“Can we risk a light?” Sespian asked.
“Once they realize the intruders are attempting to escape down instead of up and out, they’ll start searching in here,” Sicarius said.
“Was that a no?” Sespian asked, his tone light.
“We’ll be faster if we aren’t groping our way along the walls in the dark,” Books said. “Besides, we have a head start, right? You’re taking us directly to a secret passage, aren’t you? We’ll be out of here soon.”
“Not quite.” Sicarius rounded a bend and stopped. “Akstyr.”
“I feel it.” Akstyr came up beside him.
“What?” Books asked.
A faint whisper of power brushed Sicarius’s senses, senses that had nothing to do with sight or sound or smell, and the hairs on the back of his neck wavered. Several paces ahead of him, a soft red light appeared, emanating from a fist-sized octagonal spot on the chiseled stone floor. It was strong enough to illuminate old shackle holders on the walls and rusty torture tools leaning in nooks.
“That’s the ward,” Akstyr said, his voice full of concentration. “I lit it up so we can see. I’m going to have to figure out…” His nose wrinkled, then he grunted and took a step back. “Yup, I’m going to have to figure out something.”
Prepared to wait, Sicarius put his back to the wall so he could see in either direction down the passage. The cacophony of noise continued in the building above-it wouldn’t be long before someone thought to check the dungeons.
“What happens if we walk past it?” Sespian asked. “Does it warn that wizard? Or… more?”
“More,” Sicarius said.
He’d attempted to infiltrate the Barracks the summer before, when Sespian had first sent a note to the team asking to be kidnapped. He’d tried three different approaches, including an above-ground climb over the walls. Humans he could evade, but he hadn’t been able to get past the wards.
In the face of Sespian’s curious look, Sicarius tossed a pebble into the air above the glowing octagon. A sheet of red sprang into existence, blocking the route and hurling heat down the passage. Prepared for it, Sicarius merely turned his cheek. Sespian and Books stumbled backward, lifting their arms to protect their faces. Akstyr grimaced, but seemed too focused on his task to bother moving.
“So, we get incinerated if Akstyr can’t disarm it?” Sespian asked.
“Or we go back and face the practitioner,” Sicarius said.
“I bet she’s in an amiable mood after you slammed the door in her face.”
Sicarius said nothing. Best to be quiet and let Akstyr concentrate. This night had proved pointless thus far, unless Books had found something useful in Hollowcrest’s archives. It mattered little to him. Any curiosity Sicarius might have had as to his parents’ identities had been lost long ago. As a boy, he’d occasionally wondered about such things, especially insofar as they might involve escaping his rigorous training and living a different life, but at this juncture, the die was cast.
Books must have felt his gaze, for he looked at Sicarius. Sicarius waited for him to say something-if there was something to say. Dust and cobwebs clung to Books’s scruffy brown hair and wariness edged his eyes, but that wariness was always there when he regarded Sicarius. A new emotion seemed to lurk there was well. Sicarius didn’t read such things as intuitively as Amaranthe did, but, given the context, knowing what those files had contained, he could guess. Pity. Sicarius stared back, willing Books to look away, to forget such ridiculous feelings. He wanted pity from no man. Not even Sespian. From Sespian all he hoped for was… understanding, for it would be useful in establishing a relationship.
While he considered these thoughts, Sicarius’s subconscious mind remained alert, detecting a faint scuff and placing the source. He spun, flinging a throwing knife down the tunnel before his conscious mind fully registered the danger. His blade thudded into the neck of someone who’d been leaning around the bend. A man in a black uniform made a choked, gurgling sound and toppled. A pistol dropped from his fingers, clattering onto the hard stone floor.
Sicarius sprinted toward the bend, assuming there’d be others. Before he reached the spot, footsteps started up-running footsteps-and he picked out three distinct patterns. Two men on the right side of the tunnel, one on the left, all fleeing. In case anyone might be waiting, unmoving, Sicarius feinted, dipping his shoulder around the corner to draw fire if it came, then pulling back. No one attacked. Sicarius risked enough of his body to pump his arm three times, hurling three more throwing knives down the hall. The blades thudded into the backs of the men he’d been picturing in his mind. Before they finished toppling, he was crouching, scouring the tunnel for threats with his eyes and listening for any sign that more enemies were on their way. A whimper and gurgle came from one of the fallen men, but nothing else moved.
Sicarius chastised himself for missing his mark by half an inch-the death should have been instant. When he was certain there weren’t any other immediate dangers, he rose and collected his knives. He swiped a blade across the throat of the dying man to ensure he’d pose no further threat. As he cleaned his weapons, he noted the silence in the hallway, though the alarm gongs continued in the building above.
For a moment, Amaranthe intruded upon his thoughts-would she have objected to the killing of these men? They could not have been permitted to run back for reinforcements, and attempting to subdue them would not have allowed him to bring them down as efficiently. It was possible one might have escaped to warn others. Yet the dead men wore the uniforms of Imperial Barracks security and were quite possibly the same guards who’d once worked for Sespian. Simply people doing their jobs, being caught in the middle, Amaranthe would have said.
Sicarius pushed the thoughts aside and rose, sensing Books had come up behind him. He was staring at the dead men. Sicarius walked past him without a word.
Sespian remained with Akstyr. His face was grim, but otherwise difficult to interpret. Good. A man should not be as readable as a book.
“This licks street,” Akstyr grumbled after a time, making a crude gesture at the ward.
“That would be an impressive feat,” Books said, having rejoined them, “given its lack of a discernible tongue.”
Akstyr gave him a withering glare. “I can’t concentrate with all that noise going on.” He made another crude gesture, this one involving the forearm as well as the fingers, aiming it at the ceiling this time.
“He has quite the non-verbal repertoire,” Sespian noted.
It seemed to be a comment aimed at the group, rather than anyone specific, but he glanced at Sicarius. Checking for a reaction? Did he expect disapproval? Or maybe it had been an invitation to comment. And join in the… did this qualify as banter?
“Yes,” Sicarius said, but his thoughts scattered after that, and he couldn’t think of an appropriate addition to the conversation. “It is unfortunate he does not apply his finger dexterity more assiduously to his blade training.”
The three men stared at him in unison, then exchanged those looks with each other that implied his ore cart was, as the imperial saying went, missing a wheel.
“Just what this group needs,” Sespian muttered, “another expert knife thrower.” He gave the bend, beyond which the dead men lay, a significant look.
For Sicarius, trained so long to hide his emotions, the sigh was inward. “I will stand watch.” Before he headed for the bend, he told Akstyr, “If you cannot deactivate it, see if you can move it out of the way.”
Sicarius retreated-he reluctantly admitted that retreat was indeed the correct word-around the bend and stood with his back against the wall, out of sight of the others. He wondered if he’d ever be able to talk to his son without a sense of awkward discomfort cloaking them. Perhaps he shouldn’t try when Amaranthe wasn’t around. There was still discomfort when she was part of the conversation, but she didn’t seem to mind filling it with the sort of ambling chatter that put Sespian and the others at ease. He admitted it put him at ease as well. He couldn’t remember when that had started happening. When they’d first met, he’d merely thought her overly gregarious.