Lindsay Buroker - Forged in Blood I

“This is disappointing,” Akstyr said when he stepped inside. He ticked a nail against one of the featureless wooden cabinets that lined one wall. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases occupied the others. There was barely room inside to squeeze past the desk and sit in the chair. “You’d expect a secret inner chamber to be more interesting than a little office.”

“By interesting, do you mean full of decapitated heads and various other grisly trophies of defeated enemies?” Books asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“My fath- the emperor’s tastes were more along those lines.” Sespian squeezed into the room behind Akstyr.

“Can we visit his offices?”

“No,” Books said.

Aware of the confined space and the number of people blocking the exit, Sicarius twitched a finger toward Books, then left the files on the desk and returned to the main suite where there’d be room to maneuver in a fight. He would have liked to remove himself further from the conversation, which devolved into further speculation from Akstyr on what the old emperor’s vices might have been, but was reluctant to leave Sespian unguarded. Sicarius should check on the imperial suite though. It wasn’t much farther down the hall, and Amaranthe would want to know what Ravido planned next. He might have left documents secured in his new quarters.

Of course, if Sicarius simply killed Ravido, the general’s plans would be moot, and Forge would have to pause to develop a new strategy. Nebulous and elusive, the organization itself would be difficult to decapitate, especially if its members continued to hide behind their technology, but Ravido was a single man, a single target, one who might be on this floor of the Barracks at this very moment.

A throat cleared. “Hear something?”

It was Sespian. He had returned to the larger office and was probably wondering why Sicarius stood motionless, staring at the door.

“No,” Sicarius said. In truth, three people had walked by in the hallway while he’d been contemplating assassinations, but none of their footfalls had slowed down, so he judged them inconsequential.

“Do you think…?” Sespian started, then faltered. He plucked at the seam of his trousers.

Sicarius faced him and attempted to look approachable, though facial expressions were not his strength, especially when he was trying . Between his weapons, his black attire, and the shadows, he’d probably fail utterly at “approachable” anyway. “Yes?” he asked, settling on an oral prompt.

“If Ravido is in the Barracks,” Sespian said, “maybe we should do something about him while we’re here.”

By now, Sicarius knew that “do something about him,” didn’t mean kill him, at least not when Sespian or Amaranthe said it. “Such as?”

“I don’t know. Kidnap him?”

“To what end?” Sicarius imagined Amaranthe trying to talk Ravido over to their side. He doubted it’d be possible, but watching her attempt to do so might elicit sensations of levity.

“If we could keep him away from Forge and the army while we enact our plan…”

Killing him would be much easier. Sicarius resisted the urge to say it, though the dozens of difficulties inherent in a kidnapping stampeded into his mind. Even if they found Ravido alone, how could they force him to navigate the ducts-or drag his unconscious body through them-without making noise? Sicarius ought to squash the notion, but if nothing came of his backup plan, and Sespian ended up back on the throne, he’d have to take orders from the boy eventually. That had been what he wished once, he recalled, what he’d had in mind when he poisoned Raumesys.

“I will check to see if Ravido is here,” Sicarius said. “It’s moot otherwise.”

“Agreed. And don’t… I know what you must be thinking. Please don’t take it into your hands to kill him. While I have no reason to love the man and admit there’s a certain practicality to the idea, I can’t win the throne back that way. I don’t deserve it if I have to become the very monsters I wish to displace. Besides, in the people’s eyes, if I had him assassinated, I’d be no better than…” Sespian had been looking Sicarius in the eyes as he spoke, but he broke contact now, studying the floor instead. “It wouldn’t be a popular choice with the people or the rest of the warrior caste. Given that I’m no longer the automatic blood choice, I’ll need a majority vote from the Company of Lords to be reappointed. They’d only approve of me eliminating Ravido if I bested him in a duel or some blood-flinging, eye-gouging, one-on-one grappling competition. Those aren’t exactly my fortes.”

Though Sespian grimaced as he spoke those last sentences, Sicarius wondered if the thoughts represented an opportunity. “If you feel you’re deficient in martial endeavors, I could instruct you.”

“Uhhhh,” Sespian said, drawing out the syllable in a way that ensured a rejection would follow.

“I have trained the others. They are better fighters for it.”

“I don’t-”

“I know you prefer cerebral solutions to problems, but, as you said, the people will want a strong warrior to rally behind.” Sicarius knew he was “trying too hard,” as Amaranthe would say it, and he lifted a hand to signify he was backing away from the argument.

“I’ll think about it,” Sespian said.

Not an outright objection. Good.

“I’ll see if Ravido is here.” Sicarius paused, thinking Sespian might volunteer to come along. He’d be more efficient on his own, but found himself hoping for his company nonetheless.

“Thank you,” was all Sespian said and headed back into the secret room.

Sicarius bowed his head. So be it.

Amaranthe tried to pierce the basement darkness with her eyes, but there wasn’t enough light filtering down the stairwell to reveal anything. For all she knew, she might be standing on the edge of a secret bottomless abyss that opened up beneath the newspaper building. However, the amount of dust hanging in the air, tickling her nostrils, suggested a clutter-filled room of manmade origins.

With the grinding and thumping of machinery filtering down from above, she could almost believe she’d imagined the voice, but Maldynado had heard it too.

“That sounded like Deret Mancrest,” he said, “but I can’t believe a warrior-caste lord would get himself locked in a grimy cell more than once in the same year.”

“No, you wouldn’t think so.” Amaranthe waited for the voice in the darkness to speak again, but all she heard was a soft thump. Such as that of a forehead thudding against a wall? “Watch our friends, will you?”

While Maldynado hauled their prisoners out of the stairwell, Amaranthe shrugged off her knapsack and dug out a lantern. She shut the door before striking a match. The small flame did little more than highlight the scowls of the two captives and Maldynado’s perennially amused features. Yara never had a chance. The man even managed to look stop-and-gape handsome with dust blanketing his brown curls, mud on his boots, and a dubious green smudge smeared across one of his well-defined cheekbones.

Leaving him with the soldiers, Amaranthe walked into the widest of several aisles branching out from the entrance. Old hand-powered printing presses and stacks upon stacks of dusty, faded newspapers filled the basement from faded brick floor to worn wooden ceiling. The box- and press-framed route took her to an open area hemmed in by giant bottles of ink and crates full of machine parts. A six-foot-tall iron cage rested in the center, a single occupant hunched inside. Deret Mancrest.

If his oily hair, limp clothing, and beard stubble were apt indicators, he’d been locked inside for a few days. An empty plate sat outside the door, and a water jug and chamberpot rested inside the cage, so no one had intended him to starve and die, but he certainly didn’t look his best. A heavy padlock secured the cell gate. The swordstick he used for a cane, the support necessary due to a war wound that had left him with a limp, leaned against a crate out of his reach. He stared at Amaranthe warily, probably wondering if, in these tumultuous times, she was friend or foe. Or maybe he was simply wondering if she’d mock him for his predicament. After all, she’d once left him in a similar position when he tried to lure her into a trap, intending to turn her over to the army.