Mahliki blinked. “The Science? In the empire?”
“Forge hasn’t been above importing wizards and shamans to work for them. There’s at least one in the Barracks, I understand.”
The perspective had flown through the streets and over Arakan Hill, where squads of soldiers manned cannons and other mounted artillery weapons, and they were now reaching the Preserve. Fortunately, many of the snow-lined tree branches were bare, or they wouldn’t have witnessed much with the bird’s eye view. The scrubby evergreens did blot out some of the ground, but not so much that they couldn’t see soldiers moving about. More soldiers than Amaranthe had expected.
“Tents?” she asked. “Someone’s moved his whole camp into the Preserve.”
Maldynado pointed. “Yellow armbands. Flintcrest.”
“He’s moved a lot closer,” Amaranthe said. “He must have marched yesterday or all night to get around the lake and over to this side of the city. Someone would have noticed that, but maybe he’s planning to make his move soon. While Heroncrest’s men are squabbling at the foot of the Barracks.”
“Is that a Nurian outfit?” Mahliki murmured and adjusted the image, pushing them closer to a silver-haired man in a vibrant yellow and red robe.
“Stop,” Amaranthe blurted. “That gray-haired fellow walking up to him. Is that…?”
Maldynado, more familiar with all the warrior-caste families, nodded. “Yup, that’s the satrap governor, Lord General Flintcrest.”
The man was pointing at something beneath the trees and seemed to be arguing with the Nurian.
“I wish there was a way to hear them.” Amaranthe supposed she should already be tickled with the degree of spy information the Behemoth was giving her. For the first time, she found herself understanding the temptation to study the ship rather than destroy it, or at least keep a few of the useful-in-a-non-deadly-way tools.
“I see it,” Maldynado said. “Ewww.”
Beneath the evergreens, poles had been thrust vertically into the frozen earth, and… Amaranthe’s stomach did a queasy flip. Severed heads were mounted atop them. The branches hid the faces of many of them-there had to be at least twenty-but her breath caught when their perspective drew closer, and she could pick out the features of one of the unseeing visages. Familiar features.
“Dear ancestors, that’s Ms. Worgavic.” She swallowed. “It was Ms. Worgavic.”
“The one who ordered you tortured?” Maldynado asked. “The one who was stroking the senior Lord Mancrest’s snake to get control over the Gazette? The one who happens to be a Forge founder?”
“Yes.” Amaranthe stared at the grisly trophy. Whoever had retrieved the head had brought Worgavic’s spectacles and mounted them appropriately on her nose.
“How is Flintcrest finding Forge people?” Maldynado asked.
Good question. It’d taken Amaranthe and Books the better part of the year to collect names, and even then, it hadn’t been until she’d been forced into that mind link with Retta that she’d learned who the founders were. “That might be why he brought in the Nurians.”
“Are those all Forge people?” Maldynado pointed at the decapitated heads.
“I can’t see all of the faces,” Amaranthe said. “I wouldn’t necessarily recognize them all anyway. One wonders what kind of message Flintcrest is trying to send and to whom with the poles. If they were in a public square somewhere, it’d make sense, however gruesome that sense, but is he trying to alarm his own troops with how dangerous and bloodthirsty he is?”
“Would Turgonian troops be alarmed by severed heads mounted on spears?” Mahliki asked mildly, though her face seemed paler than usual. She’d lowered her hands and was wiping them on her trousers, as if she might clean them from their association with the image. “It was my understanding that your people weren’t squeamish about such things.” She glanced at her mother, but Tikaya was frowning at some incomprehensible display of symbols.
“Oh, we’re not squeamish,” Maldynado said, “but like the boss said, the heads on a stick usually go in plain view of the other bloke’s camp, not your own.”
“Maybe that’s what Flintcrest was pointing out so vehemently,” Amaranthe said. “That his Nurian ally got it backwards. Mahliki can you pull away so we can see them again? Professor Komitopis, is there any chance you recognize the gray-haired man? I’m wondering if he’s someone important or powerful in Nuria. Is he a wizard?”
Frowning at the symbols, Tikaya didn’t respond. She may not have heard.
“Sometimes you have to poke her to get her attention when she’s deep into her research,” Mahliki said. “That’s what Father does.”
“He pokes her, eh?” Maldynado smirked. “It’s good to know the old admiral hasn’t grown too senescent for that sort of thing.”
Amaranthe swatted him. Not only was Mahliki too young to be exposed to his lewd commentary, but no one wanted to hear implications that one’s parents engaged in sexual exploits regardless.
Mahliki surprised her by saying, “Indeed not. Where the poking happens and with what depends on whether we kids are around, of course.” She walked over to Tikaya and tapped her shoulder.
While their backs were to him, Maldynado grinned and signed, I like her.
Amaranthe managed not to roll her eyes. Barely. Allow me to remind you that I’ve become friends with Yara. If you intend to thrust your rapier into someone else’s sheath-
Maldynado waved a quick, No, no. Even if I weren’t slightly intimidated by the fact that Starcrest, the Starcrest is her da, I wouldn’t wish to abandon Yara. Or jeopardize the progress I’ve made with her. I’m this close-he held his thumb and first finger up, a hair’s breadth apart-to getting her to let me use her first name.
Amaranthe snorted, but smiled. Good. Only slightly intimidated, eh?
Gray hairs or not, Starcrest had an inch of height on Maldynado and still looked like a formidable warrior. And then there was all that reputation he could swing about.
Yes, Maldynado signed. I should think he’d have to glower at me for at least three seconds before I wetted myself.
Distracted by the conversation, Amaranthe hadn’t noticed when Tikaya and Mahliki turned in their direction. They exchanged glances, and Mahliki whispered, “Interesting how many of those gestures of theirs are straightforward enough to guess.”
“I didn’t catch much of the exchange,” Tikaya murmured back, “but I do hope we won’t be witnessing more of what was in that cabinet over there.”
Amaranthe cleared her throat, wishing the two had chosen to speak in their native tongue. Although she might have guessed the meaning of the words anyway. “I was wondering, Professor, if you recognized that Nurian with Lord General Flintcrest there.”
“Tikaya,” came the correction, then she added, “Which one?”
“Er.” The image, Amaranthe reminded herself, was live, so people came and went. The silver-haired fellow and the scowling general were still talking, this time with fewer gestures, but two more people in Nurian garb had joined them. These two were younger, in their thirties perhaps. “The older fellow. I’m guessing he’s in charge.”
“I’m guessing not.” Tikaya drew closer to the image and adjusted her spectacles. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the boy, but that flute he’s wearing, it means he’s a diplomat, probably in charge of the Nurian side of the mission. He also happens to be Prince Zirabo, son of the Great Chief.”