As the Barracks walls came into view, with the heavy double doors charred and blown half off their hinges, Sicarius wondered how many people they’d be preparing a funeral pyre for. Not Sespian. Sespian had known the danger, known there might be more bombs. If he’d gotten himself killed…
A pair of enforcers standing outside the warped gates frowned at their approach. It was still a few hours until dawn, and Sicarius doubted they could tell who occupied the shadowy interior of the cab, but he watched their eyes—and their hands—nonetheless. A sergeant wearing the reds of the Imperial Fire Brigade jogged up to them, and Sicarius drove through into the courtyard without being stopped. With so many enforcer wagons and army lorries, one more shouldn’t seem strange. Besides, Sicarius thought, as the front of the Barracks came into view, what was left to protect?
Black bricks and charred wood lay all about the slushy courtyard, along with pieces of furniture, clothing, and a set of purple velvet draperies that were wrapped around the flagpole. The face of the building had been blown off; the remaining walls and floors, their edges crumbling, stood open to the elements, laid open like a giant diorama. Water dripped from it all, courtesy of the Imperial Fire Brigade’s hoses. With the fire quenched, they’d been turned off, but they still snaked across the ground to fire plugs in the corner of the courtyard, and steam still rose from the rubble crowding the base of the building.
Sicarius drove to one side, passing the vehicle house he’d taken a different vehicle from earlier. That vehicle remained on the street where they’d parked it; molasses had reached three feet up the side of it, leaving a sticky mess of the engine.
Though he remained alert for danger from the enforcers they passed, Sicarius searched the rubble for bodies and searched the courtyard for signs of Sespian.
“The back half of the building is relatively undamaged,” Starcrest observed.
Sicarius didn’t care about the building. Where was Sespian?
“I don’t see any bodies,” Starcrest added quietly.
A more useful observation. If Sicarius hadn’t been busy hunting for his son, he would have realized it too. Sespian—or someone—must have succeeded in evacuating the Barracks.
“Where is everybody?” Sicarius asked. He had rounded the back of the building and come out on the other side. He could almost see back to the courtyard gate, but he hadn’t spotted Sespian or anyone else on the team. Enforcers and Fire Brigade personnel roamed everywhere, taking notes, searching the inside of the building, and making inspections to figure out if the rest would collapse, but where was everyone else?
“Stop, and I’ll ask,” Starcrest said.
He climbed out gingerly, his bandaged arm cradled against his abdomen. In a hasty bit of field surgery that Starcrest had insisted upon, Komitopis had removed the musket ball from his shoulder while his daughter had filled the role of nurse. Their practiced professionalism—and the way Komitopis had shaken her head while glaring and tsk-tsking at her husband—had led Sicarius to believe it wasn’t the first musket ball they’d removed from Starcrest’s body.
“Root cellar,” Starcrest said when he climbed back into the cab. “It was undamaged, aside from the addition of a smelly makarovi den.” He raised his eyebrows, silently asking if Sicarius already knew about this and of the cellar’s location. When Sicarius nodded, Starcrest added, “It’s been claimed as the headquarters suite for now. Most of the troops and staff that were in the Barracks were evacuated to hotels in the area.”
Sicarius barely heard the addition. He would have simply run to the root cellar, but there was enough light in the courtyard that people would spot—and recognize him—so it was best to get closer using the vehicle. Besides, Amaranthe and the others would want to rush in to see the rest of the team too.
Four soldiers stood guard around the reinforced root cellar door. Sicarius stopped the vehicle.
“I’ll talk to them,” Starcrest said.
Not interested in waiting—or being the recipient of rifle fire when the soldiers figured out who he was—Sicarius slipped out of the cab and used the vehicle to cover his approach to the ragged hole in the lawn. He hopped into the tunnel, breathing the makarovi scent anew. It was almost better than the smoke that lingered in the courtyard, the smell of wet, charred wood dominating everything else.
