Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series (16 page)

“What do you think of Lucien?” she asked as they descended the packed dirt ramp to one of the lower terraces. “I mean, what do the soldiers think of him?”

“It’s
Emperor
Lucien, ma’am, and any man here would give his life for him.”

“Why?”

“He’s a brilliant commander, and he cares about his men.”

“I know he’s brilliant, but Lucien wasn’t a popular emperor. After all, he was deposed by his own bodyguards—”

“Now, ma’am, that ain’t fair—” began Kryspin.

“But it’s true. Kjall as a whole is not loyal to Lucien, but you say the men of this battalion are. And clearly that is so, because the officers here instantly accepted Lucien’s command, despite the fact that Cassian—I mean, the usurper”—Lucien had spread the word last night that Cassian should henceforth be called by that name—“will consider that treason. Why does White Eagle trust Lucien when the rest of Kjall does not?”

“Miss,” he sputtered, “those folks in Riat don’t know tomtit about Lucien. They never gave him a chance. Lucien came here when he were just sixteen years old—just a boy, miss!—and we didn’t like the idea of being commanded by a young man barely into his bumfluff, and that were before he lost his leg. But appearances is deceiving. We’ve never seen a commander like him, and we’ll not see one again.”

“How is he different from other commanders?”

“Most commanders just holes up in their quarters and send orders out, but Lucien’s always out with the men, looking at things, figuring things out. He don’t fight directly, of course, but he goes on scouting expeditions to study the terrain so he can put us in the winning position. Back then, he knowed every man in the camp by name. He don’t now, because there’s been some changes, but he’ll know ’em soon. And he keeps them alive.”

“Through superior strategy?”

“That and sticking his neck out for us. You know the rebellion at Echmor?”

“I’ve heard about it.” Echmor was a Riorcan tragedy. Some years ago, at the Circle’s urging, the village of Echmor had rebelled and refused to pay its tribute to Kjall. Two Kjallan battalions had been sent to quell the uprising. The Circle and the villagers thought they had the upper hand, but the Kjallans had won. Now Echmor was a dead village.

“White Eagle was one of the battalions sent. The rebels was entrenched along the foothills of Mount Banough. You know the place?”

She shook her head. “Not well.”

“Orders came in from the legatus that we was to march to a place where the roads meet in the foothills and join forces with Blue Lion battalion, but Lucien, he’d sent scouts and he knowed the Riorcan rebels was dug in all over the high ground and well armed. If he marched us into the valley, we’d be cut to pieces from above. So he signaled back that it were a bad meeting place and we should go in over the far side of Mt. Banough and come in from up top. Then we’d have the high ground, and we could take out the rebels easy.”

Vitala bit her lip. Had the Circle failed at Echmor because of Lucien?

“So,” continued Kryspin, “he made the signal, but the legatus weren’t listening to no kid, even if he was the emperor’s, and he signaled back to stick with the original plan. The legatus weren’t a sapskull, mind, but lots of Kjallan commanders have never fought in the mountains, or if they have, not
these
mountains. So Lucien broke the chain of command and signaled the tribune in command of Blue Lion, tried to get him to take the route over the pass, but the tribune weren’t going to disobey orders. So Blue Lion battalion went to the spot where the roads met, on the low ground, and Lucien brought White Eagle in over the mountains.” He shook his head. “It weren’t an easy march. Snow and winds to freeze your cods off—pardon my language, miss—but we made it. And when we got there, we picked off the rebels like shooting apples off a fence. Blue Lion got cut up, but they’d have been worse off if we wasn’t winning the battle for them. So, now you see, miss, why there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for Emperor Lucien.”

“Did Lucien get in trouble for disobeying orders?”

“Yes, ma’am, but his father was the emperor, and for that reason he weren’t removed from command, but I heared his father gave him hell for it, calling him a coward, which he weren’t, miss.”

“Of course not. It was just good sense.” Three gods. The rebellion at Echmor might have been successful if not for Lucien. At least this time he was on
her
side.

