Khaalid drank some of his green juice, though he took longer consuming and contemplating the beverage than normal. Akstyr hoped he was thinking things over. As far as Akstyr knew, Sicarius had no weaknesses, but he could make something up to entice this man. All he had to do was capture Khaalid’s interest, arrange to collect the finder’s fee, and send him off in the wrong direction. A part of him couldn’t help but think that he’d never have to worry about Sicarius again if he sent Khaalid in the right direction, but this man probably couldn’t do the job. And if Sicarius found out Akstyr had been behind the setup...
“How much of a finder’s fee are you looking for?” Khaalid asked.
Akstyr leaned back and crossed his leg over his knee, trying to appear indifferent over the conversation’s outcome, but inside he was jumping up and down and clenching his fist. Khaalid was interested.
“Fifty thousand ranmyas,” Akstyr said, expecting to negotiate. Twenty-five thousand ought to get him out of the empire and into a good school.
“You don’t want much, do you?” Khaalid asked.
“I want to make sure the only people who try are serious and honestly believe they can succeed. It’s a big risk for me. If you fall at Sicarius’s feet, and he questions you before he kills you...” Akstyr twitched a shoulder. “I want that ugly lizard out of the world, but I’m not looking to die in the process.”
“Hence why you’re trying to get someone else to risk dying.”
“Someone else who’s capable of killing Sicarius. I know I lack the skills.”
“You flatter me, but I imagine you flatter everyone you’re trying to talk to their deaths.”
“You’re supposed to be good.”
“What’s Sicarius’s one weakness?” Khaalid asked. From the abrupt way he shifted the topic, Akstyr guessed the man was trying to catch him off guard so he’d let the information slip.
“I’ll need to see your payment before I give you such a key detail.”
“Uh huh.” Khaalid finished his juice, left a coin on the table, and stood. “I am good. And intelligent. That’s why I’m not touching your offer.” He buckled on his sword harness.
Akstyr cursed to himself. He’d thought he had enticed the man. “I’ll tell you everything I know for twenty-five-thousand ranmyas.”
Khaalid tossed the folded wanted poster onto the table. “No, and if I were you, I’d get out of town unless Sicarius likes you enough to protect you from the money-hungry gangsters who are going to be wrestling with each other for a chance to get your head first. Given what you’re trying to do to him, I doubt that’s the case.”
Khaalid strode out of the juice cafe without a backward glance. Not tempted by the offer after all. Maybe Khaalid had been stringing Akstyr along to get more information. Information he might send along to someone else?
A clank sounded on the wall above the chair the bounty hunter had vacated. A bunch of grapes had rolled into a glass box, and a series of alternating ceramic pestles came down, mercilessly squishing the fruit.
Akstyr cursed again, this time out loud, and strode out of the cafe. Worried that he’d made a huge mistake, he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. When a hand stretched out from behind a vendor’s cart to clasp his forearm, he jumped two feet.
He whirled toward the source, his own hand scrabbling for his knife, but he stopped before drawing the blade. A woman stood before him—a familiar woman. She was leaner than Akstyr remembered, with a hawkish nose and knobby wrists protruding from a clean but oft-patched dress. The long braid hanging over her shoulder was the same, though gray strands mingled with the black now.
Akstyr stepped back, pulling his arm from her grasp. With stiff formality, he said, “Mother.”
She smiled, a gesture he had rarely seen, and stepped forward, lifting her arms. She must have noticed his stiffness, for her hands dropped. “Son.” Her smile remained.
Akstyr searched the crowded street behind her. “Your sweet-thistle-dealing lover not around?”
“Lokvart? No. We... We’re not together any more.”
“I see.” Akstyr did not know if that made him glad or not. It’d been more than eight years since he’d seen his mother, and time had worn the edge off his bitterness. Sometimes he felt proud that he’d survived without her help, that he was learning the Science, and that he might be somebody who mattered someday.
“Yes.” His mother took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I know that probably doesn’t mean anything to you at this point, but I was wrong to... I never should have been with someone like that. When he made me choose you or...”
