The back door banged open, and two young people entered amidst snow flurries. Starcrest’s daughter walked side-by-side with a relative of the professor’s, judging by the fair complexion. Speaking rapidly to each other, they were too involved with their conversation to shut the door-or acknowledge a half-asleep soldier on the floor who complained about the draft. With their arms full of shopping bags, they headed for the stairs. The lettering on the bulging canvas sacks read Madolich’s Insect Farm and Emporium in large text and in small print underneath: Lizard food, medicinal ants, venom sacs, and more!
Sicarius was familiar with the establishment, though he hadn’t visited in some time. A wizened woman who worked in the attic sold poison-making supplies. He wondered what sort of concoction the pair might come up with that could be used in a large-scale application.
They climbed the catwalk and the girl used her elbow to thump on a door. Starcrest himself answered, listened to their words, and watched the excited gestures, then pointed them toward the cafeteria. They scampered back down the stairs.
Instead of returning to the office-from his perch, Sicarius glimpsed other men sitting inside, including Sespian-Starcrest stepped to the railing and surveyed the floor. He yawned and rubbed his face. Taking a break? No, there was more to it than that; he was looking for something.
Sicarius sat taller. He didn’t have any reason to think Starcrest might want to speak with him, but might it not be so? He hadn’t decanted his information on Flintcrest’s camp, troop numbers, and last heard plans. Starcrest hadn’t asked for the intelligence, but he would doubtlessly find it useful.
Then why haven’t you talked to him yet, he asked himself.
Sicarius didn’t know where he stood with the admiral, not after coming to the factory with the intent of assassinating him. Twenty years earlier, they had parted… not as friends precisely, but not as enemies. It had taken time for Sicarius to unravel the admiral’s last words to him and to understand his reasons for not continuing to serve the emperor. A part of him wanted to tell Starcrest that he understood now, but an unfamiliar feeling of trepidation left him reluctant to speak with the admiral alone. Odd how one could face a boyhood hero as a youth, filled with confidence in one’s own abilities, brazen in one’s beliefs as to his own superiority, and not be intimidated at all. Now, older, he was less certain of the world and his place in it than he’d ever been.
Starcrest’s gaze lifted toward the rafters. Sicarius wasn’t hiding-if he were, no one would see him-but simply sitting where he could observe and nobody could approach him unaware. The admiral’s eyes met his. His face was hard to read. Interesting turnabout. Starcrest pointed toward the third office door, the one that Books and Akstyr had given up for him, and arched an eyebrow. An invitation?
Starcrest stepped inside, leaving the door open. Sicarius stood, trotted along the beam, and dropped onto the catwalk by the office.
Though bedrolls were spread for two, and Kyattese journals and notes cluttered the desk, only Starcrest waited inside. He stood, hands clasped behind his back in a loose parade rest.
Unconsciously, Sicarius came to a military-style attention, heels together and back straight, as Hollowcrest had once demanded from him when he was delivering reports. He launched into a description of Flintcrest’s numbers, last known location, and camp layout, followed by a point-by-point analysis of the general’s defensive and offensive capabilities.
“Thank you,” Starcrest said at the end, a hint of amusement in his voice. It made Sicarius wonder if he’d already possessed the information, via spies of his own. “It is good that you were able to keep your wits about you during your ordeal.”
As always, Sicarius kept his wince internal. “Yes, sir.”
“I appreciate your thorough report, but it was actually a personal matter about which I wished to speak with you. A matter of curiosity.”
“Yes, sir?” Sicarius wondered why he felt like a youth again, seeking to impress a tutor with his rigid attentiveness. Oh, he recognized the psychological reasons, but he’d thought he would be past seeing Starcrest as more than a man. He’d thought he might… what? Ask him out to the drinking house to become inebriated and swap stories of adventures they’d had? An unlikely scenario given that Sicarius didn’t drink and few Turgonian warriors would be delighted by tales of assassination.
“Nearly twenty years ago, I sent sealed letters to old colleagues and relatives over here,” Starcrest said. “They included instructions not to be opened until a certain date which came and went some years ago. Emperor Raumesys was alive at the time. I had assumed there’d be, if not retaliation, at least some action taken when the contents were revealed to him. I believe you were still working for him then. Do you know anything about this matter?”
“Yes, sir,” Sicarius said. “It was revealed that the Kyatt Islands were originally claimed by Turgonian colonists, and that when the first Kyattese explorers landed, they sought the chain for themselves. They used a plague to weaken our ancestors, then kill them, so they couldn’t report back to the mainland.” Our ancestors, he’d said without thinking, forgetting that Hollowcrest’s records proclaimed him half Kyattese. But he’d been raised here. He’d never think of himself as anything other than Turgonian.
“I see. You know quite a lot about it then.”
“I was there when the emperor and Hollowcrest read the letter.”
Starcrest cocked his head. “What was their response?”
“Hollowcrest seemed indifferent, though he rarely grew impassioned about anything, at least not visibly.”
“Yes, the few times I met him, he struck me as… passionless, yes.”
Sicarius sensed that was a more civil word than Starcrest had first thought to use. “The emperor was livid. He wished to attack the Kyattese and reclaim the islands. Our ships were on alert in the Gulf at the time, due to all of the pirate raids, and Hollowcrest talked Raumesys into delaying hostilities. The emperor reluctantly agreed, but did wish to send an assassin to kill you.”
No hint of surprise made its way to Starcrest’s face. He nodded as if he’d expected nothing else. “You being the assassin who was in the room, I’ll assume he wished to give you the job.”
“Yes, sir. I refused it. That was when I looked up your postal address and tried to mail a warning. Your questions now lead me to believe it never arrived. I am not surprised.”
“Yes, either the emperor’s spies or the Kyattese government may have intercepted it. The Kyattese were particularly twitchy then-though presidents have come and gone, their government remained aware of the threat. I must thank you then for-” Starcrest looked at himself, then Sicarius, and gestured to chairs. “There is no reason to stand in military stances while we speak. Please, relax.” He sat in one of the chairs.
Sicarius hesitated. Relaxing wasn’t something he did while discussing important matters with people, nor had he ever found sitting in chairs particularly calming. People could sneak up on someone sitting in a chair with its back to a door, and one could not easily spring into action from the seated position. As a boy, one of his tutors had always squatted when he grew weary of standing, and Sicarius had adopted the habit.
“They’re not as comfortable as a hammock on a Kyattese lanai, I’ll admit,” Starcrest said, “but they aren’t booby trapped. You needn’t look at them so suspiciously.”
“Yes, sir.” Sicarius shifted one of the chairs around so his back wouldn’t be toward the door and perched on the edge of the seat.
“As I was saying, I thank you for refusing to assassinate me. Twice now.” Starcrest gave him a dry half smile. “Or is it three times?”