He pointed at Sicarius, touched his own temple, and signed, He understands, figuring the women would get the gist.
Litya’s eyes narrowed. “The assassin knows your sign language? Why?”
Basilard accepted the clipboard and wrote, He’s traveled to my country. To slay people.
“I see.” Litya took the clipboard away and flipped it back to her papers. “Give him a few moments, and he should regain a measure of cognizance. I mixed in some of my truth elixir, too. He resisted it before, but perhaps if he’s familiar with you and doesn’t see you as a threat...” She eyed him a little too knowingly. “The more you can get me, the more favorably things will turn out for you. I want to know his parents’ names, whether they were distinguished warriors or athletes, and what mix of blood is in his veins. The Turgonians are mongrels through and through, but most of them are a combination of their ancient Nurian roots and the brawny tribesmen that roamed these lands before they came. He looks like he might have some Kendorian in him though. Find out as much as you can.”
Basilard nodded. She propped her hip against Sicarius’s table and waited. One of the guards at the head of the aisle yawned. No privacy for this chat.
Basilard waited for Sicarius to come around. Already his own toes felt numb from the straps around his legs and ankles. He was conscious of the steel of the knife behind him, its metal warm now from his body heat. It reminded him not to squirm, lest he drop it.
His gaze drifted toward the nearest of the strange tanks where a fleshy blob floated. Something nagged at the back of his mind, a feeling that he should have put the puzzle pieces together and figured things out by now. The women’s words floated through his mind. He’s already what our clients wish us to create....This is a long-term project.
Babies? He stared at the blob. Were they creating babies? Was that possible? Would that make the captured men and women the parents? Not parents. Brood-stock. Like hounds being used to whelp offspring with desirable traits.
One of Sicarius’s fingers twitched. Basilard watched his face, waiting for a sign that the drugs were losing their hold. It came, not in an expressive show of recognition, but in a hardening of his features—a resumption of the stony mask he always wore. It replaced the blank stare, though his eyes were not as sharp as usual.
Basilard signed, You recognize me?
Sicarius nodded once. His eyes shifted from side to side, taking in the woman and the looming guards.
I got captured, too, Basilard signed.
Though Sicarius’s wrists were strapped to the table like the rest of his body, he could manage some of the one-handed signs. The one he chose was, Obviously.
Basilard clenched his teeth, sensing condemnation in that brief gesture. Sicarius must assume Basilard had done something foolish to get here. He didn’t even consider that Basilard might have been planted as part of a rescue plan from the team.
Basilard forced his jaw to loosen. He could not read Sicarius’s thoughts, and, even if his guess were close, Sicarius would be right, wouldn’t he? Basilard had been foolish and had gotten himself captured.
I was competing at the Imperial Games when they got me. How did they capture you?
Heartbeats thumped past with Sicarius doing nothing but gazing impassively. Maybe he had done something foolish, too, and was loathe to admit it. The thought pleased Basilard. Sicarius was too cursed perfect. Nobody should be so perfect that he never made mistakes. It wasn’t human. Of course, Sicarius might not be responding because he could not explain with one-handed signs what had happened and did not want to speak of it with their captors listening.
Amaranthe is looking for us, Basilard signed. She’s concerned about you. He did not know why he added the latter. Even as an incapacitated prisoner, Sicarius did not look like someone who needed bolstering, and he probably did not care if anyone ever worried on his behalf or not.
“I presume we have a limited time to talk,” Sicarius whispered in flawless Mangdorian. “Stick to relevant topics.”
Basilard winced, both because his offering of compassion was being shoved aside, and because he was all too aware of the reason why Sicarius had learned his tongue.
“I’ve learned little,” Sicarius added, “only that we are in the lake, possibly deep enough that we’d drown before reaching the surface if we simply went out a hatch. I believe there are forty people in the facility, half scientists and half guards. Have you obtained any information?”
Litya glanced at the nearest guard.
The man thumped Sicarius on the temple with the butt of his pistol. “Speak in Turgonian.”
Sicarius leveled a cold stare at his tormentor. Even though Sicarius was immobilized, the guard stepped back, shifting uneasily.
Even the dullest wolf knows it’s not good when the moose and the rabbit conspire in a language foreign to the pack, Basilard signed.
It was an old saying that usually elicited a smile amongst Basilard’s people. Sicarius stared at him without comment.
I’m supposed to be getting your lineage out of you, Basilard signed.
“My parents?” Sicarius asked in Turgonian.
Basilard suspected it was for the sake of those listening rather than a need for clarification. The guards relaxed at the words.
I just got here, Basilard signed. If we’re so deep, how do they travel to the surface?
“I was never told,” Sicarius said as his fingers twitched his real response. With his hands separated and restrained, he could not make the arm motions that accompanied many of the Mangdorian signs, and Basilard struggled to follow the words.
Mental sciences. No thing. Women create when need.
Thing? Basilard guessed he meant there was no magical artifact or other contraption they could snatch to travel to the surface on their own.
...unconscious...don’t know how many days... Sicarius kept speaking as he signed, “Though I was given to understand it was an arranged mating, and my parents were chosen for their desirable attributes.”