Sicarius heard voices as soon as he landed, and he found himself sprinting up the slope and into the makarovi cage. Numerous lamps burned in the root cellar, and the number of bodies holed up inside made the room warm. Sespian, Yara, Maldynado, Basilard, and a handful of officers were standing around a food crate turned into a table. Their backs were to him. Another man lay bound and gagged in a corner by a box with air holes. Ravido.
Sicarius paused only long enough to make sure nobody with a pistol stood ready to shoot him, then slipped through the bars. “Sespian.”
A profound relief filled him when Sespian turned, his hair tousled and his uniform rumpled, but with no injuries marring his flesh. Before his rational mind caught up to his reflexes—his feelings—he’d grabbed Sespian and wrapped him in a hug.
Startled, Sespian leaned back, as if to pull away, but he decided to accept the embrace and offered an awkward back pat. It warmed Sicarius’s heart.
The door creaked open. “Fleet Admiral Starcrest and Corporal Lokdon here to see you, sir,” a soldier called.
“Thank you,” Sespian said. “Send them down.”
It wasn’t until footsteps sounded on the earthen stairs that Sicarius released Sespian and stepped back. A faint furrow creased Sespian’s brow.
“We saw your explosion from the waterfront,” Sicarius said, realizing the hug had been out of character and likely puzzled his son. “I did not know if you lived.”
“Ah,” Sespian said, nodding in understanding.
“What’s this?” Maldynado asked. “No hugs for us?” He smirked at Sicarius and opened his arms in an invitation.
Basilard’s eyebrows twitched up, and Yara stared at Maldynado as if he’d grown a new eye in the center of his forehead, right under that idiotic tentacle hat that he’d managed to retain throughout the night’s action.
Sicarius was almost tempted to take a step toward the man, to see what he’d do, but he must have taken too long to act, for Maldynado shrugged and faced the stairs, his arms still spread. “I know the boss will hug me!”
Amaranthe was on the steps, but she was coming down behind Starcrest, and he was the one to receive the enthusiastic smile.
The admiral raised his eyebrows at the proffered embrace. “Given my injury, I’ll pass.”
“Er, yes,” Maldynado said. “Quite right.”
Yara pulled him out of the way of the people coming down the stairs. “Are you always going to be a frivolous buffoon?”
“Of course. You wouldn’t want a serious old stick, would you?” Maldynado flicked a glance toward Sicarius.
Before the conversation could go further, and before Sicarius could decide if he wanted to rebut with anything more than an icy stare, an ear-splitting yowl made most people in the cellar wince.
Ravido, his ear inches from the box that housed whatever feline beast was emitting the noise, groaned through his gag. He tried to say something too. It sounded like, “Just kill me; it’d be less torture.”
“I know, Trog,” Sespian said, “and I apologize, but we’ll find you some food soon and a place where you can roam.”
So that was the cat Sespian had been looking for. Another eardrum-assaulting screech blasted from the box. Sicarius wondered how he could have missed hearing the creature on his first trip into the Barracks.
“Is that your cat?” Amaranthe asked. “I’m glad you found him. Or is it a her?”
Another yowl.
Yara scowled. “Only a male would complain that much.”
“I was worried he wouldn’t make it,” Sespian said, “that nobody would take care of him with me gone, but he’s a survivor. More than that. Apparently, he’s been harassing the n
ew troops since Ravido presumed to move onto our floor.”
Ravido groaned again, cursing vehemently behind his gag. He might have said, “Piss and cat hair everywhere,” but it was hard to tell.
“The makarovi?” Sespian asked over the noise of the belligerent cat.
“Dead,” Sicarius said.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“We paid a price though.” Amaranthe so rarely gave anyone a glare of hatred that Sicarius almost didn’t recognize it as such; it was directed at Ravido.
Sespian sighed. “With such powerful monsters, I’m not surprised.”
Amaranthe exchanged hugs with Maldynado and Basilard. “I’m glad you made it out of the building. All of you.” She lifted her head to include Yara and Sespian.
“Where’s Books?” Maldynado asked. “Up poking through musty old tomes somewhere with Akstyr?”
“Books…” Amaranthe swallowed. “He was our price.”
