Nothing stirred within. Amaranthe stuck her head around the jamb for a quick peek. When nobody shot at her, she leaned in for a longer examination.
Shutters covered the cabin’s sole window, so the only light slashed in through the doorway, leaving the interior dark. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she eased inside.
A bearskin rug stretched before a hearth adorned by a single battered pan hanging on a hook. A lone wooden chair sat before the fireplace, a threadbare cushion its only concession to comfort. In the shadows at the back of the room, a narrow bed rested against the wall.
“Guessing this fellow doesn’t invite many house guests up,” Amaranthe muttered.
Another rug lay on the floor before the bed. No, not a rug.
A body.
The white-haired old man wore a faded nightshirt afflicted with moth holes, and he appeared grouchy and sour even in death, just the sort of fellow who would put up that trespassing warning.
“I guess you are home, Lord Hagcrest,” Amaranthe whispered.
No obvious wounds marked his body, though trails of dried blood rain from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes.
“Just like in the loading bay,” she said.
After a deep breath to brace herself, she crouched and slid her fingers along the cold skin of Hagcrest’s neck. She found what she sought near his hairline: a bump covered with scar tissue. As soon as she touched it, it slithered away without breaking the skin. She yanked her hand back and wiped her fingers on her trousers.
“All right,” she murmured, “who’s making the killer magic doodads that are smart enough to hide themselves at the promise of detection?”
A draft tickled the back of Amaranthe’s neck.
She lunged to her feet, swatting at the skin there. Nothing. She did not lower her arm until she had probed her neck thoroughly. Who knew how these devices had found their way into these men?
“Imagination,” she told herself. Probably just a bug or a breeze from the open door.
A rifle leaned against the wall an arm’s length away, and a powder horn and knife belt hung from the bed post. Hagcrest had not had time to grab either. Perhaps he had never seen his attacker. Had he somehow been implanted with the device without his knowledge, and then it killed him through a remote command? If it was possible to create something like that with the Science, she was impressed. And concerned.
Papers scattered the bed next to an open drawer in a side table. She took them to the door to read in the afternoon light slanting inside. Army promotions and signed certificates for awards for Lord Major Hagcrest. He probably had a stack of medals somewhere. Amaranthe searched the cabin for more interesting paperwork, like the property title, but did not find it.
A shadow blotted out the daylight. Sicarius stepped inside and took in the body without a blink. “Is he the only one who lived here?”
“Looks like it.” Amaranthe waved at the sparse room. “Remember the strange way the man at Farth Textiles died?”
“Yes.”
“Hagcrest had a bump on his neck that moved when I touched it,” she said. “Same killer, it seems.”
“Possibly,” Sicarius said. “Possibly not. An artifact crafted by one practitioner can be used by another. Some can even be used by those ignorant of the mental sciences.”
“So one person could have made a bunch of these killer devices and distributed them to someone else-or to an organization -to be used at will?”
“Yes.”
Amaranthe thought of the note Sicarius had stolen from the gambling house, the one thanking Ellaya for providing the name of an accomplished Maker. Was this an example of that Maker’s work?
“Did you find anything outside?” Amaranthe asked.
“Four sets of fresh footprints.”
“The same ones you noticed on the trail up?”
“There were only two sets of fresh ones on the path.”
“How fresh is fresh?” The smell of death was turning her stomach, so Amaranthe walked out to the porch.
“Early this morning,” Sicarius said. “Maybe late last night.”
She inhaled, appreciating the clean smell of moss and damp leaves. “You can’t tell me the exact hour?” She smiled. “I thought you were better than that.”
Sicarius stepped onto the porch and gazed at her, the faintest crinkle to his brow.
“What?” she asked.
“People don’t tease me.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
Because they were afraid of him. As Books had pointed out once, she was probably foolish not to be. That he tolerated more from her than the others was no proclamation of friendship. At times she wished she did not know that Sespian was his son and not the direct heir to the throne, a secret that would throw the empire into civil war if it came out. Sicarius killed those who threatened him, and even if she had sworn to keep the knowledge to herself, he had to see the simple fact of someone else knowing as a threat. Sometimes she wondered how much his sticking around had to do with a belief she could help him clear his name and become someone Sespian wanted to know…and how much he just wanted to keep an eye on her. Would he let her walk away from him with that knowledge in her head?
Amaranthe shook the dark thoughts away and forced her smile back. “No one’s ever teased you? Truly? Not even as a child?”
“To tease is to mock or provoke in a playful way.”
“Yes…” She arched her eyebrows.
“There was nothing playful about my childhood.” Sicarius pointed north. “The tracks lead that way.”
He strode off the porch, heading the indicated direction. Back to business.
“You know…” Amaranthe had to jog to catch up with him. “If you missed out on games and fun as a child, you could try playing now.”
“What do you suggest?”
That he answered surprised her, and she was not sure how to respond.
Two deer browsing on the edge of the clearing started at their approach. They bounded into the trees and disappeared. A game trail led along the hillside, parallel to the river, and Sicarius headed down it. Pockets of mud held footprints.
“You could tease me,” Amaranthe said. “Or, once in a while, do something for no logical reason. Be whimsical.”
“Whimsical.” He said it with all the warmth of a kid discussing spinach.
“Yes, it’s the opposite of what you always are.”
Gray clouds drifted down from the mountaintops. Depending on how long this trek took, they might not make it back to the lorry by dark. She hoped they would not have to spend the night huddled under branches with rain dripping down their collars. Somehow she could not see Sicarius cuddling to share body heat. He would probably suggest pushups to stay warm.
They padded along the trail in silence for a time. The trees grew less dense and the ground more rocky. Far below, the river wound through the valley.
Sicarius stopped beside one of the last trees before a landslide. A meager trail crossed the boulders and loose shale, but one would be in the open crossing the area.
“Think there’s anybody watching the area?” Amaranthe asked.
Sicarius lifted a finger to his lips. He pointed, not across the landslide, but down it. Several hundred feet below, two men were poking around the rock field. One carried what might have been a clipboard.
“Prospectors?” she whispered.
She and Sicarius stayed behind cover and watched. The men continued their poking about for several minutes before heading north. They disappeared into a strip of forest on the far side of the landslide. The faint smoke of a campfire wafted from another open area beyond the trees. Amaranthe bounced on her toes, hoping the men’s presence meant she was close to answers.
Sicarius raised an eyebrow.
“There’s something out here that’s interesting someone.” She winced, realizing how vague and unhelpful that sounded.
“I’ll investigate,” Sicarius said. “Stay here.”
“Wait. Wouldn’t you prefer to have something distracting them while you’re sneaking about, remaining unseen?”