pastries at the start of-”
The private shoved the corporal into Sicarius and bolted. He fled out the gate, skidded on the flagstones, and disappeared around the corner. Sicarius pushed the soldier aside and raced after the man. His prey sprinted down the street, running in and out of the influence of gas lanterns burning on the Imperial Barracks’ outer wall, and toward the trolley tracks and roadways of the city. He must have hoped to evade pursuit amongst the buildings and dark alleys. On the parapet above, guards patrolled-guards with access to muskets and cannons-but no one fired at the fleeing man. Of course not. He wore an army uniform. Sicarius might have yelled up and explained the situation, but it’d be more efficient to simply handle the spy himself.
He increased his speed, arms pumping as hard as his legs. The spy’s boots thudded on roads slick with frost, and crystallized puffs of air drifted behind as he ran, his ragged breaths audible in the still evening. As he’d been so trained, Sicarius made not a sound. He closed the distance. Ten meters. Five.
The man sprinted through a square at the base of the hill and glanced back, perhaps believing he’d outrun his pursuer. His eyes bulged when he spotted Sicarius just behind. The spy’s jaw firmed, and he whipped his sword from its sheath, turning around as he did so, holding it out, perhaps hoping Sicarius might impale himself.
Sicarius shifted his weight and, between one step and the next, halted out of blade reach. A few passersby paused, heads cocked.
“Criminal!” the soldier shouted, pointing at Sicarius with his sword.
At the private’s proclamation, citizens opened their doors and came outside. Pedestrians murmured to each other. More than one person touched a sword or dagger. Without rank or uniform, Sicarius did not bother arguing. He kept the encroaching citizens in mind, but focused on his opponent.
Falling into a ready crouch, the spy brandished his blade. A smug smile creased his face. Sicarius had no sword with him, and he had not drawn a knife.
Certainly believing his opponent helpless, the spy lifted an arm to strike. Sicarius stepped aside, dodging the blow easily, then lunged in behind the attack. He grasped the man’s wrist and twisted it against the joint, catching the sword when it dropped. The man squawked in pain and tried to pull away. Sicarius snaked his leg behind his opponent’s knee, sweeping him off balance. Only the arm Sicarius wrapped around the man’s neck kept him from pitching to the street. The spy clawed at the grip, but Sicarius merely squeezed harder. Soon his opponent’s breaths came in wheezes.
The approaching citizens hesitated. Without releasing his man, Sicarius lifted the soldier’s blade and eyed them with a cool stare. Their hands dropped from their weapons, and they backed away.
“Who did you let through the gate?” Sicarius asked his prisoner.
The soldier squirmed, but did not answer. Sicarius dropped the sword and gouged his thumb into the depression at the back of the man’s jaw. He dug at the point until the man whimpered.
“Mangdorians…hired assassin…emperor.”
Bone cracked as Sicarius broke the man’s neck. He dropped the body and raced back to the Imperial Barracks. He’d made a mistake. Someone had seen him on his mission; that was the only explanation. The Mangdorians were reputed to prefer peace and negotiation to conflict and war, but Sicarius had encountered more than one warrior from that nation; not everyone believed in their god’s tenets. If someone had hired an assassin, and if the man were successful…it would be Sicarius’s fault.
The corporal at the gate had gathered more soldiers. His eyebrows rose at Sicarius’s approach.
“There’s an assassin inside,” Sicarius said. “Sweep the grounds. Tell Hollowcrest.”
Before the corporal could respond, Sicarius sped across the courtyard toward the entrance to the Barracks. He took the steps three at a time, tore open the massive doors, and ran down the gleaming marble corridors. On the third floor, he reached the emperor’s suite. Two armored men wearing the black uniforms of the emperor’s personal bodyguard stood to either side of the door.
“Sir, you can’t-”
“The emperor’s not to be-”
Sicarius ignored them and pushed through the door. Raumesys was sprawled naked on his divan with three equally naked young women draped over him. His head jerked up, face twisting with rage. When he identified Sicarius, his features grew more hesitant, but his eyes remained cold.
