was difficult, but better than letting it rust. Hollowcrest, Sicarius reminded himself, would send him to the Global Grappling Tournament in the summer, an event where the best warriors in the world competed for honor and, more important for Sicarius, could learn from those better than themselves.
“Men, attention!” someone called from a ring near the doorway.
Everyone stopped in place and stood straight, heels smacking together as Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest strode into the gymnasium.
“At ease,” he said.
As soon as Hollowcrest wasn’t looking in their direction, the soldiers snatched their gear and disappeared. Sicarius, doubting the Commander of the Armies had come to throw sandbags around, folded his towel, set it on a bench beside his shirt, which was also folded, and clasped his hands behind his back to wait.
Hollowcrest stopped before Sicarius. “I told you to relax.”
“Yes, sir.”
A tight smile of approval creased Hollowcrest’s face. They both knew this was what he’d meant by the order. He would not have been pleased if he’d found Sicarius anywhere else.
“There’s a new adjudicator in the northeastern city-state,” Hollowcrest said. “He’s trying to start a desert- wide trade embargo against us. The emperor wants him eliminated. You’ll leave in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Sicarius picked up his shirt. “And this evening?”
“Do a round of the Barracks. Colonel Bratnuvic took over security last month. His work seems adequate.” Hollowcrest lifted a shoulder. “But I suspect your experience has given you expertise in such matters. Let me know if you find any weaknesses.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sicarius ghosted through the corridors of the Barracks, questioning guards and noting the state of each entrance. He entered the extensive dungeons, and memories of childhood training sessions flitted through his mind as he passed walls full of torture implements. Prisoners strung from shackles cringed when they noticed him, but he did nothing more than register their presence as he checked hidden exits, ensuring they were not accessible from the outside.
Before going outdoors to continue his inspection, Sicarius stopped in the kitchen. Spoons scraped and pans clattered as two-dozen men and women prepared the evening meal. A few noticed him as he entered, and they quickly looked away. Scents of complex, spiced dishes brushed his nose, but he chose unseasoned fish and roasted vegetables, then retreated to a remote table. He put his back to the corner and watched the busy area while he ate.
Halfway through his meal, a familiar figure scampered into the kitchen. The boy darted behind the apron of a heavyset woman and peered back the way he had come.
“Prince Sespian.” The woman put down a spoon and planted her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with your tutor?”
The boy offered her a shy smile. “I’m hiding from him.”
“But why?”
He looked up at her with imploring brown eyes. “He’s boring. I don’t care about armies and history and war and all that stuff.”
The woman’s eyebrows drew down, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
“Can I stay here?” Sespian asked. “Please?”
She picked him up and plopped him onto a nearby table. “Do you want old Dana to get in trouble for hiding a fugitive?”
The boy’s gentle eyes widened, and he shook his head.
She clucked her tongue. “You can sit there while we work, but when your tutor finds you in here, no more running, yes?”
After a pause, Sespian nodded. As soon as the cook turned her back, he plucked two spoons out of a ceramic utensil holder, flipped them around, and began tapping out a rhythm on the tabletop. The boy had dexterous fingers. He’d do well at blade lessons when he grew older. Or perhaps not. His list of “boring” suggested he had little interest in martial matters. Sicarius sometimes wondered what he might have found interesting as a boy, if he’d been allowed the freedom to choose his areas of study.
“Where’d you learn that?” Dana asked him, gesturing toward the tapping spoons.
Sespian shrugged. “Just did.”
“Ah? You should have a tutor who can give you some music lessons.”
A smile started to form on the boy’s lips, but it quickly faded. “Father wouldn’t let me. Father says things like that are worthless.” He set down the spoons and dropped his gaze. “He took away my pens and paper. He says I can’t draw any more.”
“Well, you must do as he says.”
“He hates me,” Sespian whispered too softly for Sicarius to hear, but he read the words on the boy’s lips.
The cook frowned and patted him on the shoulder. A reedy gray-haired man came in, eyes narrowing as he focused on Sespian. He stalked across the room and grabbed his wayward student by the arm.
“You’ve wasted our time tonight, Prince Sespian.” He pulled the boy off the table. “Now it’s bedtime, and you’ve learned nothing. Surely, the citizens of Turgonia would tremble if they knew a boy such as you was being raised to lead them.”
Without thinking, Sicarius left his meal and set a path to intersect boy and tutor. He stopped in front of them, blocking their route. The tutor’s mouth dropped, and he fell back a step. Sicarius stared at him, but realized he had nothing to say. The boy had nothing to do with his duty-what was he doing?
Sespian’s head lolled back, and his eyes widened. When Sicarius looked down at him, the boy pulled his arm out of his tutor’s grasp. He stumbled back a few steps, then turned and sprinted toward the nearest exit.
“Pardon me,” the tutor mumbled and darted after Sespian.
Sicarius sighed softly. Meal forgotten, he resumed his inspection. He left the kitchen, then the Barracks. Dusk had fallen. He ignored the caress of crisp air on his cheeks, noting instead tactical strengths and weaknesses in the structures and walls. By habit, he studied each guard, servant, and hired hand he passed, marking walk, build, and weapons carried.
A corporal and a private were stationed at the front gate. When he approached, the corporal straightened and clicked his heels together. The private, a younger man, eyed Sicarius’s plain black clothes with furrowed brow. Sicarius wasn’t in the Barracks much, so there were many people who didn’t recognize him, but something about this private made him pause. Like his comrade, he wore a gold-piped blue uniform, but unlike his comrade, he had Turgonia’s insignia, crossed swords over a craggy mountain, pinned to his right breast instead of his left. Sicarius stared him in the eye. The private cleared his throat and glanced at his superior.
“Help you, sir?” the corporal asked.
Sicarius kept his gaze on the younger man. “For a soldier, there is supposed to be no greater honor than serving on the emperor’s estate.”
“Yes, sir,” the private whispered, eyes darting.
“Such an honor that you didn’t bother to dress correctly?”
“I…” The private looked down, studying his uniform. After a furtive glance at the corporal, realization came, and he touched his chest. “Yes, sir. I mean no, sir. It was an accident.”
Sicarius listened, placing the man’s accent as northeastern Turgonia, the area closest to Mangdorian borders. That in itself was not suspect-soldiers were moved around the empire often during the course of their careers-but coupled with the misplaced insignia…
“New man, corporal?” Sicarius asked.
“Yes, sir. Came up from the garrison just today.”
The private shifted his weight.
“Anyone come through the gates while you’ve been on shift?” Sicarius asked.
“Some folks left,” the corporal said, “but none have come in since I got on. Except… I got sick for a bit and the private was alone.”
“Sick?”
“Had to run to the latrine. Something I ate…” The corporal squinted at his younger comrade. “He brought