Kryspin grinned. “I’m glad you see it that way, miss. I’m glad you understand Emperor Lucien, because lots of folks doesn’t.” He pointed at his head. “He’s just got more up here than they does, that’s all.” He halted before a series of long, low buildings. “These here is the barracks for Fourth Century. Do you know how the battalion is organized, miss?”

“No, sir, not very well.”

“Well, it’s ten centuries, with a prefect in command of each one—there’s the prefect’s residence, right there.” He pointed at a smaller building. “I’m in Fourth Century,” he added, swelling with pride.

“Very good,” she said, and followed him as he headed for another terrace. She pointed to a terrace he appeared to have passed by. It was different from the others, dotted with tents rather than stone buildings. “What’s on that terrace?”

“Oh.” Kryspin’s cheeks colored. “That’s no place for a lady.”

“But what is it? I need to know the whole camp, sir, not just certain parts of it.”

He avoided her eyes. “Well, in them tents is the camp followers, miss.”

“Oh. Thank you. That’s very important, actually.” If the Circle sent a female assassin, she would almost certainly infiltrate the battalion as a camp follower. “Can you tell me anything about the women there? Are they Kjallan or Riorcan? Do they stay on their own terrace, or are they allowed into the camp proper?”

“Um.” Kryspin rubbed the back of his neck. “Some is Kjallan, some Riorcan. And they’re supposed to stay in their own terrace, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I’m not the person to talk to about this, ma’am. I don’t know much about them.”

Vitala suspected he knew quite a bit about the camp followers, whether he visited them or not, as did virtually every man in the camp. But she let it go. There would be others who would speak more freely.

Kryspin led her toward the next terrace. “How is it, miss, that you came to be liaison to the Obsidian Circle? ’Cause the Circle, they don’t trust outsiders, especially Kjallans. They kill anyone who stumbles onto one of their enclaves. Lost two good men that way once.”

“Oh, I’m not Kjallan.”

He stared at her. “But—” He gestured vaguely at her, as if trying to indicate her hair without directly pointing at her.

“I know I look Kjallan, but I’m half-and-half. Kjallan father; Riorcan mother. I was raised Riorcan.”

He continued to gape at her for a moment. Then he turned and headed for the next terrace, leaving her to scramble to catch up. “Fifth Century,” he said, his tone terse and businesslike. “Prefect’s residence.”

Vitala sighed as she followed him. Kryspin didn’t know it, but he’d just answered her most urgent unspoken question. Lucien might have accepted her, despite her Riorcan background, but if this man was any example, the soldiers of White Eagle battalion would not.

•   •   •

The lower terrace stank of refuse and excrement. Until now, Vitala hadn’t truly noticed and appreciated the cleanliness of the rest of the camp. There must be some kind of work schedule such that the soldiers removed and disposed of waste, swept the paths, mended their uniforms, and polished the weaponry. But the rotation didn’t apply here.

Kryspin had oversimplified when he’d implied the camp followers were all whores. In fact, the lower terrace was a fully functioning village, with food vendors, laundresses, liquor sellers, cooks, boot menders, and an herbalist. One section of the terrace was reserved for soldiers’ wives, and from there she heard the squalling of babies. The marketplace was subdued rather than bustling. But there was more variety here than she’d imagined.

It was midday, and hardly any of the women were about, nor any soldiers. She paused to examine a crudely lettered sign that detailed one woman’s prices, and then another across the road with very different prices.

Someone behind her spoke in halting, thickly accented Kjallan. “Wrong side.”

Vitala turned. The speaker was a Riorcan woman of indeterminate age—she had a look of youth about her, but with her weathered face, she might have been as old as forty. “What do you mean?”

The woman pointed. “Kjallans, that side. Riorcans, this side. You on wrong side.”

