When she lowered her gaze to the page, she stared blankly at it for a moment. The words were gibberish. No, a code. Sicarius must have assumed other eyes would read any mail addressed to Starcrest from the empire. She imagined some Kyattese intelligence analyst pawing over letters to the kids from their Turgonian grandparents.
“The translation is on the back,” Komitopis said. “He used an old key, one employed during, as your people call it, the Western Sea Conflict.”
“Nothing wrong with the man’s memory then,” Amaranthe said, remembering that they’d been out in the woods when Sicarius penned the note. There were a few lines on the back, a signature, and a postscript.
“He was a bright boy,” Starcrest said. “I thought it was a shame what the emperor molded him into.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Amaranthe lowered the letter, distracted by a new thought. “You knew his father. Did you know about… more? His upbringing?” She wasn’t sure how she’d feel about the man if it turned out he had known about it and had ignored the cruelties being perpetrated in the name of creating a perfect assassin.
But Starcrest’s mouth had dropped open. “I knew his father? I wasn’t aware of Sicarius’s existence until…” His gaze skimmed over Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr, as if he was wondering how much of those classified times he should be sharing, even at this late date. “He was fifteen when our paths first crossed.”
“According to Hollowcrest’s records, his father was… Books, what was the name?”
“Sergeant Paloic.”
Starcrest sank back on the crate, bracing himself with his palms. “I remember him. He died-”
“He committed suicide,” Amaranthe said. “After being ordered-coerced-into impregnating the woman they’d chosen to bear Sicarius. A Kyattese woman.” She glanced at Tikaya. The professor’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. “According to Hollowcrest’s files,” Amaranthe continued, “Paloic’s name first came to his attention after you recommended the sergeant for a promotion.”
“I see,” Starcrest whispered. “I’d… never known.”
It was a harsh thing to bring up-it wasn’t as if Starcrest had been to blame-but she didn’t regret laying the tiles on the table. If he felt guilty, he might be more inclined to work with them. He’d already come at the behest of the letter, but that didn’t mean he meant to join forces with them. She didn’t think so anyway. Maybe she should read the translation before forming conclusions.
Lord Admiral Starcrest,
Emperor Sespian has been ousted from the throne, and numerous men with blood ties to the Savarsin line are marching armies into the city. A business coalition named Forge seeks control of the empire through a Marblecrest figurehead. Forge possesses the technology we saw on our mission twenty years ago. Among other things, they have a great flying craft from that ancient race and can use it to force their candidate onto the throne. A student of Professor Komitopis’s has mastered its flight and at least some of its many weapons. I’ve seen them. They are devastating, and the whole world is in danger. You and your wife may be the only ones who can bring about a peaceful solution. If you still care anything for the empire, you must come.
Sicarius
Postscript: Sespian is alive and in hiding, but it is unlikely anyone will be able to bring about a solution that doesn’t involve much bloodshed. The people and the military will listen to you.
Amaranthe lowered the letter and handed it to Books. Akstyr peered over his shoulder to read it as well.
“Our foremost reason for coming is to deal with the alien technology,” Starcrest said. “As for the rest… at this late date, I’m less certain than Sicarius that my influence over people or troops would be great.”
Truly? Someone had given him command of a train full of men…
“What we didn’t understand,” Starcrest said, “is why Sespian was ousted in the first place. And why he isn’t marching on the city to reclaim the throne. You say this Forge outfit has been imposing their will upon him?”
“As it turns out, Sespian isn’t Raumesys’s son,” Amaranthe said. “Forge has learned this. It’s possible the whole city will learn it soon, if it hasn’t already. We haven’t seen a paper in a couple of days.”
“Sespian is a bastard?” Professor Komitopis asked.
“Not exactly.” Given that Sicarius had personally written Starcrest and pleaded-or as close to pleading as he’d ever get-for assistance, Amaranthe didn’t think he’d mind sharing secrets. “He’s Sicarius’s son. Princess Marathi, after going through all the typical bedroom adventures one is expected to have with one’s husband, failed to produce an heir. She assumed the problem was Raumesys, and it turns out she was correct. Not wanting to suffer the fate of a previous wife who failed to produce, Marathi found someone suitable to lend his, ah, essence.”
“Essence?” Akstyr choked.
Books tried to elbow him, but they weren’t standing closely enough together.
“I didn’t think any of you Turgonian men fired blunt arrows,” Komitopis said. “You being such a hale and hearty people, prolific enough to populate a massive continent in a couple hundred years.”
Her words stirred Starcrest from whatever dark thoughts had devoured him, and he managed a half smile. “Given how many relatives you have, I don’t think you can accuse us of being overly prolific.”
“Yes, but we have a bountiful supply of sun, surf, and those fertility-boosting oysters I’ve mentioned. Your people manage it in a much harsher land, with nothing except those dreadful tooth dullers to fuel your gonads.”
Amaranthe blinked at the blunt term, but she’d heard that the Kyattese had a habit of saying things by their proper scientific names. Either that or “love apples” weren’t a common crop on the islands.
“The field rations are dreadful,” Starcrest agreed. “Or they were twenty years ago.”
“You should try one of Sicarius’s dried organ bars,” Akstyr grumbled.
Amaranthe leaned against one of the crates, eyeing the white fields passing beyond the slits in the walls. She didn’t know what to make of the professor’s derailment of the conversation. She supposed this talk of covert organizations, militant politics, and deflowered secrets was all academic to Komitopis. What did she truly care about the empire?
A banging at the door surprised Amaranthe. The train was still in motion, though the white flatlands outside had grown familiar. They had to be close to the lake, if it wasn’t already passing by on the other side of the car.
“Enter,” Starcrest called over the noise of the train.
The door slid aside, and Colonel Fencrest stood on the ledge, his face ashen. He gulped. “My lord.” He didn’t seem to notice that Amaranthe, Books, and Akstyr were no longer tied. He didn’t notice them at all.
Starcrest rose. “What is it?”
The colonel’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t find words. He pointed past Amaranthe, toward the slats allowing glimpses of the countryside.
She climbed onto a crate for a better view as everyone else came to that side of the car. She leaned her temple against the cold wood, trying to see what lay ahead of the train, though she had a guess. They ought to be closing on Fort Urgot. If that army was still camped around it, that would certainly alarm someone coming into the situation new.
But it wasn’t an army that came into sight. It was…
“No,” Amaranthe whispered. Overwhelming horror swallowed her, weakening her limbs and invading her stomach like a poison. If she’d been standing, her knees would have given out, dumping her on the floor. She would have deserved it.
“Dear Akahe,” Komitopis whispered at her side.
The unmistakable black dome shape of the Behemoth towered over the landscape-what was left of it. Felled trees and flattened tents littered the white fields, along with one corner of collapsed rubble, of…