“North, I think,” Mahliki said. “It was hard to get a good look. We were busy diving back underwater and calculating the penetration speed and depth of those beams.”
“She was doing that,” Lonaeo said. “I was trying to figure out how to crawl under a seat that was bolted to the deck.”
Mahliki swatted him. “Which way is this Fort Urgot?”
“North,” Amaranthe said.
“Oh.” Mahliki grimaced.
“Did you find a way to get under that seat?” Maldynado asked as he passed the scruffy young man.
“Sorry, no.”
“A shame.”
When Tikaya drew even with her, Amaranthe quietly asked, “Any idea how many of those cubes are likely to be on a ship the size of the Behemoth?”
Tikaya’s met her eyes. “A lot.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
• • •
In an alley behind the Clearview Hotel, one block up from the yacht club, Sicarius set a canvas bag into the snow behind a waste bin. Bloodstains had seeped through the fabric, but it was dark enough that he doubted anyone would notice it. The information he’d pried from the Forge operative’s mouth before killing her had promised a meeting was taking place in Worgavic’s suite tonight, should he arrive early enough to find the attendees still there. He’d postponed the other assassinations on the Ridge to detour down to the waterfront.
He eyed the rooftop of the five-story building, the eaves stretching into the alley above him, then listened without moving, his back to the wall, the shadows cloaking him. This early into the night, many sounds drifted from within the hotel, the clinks of glasses in the drinking room, the chatter of guests in the lounge, the chops of knives in the kitchen, and the moans of couples who had retired to their rooms for trysts.
It was early to stage an assassination, but given the duress he’d applied to the Forge woman, he knew she hadn’t lied to him. He had experience enough to tell such things, even if he’d had little need to call upon it in the last year. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped pointing out to Amaranthe the effectiveness of torture. Because she always rejected it, he’d assumed, but maybe there was more to it. This evening it had bothered him. It might simply be that he’d had no choice in the matter. Before he’d had more than a thought that he had enough information and could make a quick kill, Kor Nas’s voice had sounded in his head, demanding he spend time with his victim before ending her life, productive time. He didn’t know if the practitioner had known she had information or if he’d simply relished the idea of torturing someone through Sicarius.
A drunk couple walked past the front of the alley, supporting each other as they staggered off to their next destination. It reminded Sicarius to get to work. The meeting would allow him to kill several Forge people in one spot, but only if he arrived before they departed.
Would Kor Nas require another round of torture?
Sicarius lifted his fingers, sliding them beneath a black wool cap, and touched the smooth opal. The size of a robin’s egg, it nestled against his skull. It’d grown into his flesh, and he couldn’t feel a separation between stone and skin. Like a tumor. He didn’t think it’d be possible to pull it out, but what if he tried to cut it out with his knife?
At the thought, a tendril of pain shot from the stone and into his brain. It wasn’t agonizing, nothing to bring a man to his knees, or certainly not to bring him to his knees, but the warning came through sharp and clear. Why fight this anyway? Hadn’t he wished to kill these Forge people regardless?
Yes, he decided. He didn’t know whether the thought was truly his or not, but he left the sack and climbed.
The building’s drainpipes weren’t sturdy enough to support a man’s weight, but his fingers found sufficient handholds in the mortar gaps between the stones. He reached the eaves, gripped the edge of the roof, and pulled himself over the side. He trotted across the snowy tiles to the front of the building. According to the seer’s notes, Worgavic’s suite overlooked the lake and lay behind the third and forth windows from the south side.
The hotel had an attic so there was a twelve-foot gap between the roof and the tops of those windows. He uncoiled thin, strong cable from his waist and tied off one end. A trolley clanged below, coming to a stop in front of the hotel. People were still about on the street, entering and exiting the hotel. Sicarius would have to wait or choose his moment carefully.
Waiting would be more prudent, perhaps taking the role of sniper and killing the Forge women as they departed from their meeting, but a thought entered his mind: Finish your task and return to me.
Maybe Kor Nas had another list of people to be assassinated.
Sicarius pulled out a few clips and fashioned a rappelling setup that would allow him to descend headfirst. A minute later, when the street lay momentarily clear, he lowered himself over the edge. Gas lamps blazed at either side of the hotel’s front door, leaving the stairs and the piles of cleared snow on either side of them well lit. He doubted anyone would see him in the shadows near the roof, but worked quickly regardless.
Lamps burned behind shutters in the room marked by the fourth window, so Sicarius chose the third. This one wasn’t shuttered. When his eyes reached the top of the window he confirmed that it was dark inside. By the embers of a fire burning in a hearth, he could just make out a large canopied bed, the sheets turned down, waiting for its occupant.
With one hand holding his body weight above him on the rope, he pulled out his black dagger with the other. It’d proven effective at cutting any number of materials in the past and had no problem scoring the window. He returned the blade to its sheath, pushed the glass circle free, and caught it before it dropped out of reach. He unlocked the window from within, pulled the larger pane open, and slithered inside.
Sicarius landed in a soundless crouch on the rug and paused, senses stretched out to verify that nobody occupied the room. It smelled of lavender perfume and freshly laundered linens, with a hint of tobacco smoke lingering in the air. Worgavic’s vice? Or that of a lover? Amaranthe had seen her with the senior Lord Mancrest, he recalled.
Amaranthe. The thought of her caused a lump to swell in his throat. He’d been trying to keep her out of his mind, not wanting to be caught thinking of her, not when the practitioner could rifle through his thoughts like pages in a book. Amaranthe’s memory was private, not something to be shared with an outsider.
Muffled voices came from the door between the rooms. He padded across a lush carpet to listen, detecting four, no five distinct voices. This close, he could make out snatches of conversations. Several of the speakers seemed to be standing, some with their backs to his door, and at least one was pacing. And drinking. The clink of ice cubes in a brandy glass sounded more than once.
“-crest can’t figure out what to do next? He needs you to come up and hold his hand?”
“He’s done what we asked, taken the Barracks.”
“…asked him to deal with the Company of Lords.”
“He said he would, but I think he had something bloody in mind.”
“Men, ach. We’ll deal with them. But do we buy them or force their votes?”
“Those old sods have lived too long not to have some tidbits that can be used in blackmail.”
“Blackmail, Lorsa, really. You’ve grown so felonious of late.”
Sicarius had heard Worgavic before, in that meeting beneath Lake Seventy-Three, and he thought one of the voices belonged to her, the one speaking of forcing or buying votes, but he couldn’t be certain. Listening through a door made it difficult.
He intended to wait for an opportune moment to attack, or at least long enough to make sure there weren’t six guards standing silently about the room, but Kor Nas’s voice whispered in his mind.