“The sweet thistle?”
“You or him, I should have left. But I was afraid of being alone again with no roof and no job and.. I’m sorry,” she repeated, then found her smile again. “You look good. You’re a man now.”
“Why are you here?” Akstyr eyed the street again. Though this wasn’t the type of neighborhood gangsters roamed, the new bounty on his head left him uncomfortable standing out in the open. “You haven’t looked for me for eight years. Why now?”
“Eight years? Has it been that long? It’s only been since this summer that I was able to wean myself away from the thistle.” She slipped a hand into a dress pocket and pulled out a paper.
Akstyr tensed. Not someone else toting around his new wanted poster.
But she unfolded a pair of newspaper clippings. “I’d thought... I’d feared you had died on the streets all those years ago. Then I saw your name this summer and again last week, mentioned with those other people that are... helping the city, is that right?” Moisture brimmed in her eyes. “I know you won’t believe this, but I’m proud of you.”
“Uh. All right.” If his mother had ever shown that she cared for him, Akstyr might have felt more at her proclamations, but all they were doing was making him uncomfortable.
She dabbed at her eyes with a worn dress sleeve. “I never thought a child born of the blood of a thieving rapist could ever be anything special.”
Akstyr jammed his hands into his pockets and resisted the urge to say that her blood wasn’t anything special either.
“But you’re doing something with your life, aren’t you?” She met his eyes. “You’re not going to be worthless like your Ma.”
What was he supposed to say to that? All Akstyr remembered of his mother was yelling, mostly yelling about what a burden he was and that she wished he’d never been born. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had to fend for himself, stealing food and swiping clothes from lines strung between alley walls. These tears and kind words—apologies—were unfamiliar. A part of him wished to believe it was real, that time had changed things, changed her, but most of his parts were too busy being suspicious. To hunt him down after all these years, she had to want something.
“I have to go,” Akstyr said.
His mother stepped forward, a hand outstretched.
Akstyr stepped back again, and she dropped it. She closed her eyes and seemed to fight to mask a hurt expression on her face. Akstyr tried not to feel like a bastard, but she was making it hard.
“I’m busy,” Akstyr said. “That’s all. We’re getting ready for a mission.” Which was true. Amaranthe and the others might be back any hour.
“I understand,” his mother said. “But please tell me where I can find you again. It was chance that I saw you today.”
“I don’t know. We’re going to be out of the city for a while.”
“When do you leave? At least let me buy you one of those dog-shaped cookies that the bakers at West Quay make.”
The ones he used to steal as a boy; yes, they had been his favorites. He’d almost lost a hand to a humorless baker who’d moved surprisingly quickly for someone so ponderous. Boys shouldn’t have to steal cookies. Yet... it meant something that she remembered his fondness for them.
“You don’t have to buy me anything,” Akstyr mumbled. “I’ll try to get to the Quay tomorrow night if you want to meet me then. We’re l
eaving the morning after that.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
Akstyr strode away without looking back. He didn’t want her to think her appearance mattered in his life, though he feared he’d volunteered himself up for disappointment. Either she wouldn’t show up, and he’d wish he hadn’t wasted time going, or she would show up, and she’d probably want money or something from him.
Maybe Sicarius would find out about Akstyr’s deception and kill him before then, making the whole situation moot. Great thought that.
* * * * *
Amaranthe and Books climbed creaky wooden stairs leading to the attic of an old print shop owned by the university. A newer building with steam-powered presses had precluded the need for the dusty screw presses housed below, and visitors were infrequent, usually students and rogue scholars printing subversive documents on the sly. Should any of those people chance upon the outlaws living in the attic, they couldn’t very well turn anybody in when they were participating in illicit activities themselves.
Outside, beneath the noonday sun, Sicarius was finding a place to hide their stolen farm lorry. At least Amaranthe hoped he was doing so. She had asked him to, but he hadn’t acknowledged her with a word or even a look. In fact, he hadn’t spoken since they left Sergeant Yara’s village. Part of it might be that he was worried about Sespian, but she knew part of it was irritation with her.