Schooled features neutral, Sicarius eyed the women with professional detachment. All three were familiar, which did not discount them, but made them unlikely assassins. He ignored the emperor’s sputtering protests and stalked through the suite, searching the shadows. He found nothing.
Hollowcrest burst through the door. Six armed and armored men clanked in after him.
“Yes,” Raumesys said, throwing a bare arm toward the ceiling. “Everyone come in. I’m obviously not busy!”
“There’s an assassin on the premises,” Hollowcrest said.
Instead of grabbing a weapon-or clothing-Raumesys tugged one of the girls over his chest. The guards placed themselves at strategic points around the room.
Satisfied that the emperor had enough men-and women-protecting him, Sicarius slipped into the hallway. He considered the layout of the Barracks, selecting likely hiding places and identifying other possible targets. Raumesys’s wife? Or-a sickening thought flashed through Sicarius’s mind, and his stomach lurched.
He took off again, candles blurring past. He turned a corner and stopped before an unguarded door-a door that should have been guarded. A dark smudge stained the floor. He bent and touched it. Fresh blood.
Sicarius eased the door open, afraid of what he would find inside. He pushed the thoughts aside and reached for his usual calm detachment. He had seen death in all its cruelties, delivered it in more cases than he could remember. Living or dead, one boy should not bother him.
Inside, shadows lurked. Sicarius moved away from the door, so that he wouldn’t be silhouetted against the light of the hall.
A low-burning lantern glowed on a table beside a canopied bed that dwarfed the five year old curled in the sheets. Against his instincts, Sicarius let his eyes rest on the boy for a moment. He caught the rise and fall of rhythmic breathing, and an iota of relief trickled through his mind.
A faint rustle sounded. Sicarius crouched, muscles tense. He had not moved, and neither had the boy. Anyone who had watched him come in would know precisely where he was.
Willing calm into his mind and relaxation into his muscles, he scanned the room. Curtains and furniture cast thick, irregular shadows. As his eyes drifted away from one corner, movement drew them back. Reflexively, he dropped into a roll.
Something whisked over his head, pinging off the wall.
Sicarius came up running, his soft boots soundless on the thick carpet as he cut toward the source. The intruder stepped out to meet him. With a soft rasp, a small blade appeared, light from the hall revealing a gooey dark substance on the edge.
As Sicarius closed, the dagger slashed toward him. He melted away from the strike, then darted in, catching the man’s forearm. He glided in closer, turned his hip, and hurled the would-be assassin over his shoulder. The man proved agile, though, and wriggled out of the throw before he hit the ground. Like a cat, he landed on his feet. But for a split second, he was off balance, and Sicarius struck. Lightning-quick, he slammed a punch into his foe’s kidney. The force of the blow sent the man stumbling forward. Sicarius leaped after him, but, before he reached his target, the assassin whirled, slashing with the dagger. It was a desperate attack from a wounded opponent, but that didn’t make the poison on the blade any less dangerous. Forcing himself to defend with careful, mindful precision, Sicarius knocked the arm wide and stepped close, launching a punch. The man blocked it, but the attack had been meant as a distraction, and Sicarius slammed his heel into his foe’s knee at the same time.
The intruder went down, but he took another wild swipe with the dagger. Sicarius leaped backward and would have evaded the attack easily, but he’d forgotten his surroundings; he came up short, bumping into the bed’s footboard.
Sicarius chastised himself-men died from such mistakes-even as he anticipated the coming attack and twisted to the side. The poisoned blade cut through his shirt, missing flesh by a hair. Momentum carried the dagger into the footboard, the tip sinking into the wood. The assassin wasted a split second trying to free it. Recognizing the advantage, Sicarius pounced. He spun his foe around, pinning him against the footboard, and found his neck. Perhaps trained as Sicarius had been, the man died in silence.
On the bed, Sespian mumbled something and stirred. Sicarius let out a slow breath and lifted his head. The
