Amaranthe was shaking her head through his speech. “None of this is in the history books. I’ve never even heard of Azon Am-whatever.”
“Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest, then Lord General Hollowcrest, squashed the story and kept it out of the papers. He led the charge that finally took down Azon Amar, and they kept word of the assassin’s success from reaching Nuria. For three months, they pretended Morvaktu was still alive, and claimed an illness kept him from public appearances. Finally, so the state could return to normal, they announced his death in a hunting accident, burned the body at a funeral pyre, and appointed Raumesys as emperor.”
It was the longest story Amaranthe could remember Sicarius giving her. Though he did not always answer her questions, he had never lied to her, and she could not believe he was lying now. “How do you know all this?”
“If not for this incident, I never would have been born.”
Amaranthe stared at him. She knew he had been raised since he was a babe to be the emperor’s assassin, a position he had held until Raumesys’s death six years earlier, but she hadn’t realized the old emperor and Hollowcrest might have arranged the mating that brought him into existence. “They wanted to create an assassin of their own in case the Nurians tried again? To protect the emperor?”
“More likely because they were impressed with the devastation one man could cause. Azon Amar killed dozens that night, some say hundreds, and with his dying breath, he left a curse on the island, one designed to aid any Nurians who might one day use it as a staging center to launch an attack on our capital. It’s also supposed to work against Turgonians who step foot on the beach.”
Amaranthe slumped against a nearby tree, the bark rough against her bare arm. The pair from the boat had disappeared into the foliage, and the sun was dipping below the tree line.
“I do not know how those two found out about the island,” Sicarius said. “The army sacrificed much to make sure no word made it back to Nuria.”
“Maybe this warrior mage had an ally he communicated with through some magical device. We’ve seen those ourselves.”
“It is possible.”
“How potent is this curse?” Amaranthe asked.
“Unknown.”
“Have you been on the island yourself?”
“No.”
“So it’s possible the curse is simply part of the legend?” She lifted her eyebrows hopefully.
Sicarius hesitated. “That they’re there, seeking refuge, suggests there’s something to it.”
“Let’s discuss our options,” Amaranthe said. “One of us could stay here while the other attempts to get the authorities, a proposition made difficult by the fact that the authorities have orders to shoot us on sight.”
Sicarius said nothing, and it was probably only her imagination that the look he gave her meant she was deranged for listing that as an option.
“Or,” she went on, “one of us could stay here and watch them while the other goes home to pick up the rest of the team.” It was seven miles back to town and still hot enough that she did not relish the idea of jogging the route; there was also the question of whether the men would be at the hideout or, if with the boss gone, they were out carousing. “Perhaps Books would know more about the history of the island that could prove useful, and Akstyr might be able to tell us about any magic being used.”
“Books will know no more than you did, and Akstyr is a self-taught boy. He’d be of little use.”
“The thieves probably aren’t looking to stick around for long either.” If Amaranthe had crashed a steam tramper, she’d want to be out of the area by dawn. Or before.
“Agreed.”
“If you believe we can handle it ourselves, you know I’m always game to go in and find trouble.” Amaranthe smiled, thinking that might draw a retort from him. He did have a sense of humor, albeit one dryer than the tufts of yellow grass sticking up near the dock. Sometimes, when there were no other witnesses around, he’d show it to her.
This time, he did not.
“What if you and I swim across after sunset?” Amaranthe suggested. “We can sneak up on those two, knock them out, tie them up, and retrieve whatever stolen weapons they’re toting. Then we’ll put everything in a tidy pile by the steam tramper, scrape a nice note in the dirt—something along the lines of, ‘Amaranthe and Sicarius thwarted these criminals’—and send an anonymous tip to Fort Urgot in the morning. What do you think?”
Sicarius gazed out at the island pensively.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Amaranthe asked.
“About the island or in general?”
“About the island. I know there are all sorts of things you don’t tell me in general.” She sniffed. “Despite the fact that I’m the only person I’m aware of who finds you terribly interesting and likes spending time with you.”
Though he continued to face the island, he said, with a faintly affronted tone, “Many people find me interesting.”
“No argument for the latter though?”
“No.” Sicarius nodded toward the isle. “I’ve had some training in resisting the mental sciences. Perhaps we’ll have no trouble.”
Yes, Amaranthe had seen him shrug off a Nurian wizard’s attack that left her and the rest of her team flattened, but it hadn’t been easy for him. And why did he bring that up anyway? “Do you suspect one of those two of being wizards? They could just be common thieves.”
Sicarius rose from his crouch, using the trees for cover so nobody watching from the island could see him. “Did you bring poison for your crossbow bolts?”
“A little, yes.”
“I suggest you apply it,” Sicarius said. “You may need it tonight.”
Before she could ask what exactly that meant, he walked away. At first, she thought he might simply be heading inland to settle down and rest for a while before darkness fell, but he soon disappeared into the trees, leaving Amaranthe alone.
“Why I enjoy spending time with the man is a mystery,” she muttered and tried not to find his parting words ominous.