Basilard caught himself listening to the words. Were they the truth? Had Sicarius been bred like a hound? Basilard had heard what Hollowcrest said in Larocka’s mansion, that Sicarius had been trained from birth to be a tool for the empire, to obey Hollowcrest and Emperor Raumesys. Which meant he had not likely had a choice about the assassination mission to Mangdoria.
That didn’t matter. He had still done it.
Sicarius was glaring at him, and for a moment Basilard wondered if he read minds in addition to his other skills. But, no, Sicarius signed slowly, with emphasis, and Basilard realized the glare was for not paying attention.
Amaranthe know where we are? Sicarius asked.
Not when I saw her last, Basilard said, but perhaps by now. It’d be best to assume we must escape on our own.
A few heartbeats passed without a word or a sign from Sicarius. He seemed to be considering Basilard. His dark eyes appeared black in this lighting, and Basilard felt them boring into his soul. Was he suspicious of something? Did he think Basilard had cut a deal with the women that would leave him stranded?
Yes, was all Sicarius signed.
You know how many guards watch this room? Basilard rushed to sign, wanting Sicarius’s mind on escape, not anything else.
“Yes,” Sicarius said and signed, Four guards...split twelve-hour shifts. These soldiers worked for Hollowcrest...now rogues. “A cook who used to give me balms after childhood punishments told me my father was an army officer and my mother a university professor.” Sicarius’s brow crinkled, as if he was surprising himself with how much he was revealing, and he glanced at the glowing orb controlling his drug dosages. Many practitioners here...only sisters and one male...transport surface.
Basilard signed, If we can capture one, perhaps we can force the other to—
“So,” Litya said, “you don’t know your parents’ names?”
“No,” Sicarius said.
“But they could still be alive?”
He hesitate
d, and Basilard wondered if he had ever considered the possibility. Any child without parents would speculate about that, wouldn’t he? Maybe he didn’t care about such things. Most of the time, he did not seem human.
“I was told not, but I suppose it’s possible,” Sicarius said.
“Hm.” Litya stopped at his side and laid a hand on the hard ridges of muscle armoring his abdomen. “I’ve not seen you in action, but based on your reputation and what I see here...” Her hand roamed, and Basilard looked away. “I’d definitely be interested in researching your heritage further,” she said. “We have extensive resources and could help you if you were so interested.”
Sicarius said nothing.
“Your Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest disappeared last winter, did he not?” Litya asked. “He’s rumored to be dead, but there’s speculation that this may be untrue since the current emperor has not appointed a successor to what must be a vital position for you militant Turgonians.”
She tilted her head, watching Sicarius. Basilard wondered if she found his unreadability as frustrating as most. She showed no sign of it. Too busy being intrigued by him, he supposed.
“If it’s possible the man is still alive and incognito,” Litya went on, “I’d be curious to speak with him, perhaps compare notes....”
“He’s dead,” Sicarius said.
“You’re certain?”
“I killed him.”
“Ah.”
“It’s possible he left notes,” Sicarius said, surprising Basilard. Sicarius never volunteered anything, especially not to people on the other side. He must be angling for something.
“Oh?” Litya asked. “And you’d know where they were?”
“In his hidden office in the Imperial Barracks.”
“I suppose you know where this office is and could retrieve such notes if properly motivated?”
“Even if I said yes, you would be foolish to believe I could be trusted to do so for you,” Sicarius said.
Basilard frowned at Sicarius, wondering at his tactics. He ought to either stay silent—which suited his normal proclivities—or play along and try to get the woman to let him go.
“Thank you for the warning,” Litya said.
“You let him off that table, and he’ll kill you,” came Taloncrest’s voice over the sucking and clanking of equipment. “He’s killed people for daring to do a lot less than capture him. Also, Hollowcrest hated the mental sciences, so you’d find little that interests you in his notes. Anything he did was of natural means.”
“Much can be done with nature,” Litya said, though more to herself than in response to Taloncrest.
“Hollowcrest used to keep notes on my training,” Sicarius said. “He researched widely before I was born and applied techniques from many cultures, current and past.” He tilted his head slightly. “If you intend to turn your fetuses into warriors, blood will only get you so far.”
So, Sicarius had reached the same assumption about what these people were doing down here. Litya did not correct his assumption.
“Indeed,” she said.
“Litya,” Taloncrest said, “I told you your funds and assistance would win you my long-term advice on training.”
“You’re a doctor, not a legendary assassin,” she said.
“I am—I was—an officer in the Turgonian Army. I’ve been training to fight since before he was born.”
Litya snorted. “Perhaps I should let him go and you two could spar for dominance.”
Yes, that would be good. Maybe they would be kind enough to release Basilard as well.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Taloncrest said.
“You are right,” Litya told Sicarius. “It would be foolish of me to release you. Unless there is a price at which your assistance—and your word that you will offer it faithfully—can be purchased.”
Sicarius neither offered his usual blunt “no” nor proposed a deal. He ought to promise the woman to help if she would simply unlock him first....