Amaranthe pushed open the door to the attic and found Maldynado and Basilard sitting across from each other at a desk, playing Strat Tiles on the railway map Amaranthe had laid out before they left for the training exercise. Akstyr sat cross-legged on a crate a few feet away from them, a book open in his lap, though she’d caught him gazing down at the floor instead of at the pages. He flinched when Amaranthe met his eyes.
“Hullo, boss.” Maldynado waved a tile in the air.
Amaranthe gave him a friendly nod, but added, “Nobody’s keeping a watch?”
“Oh, we didn’t need to,” Maldynado said.
Basilard lifted his eyebrows.
Maldynado pointed to a bank of southern-facing windows where sunlight peeped inside, leaving bright rectangles on the whitewashed floorboards. “The dust on those sills started cowering, so we knew it was you coming up the stairs.”
Amaranthe paused, torn between coming up with a rejoinder or rushing over to the windows with a kerchief.
“Don’t do it, boss,” Maldynado said, apparently guessing her thoughts. “It’s bad enough that you cleaned the glass last week. Secret hideouts are supposed to have grimy films over the windows, the better to camouflage one’s clandestine operations.”
“Yes, speaking of clandestine operations,” Amaranthe said, “now that we’re back together, we can collect the items on my shopping list and finalize our plans.”
“Shopping list?” Akstyr curled a lip. “I don’t want to go marketing.”
Maldynado’s lip twitched, too, perhaps because his pretty face made him the group’s designated shopper.
“Relax, gentlemen.” Amaranthe laid the list on their table. “We’re not talking about broccoli and lamb shanks here.”
Maldynado and Basilard leaned forward to read the list.
“Item number one,” Maldynado said, “blasting sticks. Two, knockout gas. Three, smoke grenades. Oh, good. Manly things.”
“Blasting sticks?” Akstyr asked. “What market has those?”
“More importantly,” Books said, “what are the blasting sticks for?”
“My plan.” Amaranthe smiled and glanced over her shoulder, wondering if Sicarius had joined them yet. She needed the blasting sticks for her kidnapping scheme, but she also hoped they could get enough of them to blow their way into the collapsed mine and the remains of Tarok’s shamanic workshop.
“Will the details of that plan be forthcoming soon?” Books asked.
“Yes,” Amaranthe said. “As some of you already know, the last train we can catch to reach Forkingrust in time to intercept the emperor leaves at dawn. We need to gather our supplies and be on it. Most of us, anyway.”
“Most?” Books asked.
Wait. Basilard pointed at Maldynado. Shouldn’t you tell her about your brother first? Might that knowledge not affect our plans?
Maldynado frowned. “I hope not.”
Amaranthe arched her eyebrows. “Brother?”
“Uhm, yes,” Maldynado said.
Also, she needs to know who got those weapons.
Amaranthe nodded. On the trip back to the city, she’d been so busy scheming ways to get that thing out of Sespian’s neck that she hadn’t thought much about what the other half of the team had been doing.
Basilard seemed to be waiting for Maldynado to start explaining, but when Maldynado merely sat there, shoulders hunched, grimace frozen on his face, Basilard started signing. His fingers flowed, explaining the details of their trip to the army fort.
Chagrin blossomed within Amaranthe as she “listened” to his words. The weapons had been for the military? Not for some coup against the government or the city? She and Sicarius had destroyed, or at least severely damaged, a weapons-making facility that shipped orders to the army?
Amaranthe found herself by the windowsill, wiping away the dust as her mind spun. Dear ancestors, she’d been worried about the kidnapping getting her team in trouble, but this would be a major blow if the authorities found out what she had done. And she’d been foolish enough to amble up and knock on that farmer lady’s door. As soon as someone questioned that woman...
Ugh, just when she’d managed to convince Deret Mancrest that her team was working for the good of the empire... Just when they’d started to see favorable stories printed in the newspapers...
“But there might still be some plot, right?” Akstyr asked.