Vitala blinked, absorbing this. Apparently, the women were segregated. Now she understood why the prices on the right side of the road were higher than those on the left. The Kjallans were able to charge more. She switched to fluent Riorcan. “I’m not Kjallan. And I don’t live here.”

The woman also shifted languages. “Are you a half-blood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman frowned. “Then you belong on the other side.” She turned to leave.

“Ma’am,” called Vitala, hurrying after her, “I’d like to ask you some questions. I’m . . .” She lowered her voice. “I’m from the Obsidian Circle.”

The woman glared at her. “If you truly were, you’d never say it out loud.” She walked off, her back very straight.

Vitala swallowed. Some liaison she was.

“She’s jealous, hon,” called another voice, this one in fluent Kjallan.

Vitala turned. A dark-haired woman had poked her head out of a tent on the other side of the street. “Jealous of what?”

“
You
. Look at you.” As Vitala approached, the woman framed her face. “So young, so pretty. You’ll fetch a good price. That Riorcan filth will have to sleep with three men to earn what you could make with one.”

Vitala stared at her. Hadn’t she heard Vitala say she was herself Riorcan? No, she hadn’t, because Vitala had spoken those words in the Riorcan language. “Actually, I’m not—”

“Come in, come in. Are you new here?” The woman beckoned her into the tent.

Vitala stooped under the entryway and sat down beside the woman on the blanketed floor. A sheet hung from the ceiling separated the tent into two “rooms.” On this side, the only furnishing was a plush bedroll. The other side was hidden from view. “Well, yes, but—”

“I can set you up, show you how everything works. Get you the best men, the best prices. You’re warded, aren’t you? Ten percent of your earnings, that’s all I ask.”

“No!” cried Vitala. “That’s not why I’m here. Emperor Lucien sent me here to ask some questions.”

“Oh.” The woman looked impressed. “If His Imperial Majesty would like, I can find him someone very special—”

“Please just answer my questions. Can anyone take up residence in this terrace? Kjallan or Riorcan? Are there any restrictions as to who can strike a tent here?”

“Any woman can set up camp here. No men, of course.”

Vitala nodded. “Are there rules and restrictions? May the women join the soldiers on the upper terraces, or must the soldiers come here?”

“The soldiers come here. We’re not allowed on any other terrace.”

“Thank you. Rules and restrictions?”

“Any woman who assaults a soldier gets staked—even if he hits her first, so pick your clients carefully. No weapons. No Riorcans on the Kjallan side of the street. No Riorcans at the market except after the sun passes Spyglass Rock. No Riorcans at the west or northern latrine—”

“Why so many restrictions on the Riorcans?”

“We don’t go in their places. Why should they go in ours?”

Vitala let out her breath in exasperation. These were impoverished women in desperate circumstances, selling their bodies to survive. And they couldn’t find any common ground? If there was ever a situation for them to band together, this should be it.

She changed tacks. “Do you have any idea what sorts of Riorcan women come here?”

The woman gave a crude laugh. “Ugly ones.”

Vitala frowned.

The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. Ones who can’t make a living no more, I guess. Families dead and whatnot.”

“Probably the same reasons as the Kjallan women. Don’t you think?”

The woman snorted. “It’s different. Kjallan women sleeping with Kjallan soldiers—we’re helping the cause, in our own way. The men need us. But the Riorcans? They’re consorting with the enemy. They’re not just whores; they’re traitors.”

Traitors.
Like herself. The word stung, but Vitala needed this information. “Please.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Tell me more.”

18

T
wo days into his stay at White Eagle, Lucien was finally beginning to feel he had a handle on things. Antius’s correspondence had mostly dealt with routine matters, supply caravans, and discipline and transfers of young officers, but often he could read between the lines and determine from the tone who was a Cassian supporter and who accepted the usurper’s rule only grudgingly. There was also the lay of the land to study, specifically where each of the usurper’s battalions was stationed. Cassian had moved several of them since seizing the throne, and some of these were telling moves, though they didn’t tell him quite everything he needed to know.