“Our price?” Maldynado removed his hat to scratch his head, either not comprehending—or choosing not to comprehend—her point.
Basilard’s shoulders slumped. He knew.
“We were able to retrieve the body,” Amaranthe said. “We’ll plan the funeral pyre as soon as…” She waved vaguely toward the Barracks. “As soon as enough is resolved that we can do so.”
“Oh,” Maldynado mouthed, his body as limp as the drooping tendrils of his hat.
Starcrest joined the officers, and their heads bent together over papers scattered on the table. Sicarius found that he cared little as to what was on that table and what they were planning. Sespian and Amaranthe were alive, and in this tight cellar, he could keep an eye out and ensure that they stayed that way. An unexpected sense of contentedness came over him. It was strange, like nothing he’d ever felt before. What an odd time for it to visit him, in the aftermath of all that chaos, at the end of a night with no sleep, and in the face of the death of one of their comrades. Yet there it was, nonetheless.
Because, Sicarius realized, it’s finally over, and the two people who mattered most to him had survived. He leaned against the wall where he could observe all and watch the room’s entrances.
Epilogue
On the third evening after the makarovi fight, Amaranthe left her room in Haiden Starcrest’s guesthouse. Haiden, the admiral’s nephew, tended the family businesses in the capital and kept an estate on Mokath Ridge. His home hadn’t been damaged during the fighting and, with order restored to the city, it had proven a safe and quiet place to recuperate. And mourn.
Amaranthe walked toward a granite bench that sat before a fountain in the center of the courtyard. All of the guest rooms opened up on it, though she didn’t know who was around. She hadn’t answered knocks to her door during the first couple of days. She’d been too busy staring at the wall with her back to the world. Her meals had been delivered by an incurious servant, and nobody else had intruded upon her rest. Rest. Could she call it that? She’d slept a lot, her body finally demanding it whether her mind found respite in it or not. Her nightmares had lingered, and she’d seen Books’s death in them over and over, often waking with a lurch to realize she’d been dreaming… then to further realize that, dream or not, he was still dead.
Having grown tired of her self-imposed exile, she sat on the bench, hoping someone might wander out to sit with her, but quietness embraced the house. Along with the benches, exotic potted plants surrounded the courtyard, creating numerous private nooks, but she didn’t hear anything beyond the gurgle of a fountain. Outside, the snow and ice had returned, but glass windows covered the ceiling and the southern wall, and the late afternoon sun peeping through the clouds warmed the interior. In defiance of the exterior climate, flowers bloomed, their scents lush and serene.
Amaranthe didn’t hear anyone approach over the flowing water, not that she would have heard his approach anyway, and twitched in surprise when the black-clad figure slid onto the bench beside her. He held a pair of scissors and a newspaper.
“Planning to cut out an article highlighting your heroics?” Amaranthe didn’t think any of the knocks had belonged to him. If she had, she would have risen, and invited him inside so she could slump against him for comfort. They’d all seemed too… emotional though. She’d feared Maldynado would be out there, wanting to drag her off to a brothel to share drinks, his idea of commiserating. She hadn’t had the heart for it. All of the deaths over the last weeks had been difficult, but the loss of a friend struck at one’s heart with far greater acuity than the demises of thousands of strangers. Books had been the one to warn her, the year before—it seemed so much longer ago—that the most profound lessons were taught by failure rather than success and that one often had to lose something to realize how much she’d appreciated it.
“No.” Sicarius handed her the newspaper.
She didn’t yet know what it said or why he was sharing it, but she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “I appreciate you,” she whispered.
A single blond eyebrow twitched. “Good.”
Sicarius was clean-shaven and smelled faintly of soap. He wore fresh black clothing—where did he find those identical, fitted, humorless outfits, anyway?—but for once wasn’t wearing his armory of knives. Though she knew he was still deadly without them, he seemed… not exactly naked, but like a man strolling about in his pajamas. A man at rest.