Thoughts focused inward, Amaranthe had stopped seeing Basilard’s hand signs, but Akstyr’s words made her lift her head. “What?”
Akstyr looked from Maldynado—who was being oddly silent—to Basilard who shrugged, then nodded, then shrugged again. “On account of Maldynado’s brother not being stationed here regularly and him being with that evil-looking fellow in black,” Akstyr said.
At the mention of someone evil in black, all heads turned toward the door. This time, Sicarius was there, standing in the shadows, his face as frigid and unreadable as ever. Out of all of her mistakes over the last two days, Amaranthe was most regretting sharing their plans, however obliquely, with Yara. Sicarius hadn’t said as much, but she had a feeling he saw it as a betrayal of trust. She wasn’t sure he was wrong.
“Evil fellow in black?” Books asked.
“He looked like someone Sicarius would know,” Maldynado said, suddenly animated. Maybe he’d rather talk about anyone except this brother? “Same entirely unimaginative wardrobe, predilection for cruel weapons, and humorless face.” Maldynado draped his elbow over the back of his chair and considered Sicarius. “More scars though.”
“Describe him,” Sicarius said.
“Didn’t I just do that?”
He was an older, white-haired man with a scar, Basilard signed, then drew a semi-circle beneath his eye.
“A brand?” Sicarius asked.
“Yes,” Maldynado said at the same time as Basilard nodded. “It looked like someone stamped him with a hot iron, the way they brand sheep up in the hills.”
“Someone you know?” Amaranthe asked Sicarius. She caught a hopeful tone in her voice. She had to admit that she dearly wanted those weapons to be part of some villainous scheme, so she could justify her team’s interference.
“Major Pike,” Sicarius said.
“An army officer?” Amaranthe asked, though the lack of a “crest” name meant he wasn’t warrior caste. Though rare, ordinary soldiers did sometimes earn officer ranks through great deeds. Either way, it dashed her hopes that this fellow’s presence signified a nefarious plot. If he was an officer, he had a right to be there.
“A former officer, yes,” Sicarius said. “He was forc
ed out of the service nearly thirty years ago for excessive cruelty.”
Basilard’s eyebrows flickered. You can be discharged from the Turgonian army for that? I thought it was a desirable trait.
“Easy, now,” Maldynado said. “We’re not that bad.”
“He was a rare case,” Sicarius said. “As a young officer, he made his superiors uneasy with his zealousness during interrogations. Later he tortured and raped young recruits, using his rank to force them to remain silent. When this was discovered, he was kicked out, and his family disowned him.”
That’s despicable, Basilard signed.
“Atrocious,” Books said.
“Agreed on both counts,” Amaranthe said.
“So, this fellow was one of the Pikecrests?” Maldynado asked. “They’re an old and honorable family. I can see why they’d want to disassociate themselves from someone of that, uhm, caliber.”
“After the incident,” Sicarius said, “Hollowcrest recruited the major to be the emperor’s Master Interrogator.”
Amaranthe snorted. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I’m not.” Maldynado smirked at Sicarius. “Is he the chap who taught you how to interact with folks in such a friendly and affable manner?”
Sicarius sent a stony glare in his direction.
Maldynado nodded. “Yes, like that.”
Amaranthe watched Sicarius, also wondering under what circumstances he might have been associated with this man. No, she supposed she needn’t wonder. Who better than a Master Interrogator to help train the emperor’s personal assassin? If this Pike had been forced out of the army thirty years earlier and promptly gone to work for Hollowcrest, Sicarius might have been young, less than ten years old, when they first met. Amaranthe had seen Sicarius get answers out of people efficiently—though she had a feeling she hadn’t seen the extremes he might go to if she were not around to influence him—but she’d also seen him take horrible wounds himself without flinching or acknowledging the pain. Somehow she doubted that was a... talent one could learn without having endured a lot of pain in one’s life. Though Sicarius spoke little of his past, she remembered him once saying he’d learned to think of other things when his mind had to be elsewhere.