He’d placed each battalion’s flag on the map and was calculating distances and march times when Quincius burst into the command center.

Lucien growled at him. “Curse it, Tribune, you made me lose count.”

“Is it true, sire? About the woman you brought with you?”

“Is what true?” He stared at the map. What did it mean that the usurper had moved Red Fox battalion to Phiath? What could he possibly hope to gain by that?

“That she’s Riorcan.”

Lucien looked up. “Of course she’s Riorcan. I said she was our liaison to the Obsidian Circle.”

“That’s— We didn’t know she was Riorcan, sire.”

“Now you do.” He moved Red Fox from Phiath to Argentum. Could that be the final intended destination? From there, they would have an unimpeded path to western Riorca.

“Sire! This doesn’t concern you at all?”

“No.” Honestly, looking at the map, it was the least of his concerns.

“But Riorca is our enemy!”

Lucien shook his head. “The usurper is our enemy.”

“Sire, I must object to your sharing a room with her, especially at night. It isn’t safe. Consider what the men must think—”

Lucien straightened. “Tribune, is it your place to tell me whom I can and cannot spend time with?”

Quincius lowered his eyes. “No, sire. I’m only worried. There’s not a man in this camp who wouldn’t lay down his life for you. Do not devalue our loyalty by taking foolish risks. There are other women—”

“Whom I sleep with is my own business, Tribune. Vitala is trustworthy. She’s saved my life twice.”

“She’s arousing suspicion, sire. She’s been running all over the camp, questioning people. She even consorted with the prostitutes on the lower terrace. What do you suppose that means?”

Lucien shrugged. “That she had questions for them.”

“Don’t you think it looks suspicious?”

“No.” Indeed, it was perfectly natural behavior for someone trying to prevent an infiltration and assassination. She was a Caturanga player—of course she would want to familiarize herself with the board. The prostitutes were part of the environment; she would not ignore them just for reasons of propriety. He picked up the marker for Red Fox again. Maybe they weren’t headed for Argentum at all. Maybe they were headed for the fort at Rakum.

“Are you aware that she’s left the camp, sir?”

Lucien blinked at him. “What?”

“She headed down the switchbacks a little while ago. The sentries didn’t stop her because you said she was to be allowed to move freely. She can’t have gone far, because she didn’t take a horse. I only found out minutes ago.”

He set down the Red Fox marker. “Pass the word to Glabrio. Bring my horse.”

•   •   •

Though Quincius urged him to take an escort, Lucien rode alone. He wouldn’t be going far, and whatever Vitala was up to, she would respond better to just him than to a pack of guards. He’d neglected her of late, not deliberately, but he had so much information to absorb and little time left. The usurper’s army was on its way to Riorca to carry out the decimation plan, that much was clear. It was only the exact route he was unsure of.

Vitala would understand. She knew he was playing this game to win, and sometimes that meant he needed to focus on one thing and drop everything else. But perhaps he hadn’t considered how she might feel after having just betrayed her own people. She needed companionship, and he hadn’t offered it.

He leaned back in the saddle as his horse trotted jarringly down the switchback. She couldn’t have left the camp permanently, not on foot. More likely she’d gone to look at something, perhaps the access points to the encampment through which an infiltrator might approach, or had simply felt the need to be alone. But it was ridiculously unsafe for her to leave the camp when there was an assassin, or multiple assassins, on her tail. He’d have words with her about that.

He pulled up his horse. A little trail, badly overgrown, wound its way off the switchback, heading upward to a small, unoccupied terrace. The ground was too rocky to show footprints, but he had a good feeling about it. He turned his horse onto it.

He coaxed the animal forward through the spiny bushes and ascended a small rise. At the peak of it, he spotted Vitala. She was sitting at the edge of the terrace beneath a scrawny mountain tree, her arms around her knees, facing away from him.