Part II
Twilight bathed the lake, and shadows blurred the features of Darkcrest Isle. Though the sun had set, humidity thickened the air, and the temperature had dropped little. Amaranthe stroked toward the island, cool water lapping at her shoulders. She was too nervous to appreciate the reprieve from the heat that swimming offered. While she stroked, she held her shoes, sword, and crossbow overhead to keep them dry. Freshly applied poison darkened the tip of the loaded quarrel, and four more waited in the chamber.
Sicarius swam along at her side, but he had said little since he returned from the woods. What he had been doing up there, she could only guess, but he was more tight-lipped than ever.
They swam toward a snarl of fallen logs that would offer cover once they climbed out. One of Amaranthe’s kicks scraped the pebbly shallows, and she maneuvered her feet beneath her, staying low in case anyone was watching the beach.
A few steps took her to the end of the log snarl, and Amaranthe crouched there, eyes probing the darkness. At the head of the beach, evergreens rose, thick and densely packed trees that had never seen a logger’s axe. Two dark shapes lay side-by-side on the pebbles before the woods, and she squinted, trying to guess what they were. The odor of rotting meat lingered in the air. Just a dead fish washed up nearby, she told herself.
“See any sign of our thieves?” she asked when Sicarius crouched next to her.
He did not answer, or maybe he shook his head. It was hard to tell in the gloom. Amaranthe put on her shoes, grimacing at the sand stuck to her damp feet, then strapped on the sword. Lastly, she grabbed the crossbow, tucking it into the crook of her arm, so she would be ready to fire in an instant.
A muggy breeze whispered through, moaning softly as it passed the rocky ravine that framed the riverhead south of the island, like a breath blown over the lip of a bottle. The noise stirred the hair on the back of her neck, or perhaps it was simply t
he wildness of the island. The capital city, with its population of one million, lay only a few miles away, but here... It felt like they were hundreds of miles from civilization.
“Any thoughts on which way we should go?” Amaranthe asked.
Heartbeats thumped past while she waited for an answer. She touched Sicarius on the shoulder, and he stirred. He bent and tugged on his own soft boots.
“Are you all right?” Amaranthe whispered. “You’re even quieter than usual.”
“I must concentrate,” Sicarius said.
“On what?” She thought of the way Akstyr had to utterly focus to access his mental powers. But Sicarius had never trained in the Science, at least so far as she knew.
“I smell a campfire.” He pointed inland.
If there was smoke, the darkening sky hid it.
Amaranthe waited a moment to see if he would take the lead. He did not. Shrugging, she led the way up the beach, though she paused to take a closer look at the shapes. She soon wished she hadn’t.
Two human skeletons, meat long since picked from the bones, faced each other on the rocks. One’s arms were outstretched, hands locked around the other’s neck, or what remained of it. The other skeleton gripped a dagger, the blade thrust into his foe’s ribs.
“Fight to the death,” Amaranthe murmured. “It happened a while ago, though. I’m surprised the bones weren’t torn away by scavengers, but I suppose it’s mostly small game this close to the city. Rats and carrion birds perhaps.” Talking about it in that analytical tone helped to distance herself from the horror. She had seen plenty of dead bodies in her life, but it made her uneasy, wondering why these people might have killed each other. Why visit Darkcrest Isle for a duel to the death?
“Adon tsk zeel tu,” Sicarius said.
“Uhm, what?” Amaranthe asked.
“What?”
“What did you just say?” Amaranthe asked.
“That we should get off the beach.”
“In what language?”
“Turgonian.” His voice rarely contained any nuances that would hint of his thoughts or emotions, but he said the word in a faintly puzzled tone, as if he thought she were the one who was crazy.
“Not unless it was some old dialect I’ve never heard,” Amaranthe said.
A long moment passed before he said, “We should complete this task and get off the island as soon as possible.”
“On that we can agree.”
Amaranthe led the way along the beach, looking for a place to turn inland. Bushes and brambles created dense undergrowth amongst the evergreens, and she did not like the idea of using her sword to hack a trail. That would be noisy going, and she had hopes of catching the thieves unaware.
Amaranthe caught sight of the boat the thieves had used and veered toward it. In the growing darkness, she struggled to see details and ended up patting around the inside. Maybe the thieves had left some of their purloined goods.
The bottom of the boat was mostly empty, but she found two items. One felt like a rifle bullet, though longer than she was familiar with. It must be one of the cartridges Sicarius mentioned. The second object had a similar shape, but it was bigger than her fist. Another cartridge but for a larger weapon, perhaps? She dumped both into a cargo pocket on the side of her trousers.
“We’d best assume they have loaded firearms. Maybe cannons.” Amaranthe stood and turned, almost bumping into Sicarius who loomed dark and silent behind her. “Want to see if you can find their trail?”
He always seemed to have preternatural skills, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he could track people at night.
Without a word, he headed inland.
Crossbow in hand, Amaranthe followed. It bothered her to admit it, even if only to herself, but she was not certain she wanted him behind her at the moment. Something odd was going on.
