A couple of lamps burned in the front of the carriage house, and the soft hisses and groans of steam machinery greeted him. Two armored lorries idled before the wooden double doors in the front wall, and a pair of firemen were shoveling coal in the cab of a third vehicle still in its parking stall.
Convenient. He could take one before the two men had time to react.
He climbed to the top of a small lorry in front of him and jumped from the top of one vehicle to the next to avoid walking down the wide center aisle where he might be spotted. A few seconds before he reached the end of the row, the front doors swung inward. A row of armed soldiers trotted inside, rifles in hands, swords at their belts. The squad split into groups, jogging for the cabins of the waiting vehicles. They didn’t look like men trying to escape, but they also didn’t look like men obeying the orders Sespian would be giving to search the Barracks for bombs. Maybe they’d come down from the battlements and didn’t yet know Sespian was around.
Sicarius hopped down from the parked vehicle, landing in front of a soldier who’d been angling for one of the cabs. The man blurted a surprised curse and swung his rifle around.
Sicarius could have flattened him, if he’d been willing to kill, but instead he hefted the bundle of blasting sticks. Until that moment, he hadn’t been certain why he’d still been carrying the bomb, other than a notion that it ought not be left lying around where someone could stumble across it, but the soldier’s eyes widened when he saw it.
“Shooting me wouldn’t be wise at the moment,” Sicarius said. “This bomb might go off. The blasting sticks are old and unstable. Why are you men not among those searching the Barracks for more booby traps?”
Several other soldiers had come around the front of the lorry, forming a semicircle. Sicarius listened for sounds of people coming up behind him. No one had yet, but there were three other men on the other side of the vehicle, and the two firemen readying the third.
“Booby traps?” a private blurted. “We have to go after the makarovi. They’ve escaped into the city.”
A sergeant jammed an elbow into his ribs. “That’s that assassin, Sicarius. Don’t talk to him.” The sergeant fingered the trigger of his rifle, though he also eyed the blasting sticks and didn’t raise the weapon.
“My team is prepared to deal with the makarovi,” Sicarius said, “and I am taking this vehicle so that we can do so. You people should report to Sespian.”
“Sespian!” The private glanced to the sergeant. The rest of the men did too.
“Sespian is dead,” the sergeant said.
“Sespian has returned to reclaim the throne.” Without drawing attention to his hand, Sicarius loosened the wires around the bundle of blasting sticks. “Ravido Marblecrest is his prisoner. If you don’t want to be punished or discharged for serving a false master, you should report to him now. He’s at the back of the building. Get his orders.” And get out of my way, so I can get this lorry for Amaranthe, he thought. He was wasting his time; these men wouldn’t believe him. But the alternative was to take action that would harm-or kill-them.
“Shoot him, sergeant,” another private whispered. “You’ve seen the papers, seen what he’s been doing. And we all know how many of our brothers he’s killed in the past. It’s worth dying here if he’ll die too.”
Sicarius thought about saying he’d been working for Sespian in killing the Forge people, but that might cause backlash for his son. The sergeant’s eyes hardened, his chin firming with resolve, and the time to talk was over anyway.
Sicarius pulled out one of the blasting sticks he’d loosened from the bundle and lobbed it toward the sergeant. He sprinted for the rear of the lorry.
“Look out!”
“Catch it-don’t let it-”
Their focus on the stick kept them from shooting at him. Sicarius ran to the far side of the second lorry, intending to leap in and drive it away before the soldiers could coordinate an attack… so long as the blasting stick didn’t explode, blowing up the vehicles and bringing the roof down.
A hint of movement came from his left, from down the center aisle. With the blasting stick bundle still tucked under one arm, he hurled a throwing knife. He could have taken the fireman in the throat-the man had stepped around a vehicle with a pistol in hand-but the blade bit into the flesh of his hand instead. The pistol dropped to the floor, and its owner leaped back behind the lorry, cursing.
“Got it,” one of the privates yelled.
The remaining three soldiers were standing near the cab of the vehicle Sicarius intended to take. One was glancing around the front, toward his clamoring comrades, but the other two were facing the rear, right where Sicarius came out.
He sprinted at them without hesitating, watching the fingers on their rifles. When the weapons came up, aimed at his chest, Sicarius zigged to the side. Figuring one might anticipate an attempt to dodge, he leaped in the less obvious direction: toward the vehicle.
The rifles fired, but the shots didn’t come close. Sicarius ran up the side of the cargo bed three steps, jumping before his momentum broke, and launched himself at the pair. He twisted in the air and kicked out with both legs. The soldier on the right caught a booted heel in the face and flew backward. The man on the left reacted more quickly, and almost evaded the kick, but, in midair, Sicarius hooked his leg and clobbered him in the side of the head.
By then, the third was spinning toward the fight, but Sicarius landed too close for him to fire. Instead of reverting to hand-to-hand, the soldier tried to leap back so he had room to use his rifle. Sicarius caught the barrel and yanked, pulling his foe off balance. Knowing he had no time for finesse, he grabbed the back of the man’s neck and slammed his face into the front of the lorry.
The other two men were trying to rise. On his way into the cab, Sicarius stomped on one’s hand and kicked the other’s knee out from under him. He lunged inside, gripping the controls without bothering to sit. He did take a second to gently rest the remaining blasting sticks on the passenger seat, then he thrust the vehicle into forward. Startled shouts came from the front-the men he’d diverted with the blasting stick racing over to join the fight. Too late.
Sicarius barreled past them, ducking low in anticipation of shooting. It came, but not until he’d rolled past their positions. A bullet entered the cab from the side and erupted through the windshield.
Others ricocheted off the side of the lorry, but that first shot was the only one to come close. Still, the men chased after him. As soon as Sicarius cleared the vehicle house, he turned a hard right, the wheels throwing up slush, pelting the fastest soldiers. Not much of an attack, but their curses elicited a modicum of satisfaction within him.
“Throw the blasting stick,” someone yelled.
“It’s a dud.”
“No, you have to light it. Here.”
Sicarius pressed the lorry to greater speed. His diversion might backfire on him if they ending up using the stick to blow him up.
As soon as the vehicle reached the end of the Barracks, he turned a hard left to bring it parallel with the back of the building. More slush sprayed, this time striking men who were standing in an orderly queue guarding other men. The prisoners, Sicarius realized. Sespian must have ordered them brought up from the dungeon for the evacuation.
He spotted Sespian’s tidy black uniform with its gold piping, and Maldynado and Basilard at his side. Amaranthe was coming up the basement stairs, Akstyr and Books trailing.
A harsh squeal rent the air as Sicarius threw on the brakes. Dozens of surprised faces turned in his direction. Fortunately, Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr hustled toward him without hesitation, each carrying a rifle or pistol, swords, and bulging ammo pouches.