Instead he remained silent. Almost...thoughtful. What could this woman have that he might want? But then, what did Amaranthe have that Sicarius wanted? Basilard reluctantly admitted that he knew the man very little, despite the six months they had worked together. If it was only some whim that kept him with the group, might not another come along that interested him more?
“There is a price,” Litya guessed from Sicarius’s silence.
Sicarius’s expression never changed, but his eyes shifted to focus on one of the tanks.
What? Did he want a child? One born in some crazy scientist’s laboratory? If so, why? Though Sicarius had the personality of a particularly bland, pointy stick, it seemed he could find a woman to bear a child for him if he wished it. Though maybe he did not want some random woman’s blood for a child. Not if he could get some specially selected female “specimen” to help breed a babe who could be his equal—or perhaps more—one day. Basilard grimaced at the idea of Sicarius as a father, training some child with the same heartless techniques that had been employed on him.
It was hard to imagine Sicarius even wanting a child, but he met the woman’s eyes and jerked his chin for her to approach.
Litya hesitated but leaned closer, her chest brushing his. She tilted her head so he could whisper in her ear.
The guards had stood mute through the exchange, but they tensed at this closeness.
Basilard signed, Bite her!
Nobody was watching.
Sicarius said something Basilard could not hear, and the woman leaned back.
“Interesting,” she said. “I’ll consider it.”
She snapped her fingers and the guards clicked their heels, coming to attention.
“Fully secure the other man,” Litya said. “We don’t need him talking with his fingers any more, and I want to get samples.”
The guards tromped toward Basilard. He let his hand drop, as if in defeat, but his fingers touched the edge of the knife pressed behind him.
While Litya gazed speculatively at Sicarius, Metya eased past the guards and brushed her fingers across an orb next to the head of Basilard’s table. It had been dark and dormant, but it flared to life under her touch. She considered him for a moment, judging his weight for a dosage probably. Nothing about her gaze suggested he would get a chest caress or any deal offers.
She was close and this might be his last chance.
A guard reached for his wrist. Basilard balled his hand into a fist and jabbed it into the man’s nose.
With half of his body secured, he did not get much power behind it, but his hand speed gave the blow force enough. The guard stumbled back, grasping at his nose.
The other man raised his pistol. Knife in hand now, Basilard leaned out and slashed the blade at the guard’s wrist. Though swift, the blatant attack sent the man leaping back in time to avoid it. That was all Basilard needed.
Before Metya could likewise scurry away, he grabbed her arm. He spun her as he pulled her against his chest to use her body as a shield, and he pressed the knife against her throat.
The guards froze, one on either side of Basilard’s station. They raised their pistols, aiming for his head. The one with the blood streaming from his nose gritted his teeth, finger tense on the pistol. He wanted to fire. Badly.
Basilard should have been terrified, but he had been in life-or-death situations too many times to fall apart when faced by one. Anyway, he did not think they would fire with Metya so close. Unfortunately, he could not bargain with his hands busy holding the woman. Nor could he imagine one of the guards offering him a clipboard to scrawl a note while he held a knife to their employer’s throat.
Sicarius watched but did nothing. Strapped down, he could not help physically, but Basilard would have appreciated verbal assistance. He could speak and handle the bartering. But Sicarius said nothing. Basilard lifted his eyebrows expectantly. Sicarius gazed back.
“What do you want, Scarred and Mute?” Litya asked, her voice calm despite the bla
de at her sister’s throat.
She stepped into view behind one of the guards. Remembering the mental blast her sister had hurled at Taloncrest, Basilard tightened his grip on Metya.
“Put your weapons down,” he tried to say, but no sound came from his scarred vocal cords. Maybe the brainy science woman could read lips.
Litya lifted her hand, palm out. Basilard would have howled in frustration if he could. He knew what was coming. He cut into the woman’s throat, determined to take out at least one of them before they dropped him.
Warm blood gushed down his forearm. A wave of energy crashed into his head from the left, and agony ricocheted through his body like a lightning bolt.
The woman dropped from his hands. Dead? Alive? He didn’t know. Pain assaulted him from all directions, and he hunched over. If not for the bindings on his lower body, he would have fallen to the ground and curled into a ball.
With the last of his wherewithal, he threw a betrayed look at the man who should have been his ally in this.
Sicarius’s eyebrow twitched. He knew. Even if he didn’t know for certain, he had to know Basilard was a threat. While Basilard had been thinking of betraying him—of letting him die—Sicarius must have been considering the same thing. Basilard might never wake up, and the rest of the group—his friends—would never know that Sicarius could have helped him and chose not to.
Darkness ended Basilard’s whirling thoughts.
* * * * *
Books returned from his research trip in time for dinner and sat down with Amaranthe and Maldynado around the fire pit of their camp. Snores wafted from the rail car where Akstyr rested. Yawns tugged at Amaranthe’s mouth, but she focused on Books.
“I found two possible sources for diving suits,” he said. “A privately owned fresh-water treasure-hunting tugboat called the Tuggle has been moored in Stumps for the last two weeks. It seems likely they’d have diving gear. Also, the Imperial Saberfist is coming into port tomorrow. It’s a military vessel in charge of maritime rescue and salvage operations.”