“I’d forgotten how big this place is,” Amaranthe whispered. “I’m afraid our men won’t be able to pull out more than a few handfuls of people.”
“Ravido is the most important one.”
Sicarius turned down a side corridor that led toward the suites for the imperial family and closest advisers. He stopped before the rooms Raumesys had once claimed. The door was locked. When Sicarius had observed the general, he’d done so from the vent in the wall.
“I suppose knocking won’t be effective.” Amaranthe reached for her belt. “Do you want to pick the lock or shall I?”
Sicarius touched the double doors. They opened inwardly and though made of solid wood weren’t as thick as the building’s exterior doors. Nor as sturdy. He turned, drew in his leg, and unleashed a sidekick. Wood cracked, and a door flew inward, banging against the wall.
Dagger in hand, Sicarius lunged inside. He didn’t expect opposition, but he scanned the room anyway, listening and smelling, as well as eyeing the shadowy niches.
“I see,” Amaranthe said from the hallway, “you’re volunteering to pick the lock. Excellent.”
A fire burned in a hearth taller than Sicarius, though a bin of coal also waited next to a stove in the corner. There weren’t any lamps lit in the outer seating room, but light came from the office on the other side. Deep phlegmy snores also drifted from the room.
“Is that Ravido?” Amaranthe whispered.
“He was alone when I saw him.”
“Goodness, I better warn Yara.”
“About what?”
“That Maldynado could sound like that one day,” Amaranthe said.
A particularly noisy snore reverberated from the walls in the office, punctuating her statement.
Sicarius strode for the office door, but hesitated, an offensive odor reaching his nose. Another door opened to the left. Though it was dark inside, he could make out the frame of a massive bed and a clothing wardrobe. A distinct smell came from that direction. Urine. Cat urine.
“Something wrong?” Amaranthe whispered.
He almost said no, but decided she’d be amused. “We may have a secret ally in Sespian’s cat.”
Her nose crinkled as she caught the first hint of the odor. “Ah, I see. Er, I smell.”
Sicarius trotted into the office, his dagger still at the ready. Ravido lay crumpled by the window, his dress green uniform rumpled, his cap askew, brandy dripping from a flask that had fallen from his hand. Sicarius surveyed the room before approaching him, but didn’t see anyone hiding amongst the bookshelves and display cases holding models of old-fashioned artillery weapons.
Amaranthe moved around the desk to stand at Ravido’s head. “We have a few questions for you, Lord General Marblecrest.” She lifted her eyes. “You’re carrying him, right?”
“You have not been practicing your over-the-shoulder one-man carry?” Sicarius sheathed his knife and strode to her side.
“On men who weigh two hundred and fifty pounds? Oh, all the time, but I thought you might want to show off your ability to lift heavy objects. Thus to display your rippling muscles to fuel my imagination and ensure I’m in the mood for when we have those hours together.”
“Shouldn’t I be shirtless for that?” Sicarius grabbed Ravido’s hand and hefted the big man over his shoulder in a smooth motion.
“It’s up to you. I’m willing to make allowances for winter.”
The office door slammed shut.
“Uhm,” Amaranthe said. “I don’t suppose that was a draft.”
“There are no windows open.” Sicarius strode around the desk and, balancing Ravido over his shoulder with one hand, reached for the knob with the other. With his fingers an inch from it, he halted. His sixth sense flared, a warning bell clanging in his mind. He lowered his hand and stepped back. “Our shaman is awake.”
Amaranthe groaned. “I so wanted there to be a draft.”
Sicarius tipped Ravido to the floor. “Tie him up. I’ll go through the ducts and try to locate her. If she saw us come in here, she should be nearby.”
“I hear you didn’t win your last battle with her,” Amaranthe said casually, though concern laced the statement.
“She didn’t win either.” Sicarius found a vent beside the bookcases and unscrewed it. “Try to be distracting in here, so she’s focused on you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
On his hands and knees, Sicarius was about to squirm-no, he corrected the thought, shimmy-into the duct, when he caught a thoughtful, “Hm,” from Amaranthe.
He paused, wondering if he should admonish her not to blow anything up. Sage advice usually, but in this case, that might be the sort of distraction he’d need. He decided to allow her to use her discretion.
• • •
Amaranthe decided Ravido looked good in purple velvet bonds. He was a handsome man, after all, so a few plush accessories, sliced from the curtains and applied to his ankles, wrists, and mouth, could only accentuate his features.
That work done, she returned to the door, listening for the shaman’s approach. Akstyr had mentioned it was a woman. Was she waiting in the outer room for them to try and come out? Amaranthe raised a hand to the knob, wondering what trap might have been placed upon it-Sicarius hadn’t tried to open it.
Before she could decide if she wanted to wrap her fingers around it, heat radiating from the brass convinced her to leave it alone. The office door opened inward, so Sicarius’s sidekick maneuver wouldn’t do much good. Barging out wouldn’t be a good idea if a shaman was waiting out there anyway. Amaranthe thought of the female practitioner from the Behemoth and the way she’d torched poor Retta. Was this the same woman? Someone living in the Barracks, but working for Forge? It seemed likely-how many female Kendorian shamans could be traipsing about Stumps anyway? — though Amaranthe didn’t know how the deduction helped her.
“Distraction,” she muttered. “I’m supposed to be making a distraction.” The silence outside might mean the shaman was already aware that Sicarius had left to seek her out. That wouldn’t do. “You’re going to focus on me and this room.”
Amaranthe grabbed the iron poker from the side of the coal stove and rattled it around in a copper waste bin, then knocked over the bin. There-that ought to sound intriguing to someone listening outside, almost like a fight might be taking place inside.
She paced around the office, eyeing everything on the shelves. She picked up a few of the models, imagining herself lining up the tiny artillery weapons on the desk and rigging them to fire all at once when someone barged through the door. Alas, while a few had moving parts, none included niches for the insertion of black powder. Nor was there a handy keg of the stuff sitting on a shelf.
Using the lamp on the desk, she could start a fire easily enough, but that didn’t sound like a winning idea when she was stuck in the room. She nosed into a few cabinets and pulled out a bottle of a liquid. Though she’d dismissed the fire idea, she wondered if it were flammable or otherwise useful. Furniture polish, the label read.
“Lovely. Maybe the shaman would like the smudges buffed out of her coffee table.”
Amaranthe started to return the bottle to the cabinet, but paused. Maybe she was trying to come up with something too clever. Simple could work, especially if Sicarius was putting himself into place behind the shaman somewhere and only needed a brief distraction.
She gave the door another once over, her gaze lingering on the area rug sprawled in front of it. She nodded to herself. “Yes, let’s give it a try.”
She rolled up the rug and leaned it in the corner. The old hardwood floor, dating back to when the Barracks had held open bays of bunks for soldiers rather than suites for the emperor and staff, held more scars and scratches than Basilard, but they’d been filled in, the boards smoothed and polished to a gleam that nearly matched the marble tiles in the hallway. Amaranthe poured the polish out of the bottle and smeared it around in front of the entry.