”

  “No. A delay or two, but we got past them.” Amaranthe chose not to go into the details of how easily she was gaining access to locked buildings these days—Books always pursed his lips in disapproval at the development of her thief-appropriate skill set. “I didn’t find the records I sought, but this was written by Suan, so it may prove enlightening.” She tapped the leather-bound book. “I was hoping someone would save me dinner.”

  Akstyr picked up a rib with most of the meat gnawed off. “There’s a little left on some of these bones. If you don’t mind Books’s slobber.”

  Books’s lips flattened. “Are you ever going to start acting like an adult?”

  “What do you mean? I was real mature about a certain assassin hacking off all of my hair and burning it like some funeral pyre offering.” This time Akstyr’s lips flattened, the expression oddly similar to Books’s. “I could have spent the day plotting revenge, but I’ve been studying instead.”

  “You only came up here a couple of hours ago,” Books said.

  “All right, I’ve been studying part of the day. I didn’t let go of the revenge plotting until after lunch.”

  “You’re not going to try and convince some bounty hunter to go after him again, are you?” Amaranthe pulled a crate up to the desk and sat down between them.

  “No, he’d kill me over that. I was thinking of a revenge that he couldn’t pin on me. Like using my Science skills to light his socks on fire.”

  “While he’s wearing them?” Amaranthe eased a few papers to the side, looking for a place where she could set the book.

  “Preferably while he’s tormenting us during some training session.” Akstyr grinned. “But he’d probably know it was me who did it then, ’cause I’d be falling down laughing.”

  “If you used magic, he’d know it was you anyway,” Books said.

  “Not necessarily. Fire’s natural. And things catch on fire sometimes. The Science wouldn’t be the only possible explanation.”

  Books stared at him. “Name one possible non-magical explanation that could account for socks randomly taking flame.”

  “Well… there’s that one thing. When stuff blows up of its own accord.”

  “Spontaneous combustion?” Books asked.

  Akstyr snapped his fingers. “That’s it.”

  “That generally applies to piles of hay and compost, not undergarments.”

  Amaranthe shook her head and opened to the first page. She’d get more read with fewer distractions if she went into the other office, but she didn’t want to be alone. Especially—a yawn stretched her jaw so wide that it popped—at night. Books and Akstyr would help her stay awake until a certain night watchman returned.

  Before she could delve into the text, Books cleared his throat.

  “I asked you about your evening,” he said.

  “Yes…” Amaranthe said.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about mine?”

  “I wasn’t planning to, no.” She smiled, but Books’s expression grew consternated, so she relented. “How was your evening?”

  “Most excellent. I finished my treatise, my Constitution for the Turgonian Republic, outlining specific government responsibilities and powers along with declaring fundamental rights for its citizens. Citizens, mind you, not subjects. It is, of course, a preliminary draft. I’d like feedback from my peers, but, ah—” Books gazed out the window at the factory’s innards, “—due to my limited access to colleagues learned in manners of history and politics, I’d like you to read over it.”

  “Me?” Even if she hadn’t had an infiltration to plan, Amaranthe wouldn’t have thought herself knowledgeable enough to weigh in on such a document.

  “Sespian, too, of course. Despite his youth, he’ll naturally be well versed in the matter of ruling a nation. Sicarius’s opinions might be useful as well, if he’ll deign to read it.”

  Yes, and what exactly would Sespian think when he found out Books’s new ideas revolved around a government that elected its leaders? In such a scenario, what odds would a nineteen-year-old boy have of claiming the throne? Would it even be called a throne if Books’s future came to pass?

  “It’s not that bad.” For once, Akstyr was paying attention, noticing her hesitation. “I’ve read part of it.”

  “You’ve read part of it?” Amaranthe didn’t know whether it surprised her more that Books had shared it with him or that he’d actually looked the documents over, especially given the encyclopedia-sized stack of pages beneath Books’s folded hands. Weren’t constitutions supposed to be short and concise?

  “Not exactly, but we’ve been sharing lanterns at night, and he mutters a lot when he writes.” Akstyr shrugged. “I liked the part where it says citizens are freely allowed to pursue the careers of their choices and study whatever subjects they wish.”

  “Page eighty-three,” Books said. “Paragraph three.”

