Retta wore Kyattese single-strap bamboo sandals and a brown velvet dress to match the eyepatch-clothing that suggested she’d come from a warm, controlled climate, not the snowy outdoors-and looked as put together as one might expect from a young Forge acolyte, but pain lines edged her face, lines that hadn’t been there a few weeks before, and her jaw was tight. Angry.
“Retta!” Amaranthe exclaimed, stepping toward her with arms outstretched, half because it seemed like something sisters should do and half because she had to keep Retta from blurting out that this intruder was not her sister. “What happened to you? Your eye… is it…?”
“How did you heal so quickly?” Retta demanded.
Er. Amaranthe clasped both of her arms and pulled her close for a hug, all the while wondering if Retta would leap away or punch her. “I’m your sister,” she whispered in Retta’s ear. “Go with it, please. I’ll get you out of here this time.”
Retta backed away from the hug. On the outside, Amaranthe remained calm, but inside… she was cursing and cringing. This wouldn’t work. Retta wouldn’t go along with it. It was already obvious Amaranthe wasn’t Suan. Indeed, the three women were watching the exchange intently, trying to figure out what was going on. Retta was… staring at the medallion dangling on Amaranthe’s chest.
She cleared her throat. “I mean, you look so well. Your last letter said you’d come down with that desert flu and would be delayed in your return.”
Letter? Such as one sister might send to another? “Yes, I thought I’d be delayed, but it turns out that Rist here knows a few things about herbs.”
Akstyr’s eyes widened at this claim; Amaranthe hoped her statement didn’t make trouble for him later. If some Forge lady approached him, hoping he could make an apothecary’s tincture for wrinkle removal… She didn’t think Akstyr could even pick out the common herbs Basilard used in his culinary preparations.
Retta’s lips pursed as she studied Amaranthe. Her expression wasn’t welcoming. No, she looked irked that Amaranthe had survived Pike’s ministrations less scarred than she had. Understandable. Hearing about Amaranthe’s bad dreams probably wouldn’t mollify a woman with a missing eye.
“I also have a comrade who knows all the best foods to eat to hasten healing,” Amaranthe added. She wondered if Retta would be more sympathetic, or at least less irritated, if she knew how many meals of fish eyes and organ surprises Sicarius had foisted upon her. “But what happened to you, sister?” she deliberately used the word instead of a name, hoping Retta would vouch for her. “Your eye. Is it injured or…?”
“Cut out,” Retta said icily. “A psychopathic madman decided to punish me for dropping a branch across his path.” And causing him to trip, the rest of the saying went. She’d done more than that. Retta must know Pike was dead. Did she care? It wasn’t as if his death could bring back her eye.
“Do Mother and Father know?” Amaranthe demanded. The indignation in her tone wasn’t feigned-it frustrated her to know that helping her had caused Retta to be punished. At the time, she would have done just about anything to free herself, but she wished there’d been a way to keep anyone from knowing Retta had a hand in that escape. “Surely they can hire someone to exact revenge.”
The three women were sipping from their cups, watching with interest, though it seemed academic. As if they didn’t truly care one way or another about the outcome. Given the size of the organization, Suan’s return was probably of little consequence.
Amaranthe widened her eyes slightly, trying to get Retta to proclaim their kinship. Her team had to get onto the Behemoth, and she doubted they’d be offered a ride down without credentials.
“From what I’ve heard, the perpetrator has been killed,” Retta said. There was no gratitude, no “Thank you for hurling your assassin at that bastard” in her expression.
“A deserving end,” Amaranthe said. “What coward would cut out a woman’s eye?” And then she stopped talking. Nobody was listening to her. They were all staring at Retta, waiting for the word. She’d halfway helped Amaranthe, mentioning some letter, but everyone was waiting for something more solid. But Retta seemed reluctant to give it. And why shouldn’t she be? What might it cost her to help Amaranthe again? To be caught helping?
“A cast-out from the warrior-caste.” Retta sighed. “Come, Suan. I’ll tell you about it on the way down.”
“Down?” Amaranthe asked, guessing that no one had explained the Behemoth in written communications with Suan.
“You’ll need to wait,” the middle-aged woman told Retta. “Neeth needs to go back down too. She’s on her way.”
Amaranthe swallowed. She recognized that first name. Neeth. Neeth Worgavic.
Chapter 12
Sicarius crouched on the field, a pack full of gear and a harpoon launcher strapped to his back, as he waited for Sespian to catch up with him. An owl hooted from the trees near the lake, but the dense coin-sized snowflakes dropping from the black night sky made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Somewhere behind him, the walls of the fort rose. Ahead, thousands of soldiers waited, some snoring in their tents, but many on the night shift, awake and prepared to fight off intruders. Heroncrest would know Ridgecrest would want an intelligence report.
Several inches of fresh powder blanketed the field, meaning footprints would be problematic. If Sicarius and Sespian walked straight into the camp, the roving perimeter guards would see the evidence of the incursion.
Soft crunches and squeaks of boots on snow arose behind and to the right, preceding the appearance of a dark figure in army fatigues. Sespian. Not certain his son saw him, Sicarius took a few steps in that direction. Sespian twitched in surprise, then sank into a low crouch.
“I knew you were there,” he whispered. “It just startles me seeing you in army fatigues. Given how many soldiers you’ve… It’s disturbing.”
Sicarius did not respond, though an image of Amaranthe flashed into his mind. She always seemed to like the idea of him in a uniform, lamenting that the role of assassin had been chosen for him and that he’d never had a choice in the matter. Sespian knew his past now, some of it anyway-Hollowcrest hadn’t recorded everything-but he seemed less inclined to make allowances for it. Not that Sicarius wanted any allowances. He was too old to blame his youth for the man he’d become.
Sespian plucked at his own borrowed uniform. “I suppose it doesn’t really fit me either.”
Thanks to the snow, the night was bright enough that the dark army fatigues stood out on the white field. Sicarius had debated over the appropriate attire for the infiltration, almost choosing whites and grays, but once they slipped into the camp they’d be less noticeable if they blended in with everyone else. Like Heroncrest’s soldiers, they’d tied blue bands around their arms.
“This way.” Sicarius rose slightly, staying low as he picked a path through the curtain of falling flakes.
“I can’t see anything,” Sespian whispered as wind stirred, slanting the snow sideways, the icy kisses cold against their cheeks. “How do you know we’re going in the right direction?”
Sicarius would have preferred to use Basilard’s hand signs to speak, but, though the white blanket made the night brighter than usual, there wasn’t enough light to pick out gestures. They weren’t close to the enemy perimeter, so he responded-the snow would muffle their voices to some extent.
“My sense of direction is well-honed,” Sicarius murmured.
“If I said something cocky like that, I’d end up leading us into the lake.”
Sicarius did not think the statement cocky, merely an utterance of fact. “We approach the water tower,” he said, hoping Sespian would remain silent without needing to be told. As they’d already discussed, there might be soldiers guarding the tower. Normally Fort Urgot men would be out there, but they’d retreated inside at the approach of the invasion force. There was a well within the walls, so the tower was a matter of convenience rather than necessity-water that could be diverted for indoor plumbing, rather than the fort’s only source. It may, however, have been claimed by Heroncrest’s men, so they needed to approach with care.