He clucked to his horse to close most of the distance, then hopped down and pulled his crutch from the saddle holster. She had to have heard him by now, but she hadn’t turned. Foolish. How did she know he wasn’t an enemy? “Vitala, what are you doing out here?”

“I’m in no danger, Lucien. Go back and study your maps.”

He limped toward her over the uneven ground. “What about the assassins? If you leave the camp, you must notify me and take an escort.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

Gods-cursed woman, this was for her safety. Did she think he gave orders to amuse himself? He circled round to look her in the eye, stare her down if he had to. “In this camp,” he began angrily, then saw the half-dried tear tracks down her face and bit his lip. “Did something happen?”

She laughed bitterly. “You mean, did something happen besides my breaking you out of an Obsidian Circle enclave and making myself a traitor and an outcast and betraying the only friends I’ve ever had?”

Something shivered in his chest. “I’m sorry about that. I meant, did something happen more recently?”

Vitala shrugged. “No,” she said softly.

Liar
. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing. I told Kryspin I was Riorcan, and he spread it all over the camp. Now everyone looks at me differently. They point at me and whisper. Gods know what they call me behind my back. And a camp follower all but called me a traitor. But it’s nothing I didn’t expect.”

Lucien’s hand tightened around his crutch. “Kryspin, that sapskull. I’ll have words with him—”

“No, he’s done nothing wrong. I never meant my ancestry to be a secret. I just— I don’t know. I was hoping people would react differently. But that was silly of me.” She waved a hand, dismissing him. “Go back to your maps and win this war. That’s what I rescued you for.”

“No.”

She gave him a withering look. “You’re not going to win the war?”

“No, I’m not going back to my maps. I don’t take orders from you either.” He lowered himself to the ground and sat beside her. When she scooted aside to make room for him, he moved with her, closing the gap, and slipped an arm around her shoulders. She was stiff and trembling. What a deceiver. She’d been playing tough, like she didn’t need anyone, but it was all an act. “If I look at one more map, my head will explode. Why don’t we just sit here for a while?”

“Lucien—” Her flesh quivered against his, and she didn’t finish her sentence.

Her reactions were so perplexing. “Do you not like to be touched, Vitala?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered.

Odd answer. She either liked it or she didn’t—how could she not know? She seemed to like it when she was in bed with him. But then there had been that ugly business in the tent with Remus. And maybe no one had ever before held her to comfort her. “Well, do you want me to move my arm?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she shook her head.

Taking that as permission, he tugged her closer, pulling her almost onto his lap—already her trembling was subsiding—and pressed his face into her hair, inhaling her scent. Gods, she was beautiful.

Before he’d been deposed, he could have almost any woman he wanted for the asking. He’d taken full advantage of that privilege, bedding countless young beauties as well as older, more experienced women who’d been more than happy to teach him the finer points of pleasing the female sex. Those women had slept with him because he was the emperor, not because they cared for him. Now he wasn’t emperor anymore. Could he earn the love of a woman on his own merits? Surely he could apply his strategic mind to more than just Caturanga and winning wars. He could use it to win a woman.
This
woman. Much of her heart remained closed to him, but he’d find a way in.

Vitala’s shoulders began to shake again, and he realized she was crying. His hand curled into a fist. He wished Kryspin were here so he could punch him in the face. And that camp follower too. Who did she think she was?

Instead, he kissed Vitala’s hair. “I’m sorry about the way the men are behaving. We’ll work on them. We’ll bring them around.”

“It’s not really that,” she said. “It’s that I don’t belong here—or anywhere. In Riorca, people hate my Kjallan half; in Kjall, they hate my Riorcan half. I had a home in the Circle, where there were others like me, but now I don’t even have that. I have nothing, Lucien. I have nobody.”

“I’ve been called many things, Vitala, but never have I been called a
nobody
.”

“I don’t mean you. I mean there’s no group where I belong.”