Sicarius found a game trail between the trees and glided up a path. Bushes and branches choked it, but he maneuvered through it soundlessly while Amaranthe struggled to push through without making noise. It was almost as if he were an ancestor spirit himself tonight. Strange and inscrutable. More so than usual.
Amaranthe wiped sweat from her brow, and wished the breeze rustling through the undergrowth would bring cool air. It did not, but it did offer the scent of burning wood. The campfire Sicarius had mentioned. It seemed strange that those thieves would light a fire, something that could serve as a beacon. Maybe it was a trap.
“Should we be going straight up the trail to it?” Amaranthe whispered.
Only the wind answered her. She paused to listen for rustling on the trail ahead, but there was nothing.
“Impossible man,” she muttered. Maybe he intended to do the deed on his own. She was inclined to turn thieves over to the magistrate rather than kill them, but for spies stealing imperial technology, death would be the ultimate punishment regardless.
A crack sounded, and Amaranthe dropped to the ground. A gunshot? No, dozens of branches snapped and foliage rattled. Almost too late, she realized it was a tree falling. She scampered back as a breeze battered at her. The trunk crashed across her path, less than two feet from her.
Heart pounding against her ribs, she gaped at it. Only luck had kept one of its substantial branches from hitting her.
Amaranthe swallowed, remembering another time with Sicarius in the woods. A tree had nearly dropped on her, and he had pulled her to safety. That had been during a fierce wind-and-lightning storm though. This was a calm summer evening.
She tore her gaze from the log and looked for Sicarius. Surely he had heard that. Why hadn’t he come back to check on her?
Because he’s not himself, a voice in the back of her mind whispered.
Amaranthe put a foot on the log, intending to climb over it and continue on, but soft clacks reached her ear, and she paused. Now what?
“Sicarius?” she asked, then immediately felt foolish for doing so. First off, he didn’t make noise. Second, if he were going to make noise, it wouldn’t sound like a machine.
The clacks grew louder, rhythmic and determined. Amaranthe struggled to pinpoint the source. The noise seemed to come from the left and the right. Soft whirs joined the clacks.
“Lantern,” she muttered to herself. “Should have brought a lantern.”
A twig snapped to her left. Amaranthe hesitated, not certain if it would be better to return to the beach or continue forward. The fact that Sicarius should be up ahead somewhere made the decision for her, and she hopped over the fallen tree. The clacks faded as she pulled away from it, and she started to let out a relieved breath, but the reprieve was short-lived.
The clacks resumed, louder this time. Whatever was making them was on the trail now, following her.
A buzz sounded behind her, the sound reminiscent of a saw in a steam-powered mill. Amaranthe picked up the pace, twisting and weaving through the foliage, ducking branches and navigating roots that seemed to reach out of the ground, grasping at her feet. One snagged her, and she pitched forward, barely keeping from tumbling to the ground. Her crossbow smacked against a tree, and she winced at the noise, though the sound seemed insignificant next to the whirs and clacks coming from behind. She had little hope of sneaking up on the thieves now.
Amaranthe drew her sword and thought of stopping and making a stand against whatever machinery followed her, but she feared neither blade nor bow would be effective against metal. And what if it was some sentient magical construct? She had—
A crash sounded less than five feet behind her. Branches snapped, and gears whirred.
Amaranthe found a break between trees and darted off the path, hoping a machine would struggle to follow her through dense undergrowth.
Thorns scraped at her bare arms, and brambles sought to entangle her legs. A moon peeped over the rocky apex of the island, bathing the woods with its silvery light. The buzz sounded again, scarce meters behind Amaranthe.
If she had a moment to think, to see what she was dealing with, maybe she could c
ome up with something more constructive than running. She strapped her crossbow over her shoulder, lunged for the nearest tree, and climbed.
Something slammed into the trunk below her. The tree trembled, its needles raining down upon Amaranthe.
Before she got a good look at her first attacker, a second shape rolled out of the undergrowth, a round bronze contraption that reminded her a giant ladybug. With pincers. And circular saws. Squat stacks sat on the backs of both, belching black smoke, and filling the air with the scent of burning wood. The things seemed Turgonian, but more than punchcards were instructing them if they had followed her off the trail and—
A saw buzzed, biting into the trunk of her tree. The force rattled her perch, and she dug her fingernails into the bark to keep from falling out. With the machines below her, she could see their metal carapaces more clearly. Black crests were painted on their backs, images of an oilcan over crossed swords, the symbol representing the army’s engineering division. So, Turgonian contraptions after all. More of the army’s latest technology. Unfortunately, she did not see how that information helped her.
The second machine rolled to the other side of her tree, not on wheels but on treads. It maneuvered easily over rocks and roots, and its saw came out as well. Twin buzzes filled the air, and Amaranthe tried not to feel like a raccoon treed by hounds—hounds that could cut down her safe haven.
She looked around, trying to find another tree she might jump to, but she had not chosen her perch well. It would take a miraculous leap to make it into the nearest branches.
Already her tree was wobbling beneath the double assault. Amaranthe touched her crossbow, but did not bother removing it. Poisoned tips or not, what could little quarrels do against these things?