  “Ah, would you stay in the empire if you were allowed to use the mental sciences?” Amaranthe doubted a government document would change the imperial beliefs about magic, nor how fast people were to punish others who used it, but she latched onto the topic, hoping to distract Books from the idea that she should read his opus that night. After she returned from her mission, she could peruse it. Or—she eyed the thickness of the stack again—ask someone for an abbreviated version.

  “Maybe,” Akstyr said. “Though those Kyatt Islands sound real nice. And warm.” He pulled his jacket tighter about him. “Besides, I’ve got that other problem.”

  Yes, Amaranthe needed to send the team out to find Akstyr’s mother or blackmail whomever it would take to get the bounty removed from his head. Unfair of things to pile up on one’s to-do list while one was off being tortured. There was a particular cosmic cruelty to that.

  “You can take it with you to your room,” Books said, “so long as you promise to be careful. It’s the only copy I have so far, and it’s already been dreadfully difficult to keep the pages together. Oh, when you get to the singed ones in the middle, the new writing is on the back. I must have copies made. I wonder if either of those two soldiers you picked up is literate enough for the task. Probably not. I’ll have to hire a scribe.”

  “I could wait to read it until after you have more copies.” Amaranthe tapped the book she’d brought. “I need to study up on the woman I intend to impersonate first, and I wouldn’t want to lose any of your pages.”

  “Yes, but if you finish with that… you’ll have something nearby for when you can’t sleep.”

  Erg, did everyone know she wasn’t sleeping? “I intend to sleep well tonight.” She chomped down on her lip to keep from grinning and adding that it’d be after some vigorous exercise.

  “Oh.” Books’s gaze drooped with disappointment.

  “But why don’t I take the first few pages, just in case?” Amaranthe found herself saying. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to get out of reading the thing.

  Books brightened. “Yes, good. Here.” He handed her a third of the stack, far more than a few pages. “I’ll see about having the rest copied.”

  Clomps sounded on the metal stairs leading to the offices. Amaranthe lifted her head. Sicarius? He wouldn’t make any noise climbing the steps, but maybe Maldynado and the others were with him.

  It was Deret Mancrest who walked into view however, yawning and leaning heavily on his swordstick. Amaranthe hadn’t spoken to him since the night before, nor had she thought overmuch of him, she admitted with a guilty twinge. If nothing else, she should be keeping track of him and the new recruits, to ensure everyone remained suborned to her side.

  Deret noticed Amaranthe watching him through the window and straightened, making it seem as if the swordstick were a decorative prop, not a necessary tool. He lifted a hand to knock, but Amaranthe waved and said, “Come in, Lord Mancrest.” She gave him a warm please-don’t-get-bored-lingering-in-our-hide-out-and-go-back-to-your-father smile, hoping it would make up for her neglect.
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br />   Deret entered, looked around for a chair, and settled for perching on the edge of a low bookcase. “I need to talk to you, Amaranthe, but I have news also.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been communicating with a few of my contacts, those I can be reasonably sure my father doesn’t own—” his lip twisted in a sneer, “—and there are a couple of tidbits I believe will interest you.”

  Amaranthe leaned toward him, elbow on the edge of the desk. She waited for him to continue, but he merely met her gaze frankly.

  “Are we trading information again?” she asked.

  “I’m still waiting for the information you promised me yesterday.”

  Another task she didn’t have time to complete. “Books has recently completed his project. I believe he’s available to brief you.”

  Books had indeed been watching the exchange—Akstyr had his nose pressed into the pages of some tome on Kendorian magic and probably didn’t know Mancrest was in the room—though his eyebrows twitched at this new assignment. “You’ve certainly learned how to delegate in this last year as a leader, haven’t you?”

  “It’s part of my important new job. Didn’t you hear? Sespian named me as…” Hm, what was that title again? Oh, yes. “High Minister in charge of Domestic and Foreign Relations.”

  Books’s eyebrows went from subtle twitching to outright acrobatics on his creased brow. “Are we then throwing our weight behind Sespian as emperor? Rather than establishing a new more modern and progressive regime?”

  “Such as a republic?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Such as.”

  “I don’t think we’ll get the backing we need if we attempt to open with that gambit. However, if we can get Sespian onto the throne, he’d be amenable to giving up absolute power in favor of gradually instituting some of your suggestions. He’s often spoken of how he wants to turn the empire in another direction. He might be willing to carry your documents to the Company of Lords himself.”

  “I was imagining this as a revolution, one that would render the Company of Lords obsolete,” Books said.