“We’ll make our own group. You belong with me.” He’d never spoken words more true. She
did
belong with him. For all the women he’d been with, he’d never found a more perfect companion for himself than Vitala. And so what if she was half Riorcan? What an empress she would make! If he were still emperor.

“I appreciate that, but . . .” She waved her hand. “You have a war to fight, papers to read. That’s why when I started feeling sorry for myself, I came here on my own. So I wouldn’t disturb you. I sacrificed my position with the Circle for a reason: so you would win this war and free Riorca, as you promised. You’d better keep that promise, Lucien.”

“I will.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

He pressed his face closer to take in more of her intoxicating scent. “And what will you do to me otherwise?”

She smiled.

He was getting to her. Little by little.

“Lucien . . .” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Obsidian Circle assassins don’t live very long.”

“Well, it’s a risky profession.” It didn’t concern him much. She wasn’t an assassin anymore.

“The oldest assassin in our enclave is Ista, and she’s twenty-four. She’s unusual to have survived that long.”

“Only twenty-four?” He’d assumed they lived longer than that.

“Lucien.” Vitala glanced around them as a breeze ruffled the dry grasses on the rise. “Can we go back to the command tent? I have something to show you. And I think we’re being watched.”

“We’re definitely being watched.” He didn’t go anywhere around camp without being discreetly tailed by a bodyguard. “And I have something to show you too.” He placed his hand on what he wanted to show her.

She punched him, which he richly deserved.

•   •   •

In their bedroom, Vitala removed her heavy woolen cloak. Lucien, after shedding his, also unstrapped his wooden leg. He sat on the bed, rubbing his reddened stump.

Vitala picked up the wooden leg from the floor, wondering why the device caused Lucien so much pain. The leg was all wood except for the leather straps. The top, where it attached to his body, dipped into a carved hollow contoured to fit his stump. This hollow was padded but too slight to distribute pressure across a broad area. “This isn’t well designed.”

“So you say. It’s the best wooden leg money can buy,” said Lucien.

She traced the uneven wear patterns in the padding and frowned. It wasn’t right that Lucien’s leg should hurt him all the time. There had to be a better solution.

“That wasn’t what I wanted to show you,” said Lucien.

“In good time.” Vitala put the leg down. She sat on the bed beside him and lifted her hair. “Feel my neck.”

Lucien complied.

“No, here.” She directed his hand.

His fingers found two hard lumps, right next to each other. He pressed on them, and she winced. “What are these?”

“One of them is my riftstone.”

“Three gods!” he said. “So that’s where you hide it!”

“The other is my deathstone. It has a death spell embedded in it, which I can release with my magic at any time. All Obsidian Circle assassins from my enclave have deathstones. This is why your people have never been able to interrogate one of us.”

He traced the deadly bump with his finger. “You trigger it with your
magic
?”

“Yes. So, tie us up, chain us, gag us—it makes no difference. An Obsidian Circle assassin can kill herself whenever she chooses, and will do so when captured. Shall I demonstrate for you?”

“No!” he said.

“Kidding. The point is, I never expected to have much of a future. A long time ago, I dedicated my life to helping Riorca win its freedom, and whatever it costs me, I’ll pay it. Even if it means betraying the Circle. Even if it means having no home, no acceptance, no place to go.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “If we win this war, you’ll have a place with me. Always.”

She leaned against him, sighing with unexpected pleasure. Lucien could be exasperating sometimes, and she didn’t always agree with him, but with him she felt appreciated, even loved. Not as a weapon she could be forged into, but as a person. She’d never had that, not with the Circle or with anyone at all. If she could have her way right now, she’d spend the afternoon with him, just shut herself up with Lucien and forget the outside world, but her problems and his were too pressing. She could not stop turning them over in her mind. “How do we win this war? We have only one battalion and no support from the Circle. How many battalions does Cassian have? Thirty?”

“Twenty-six. The odds are not on our side. But he won’t send all of them. He won’t repeat Florian’s mistake of leaving Riat and the Imperial Palace unguarded.”