It had taken her a while to summon the strength to care, but she’d eventually bathed and combed the snarls, soot, and dried makarovi guts from her hair. Her clothing wasn’t new, but she’d washed and pressed it. She needed to go out and find something appropriate for Books’s funeral, but she didn’t want to venture into the city. She was glad Starcrest and Sespian had taken over planning… whatever it was they were planning. The world didn’t seem to need her, and for once she was glad to be forgotten.
“Are you going to read it?” Sicarius asked. “Front page.”
“Here we are in a pleasant courtyard, being serenaded by a gurgling fountain and enjoying lush fragrances one wouldn’t normally find in the winter. I thought you might like to enjoy the moment with me.”
“I could read the article to you.”
Amaranthe hoped his determination to share it with her meant it was good news. She was ready for good news. This rare display of impatience piqued her humor for the first time in days—after all, he was someone who could perch unmoving in the rafters for six hours, waiting for his prey to walk by.
“Really?” she asked. “You’ve never offered to read to me. May I lie on my back with my head in your lap and gaze up at you while you do so?”
Sicarius stared at her, his usual unreadable self, and she was about to pick up the paper, when he said, “Describe the gaze.”
“What?”
“Your gaze. What kind would it be?”
She had the feeling he was trying to be humorous, and though it didn’t sound particularly natural, she went with it. “Oh, an adoring gaze of course. Will that be acceptable?”
“Sufficient for now.”
Sufficient? What kind of gaze had he been hoping for? Hm.
Sicarius set down his scissors, took back the newspaper, and lifted his arms. Amaranthe rearranged herself on the bench, her back against the cool stone, and paused, her elbows braced. She hadn’t actually expected him to say yes to this scenario. Though there was nothing menacing about his features, at least not to her eyes—others never failed to find his expressionless facade menacing—but she couldn’t decide if they were actually inviting. She needed to teach him to smile. Even if it was only when they were alone.
“Sespian and I discussed this failing,” Sicarius said.
“What?”
“My inability to be… encouraging. Which facial expression or body posture would be appropriate now?”
Amaranthe blinked. “A smile is always appropriate. Surely you’ve heard the term encouraging smile?”
“I considered it, but thought you might believe I
had an agenda.”
“Do you… always think this much when you’re deciding whether to emote?” She didn’t know if “emote” was the right word for those rare eyebrow twitches, but he’d know what she meant.
“Yes.”
Ah, she shouldn’t be surprised. “And… do you have an agenda?” She glanced at the scissors. Why had he brought them? Dare she hope he had a haircut in mind?
“Yes.”
Amaranthe waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.
“Well…” She tried her own encouraging smile. “Maybe we have the same agenda.”
“An appealing notion.” Sicarius hesitated, then patted his leg.
Amaranthe decided not to tell him that’d be more appropriate for inviting a dog into his lap. Her elbows were getting tired anyway. She lay back the rest of the way, shifting about until she found a thigh sufficient for a pillow.
His lips parted, and she thought he’d say something more, but he looked at the newspaper and read instead. “Fleet Admiral Starcrest’s reappearance in the empire has brought what could have been an ugly and prolonged civil war to an end.” Sicarius’s tone was terse and clipped as always, and Amaranthe decided he’d never succeed as an orator or storyteller. She enjoyed having him read to her nonetheless.
“Only two lords remain of the Company of Lords,” Sicarius continued, “the ancient organization having been decimated by cowardly assassinations ordered by Ravido Marblecrest. Rather than electing new members, the survivors opted to dissolve the Company in favor of a new government paradigm being discussed by many, but being spearheaded by Starcrest. Proceedings are being held at the University auditorium and participation is open to those who wish to shape the future of Turgonia. Before the dissolution of the Company, its remaining members voted to place Lord Flintcrest in exile for treason and crimes against the throne, given that former Emperor Sespian Savarsin was still alive at the time of his would-be usurpation. Ravido Marblecrest was put to death for the assassinations of members of the Company of Lords, for setting explosives in the Imperial Barracks, and for his ghastly decision to bring makarovi into the city as part of his scheme. The deaths attributed to those monsters number over one hundred and fifty.”