Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series (4 page)

“Yes, sire, but it’s already over.” With a Double Cavalry Strike, she captured his Tribune and a battalion.

His hands went up in shock. “Three gods.”

He tried to recover, but it was impossible. Half a dozen moves later, she controlled all three moons. “Soldier’s Sweep.”

“Pox,” he said. “I’d ask for a rematch, but . . .” He looked up at his bodyguard. “Septian?”

The huge man gave a slight shake of his head.

He looked into her eyes. “Well. This evening, then?”

“Yes, sire.” She stared at his mouth and licked her lips.

He gazed at her for a moment. After an awkward silence, he said, “I look forward to it. Let me show you to the door.” He slipped the crutch under his left arm. She walked with him, slowing her strides to match his swinging ones.

At the door, she turned and performed her farewell curtsy. When she stood, his hand ventured toward her face and pushed a stray lock of hair away from her forehead. He looked like he was going to say something, but apparently he decided against it. He smiled and signaled to the guards.

Her escort began to walk her back to her room. Gods, how easy that had been! She supposed she should have expected it. Lucien was a man who would be accustomed to women making sexual advances, even subtle ones.

She’d made progress. Now she just needed to finish the job.

•   •   •

Bayard returned a year later. Not for Vitala, but for Ista.

Vitala burned with jealousy. Ista. That poxy cull! The older girl was the smartest in the class, the instructor’s favorite, good at everything. But Vitala was capable of anything Ista could do. Or would be in time. She couldn’t help that she was younger.

Bayard took only the best of the fourth-year girls, and before Ista there had been two years where he didn’t take anybody at all. Everyone knew he trained assassins. The other fourth-year girls left with different trainers. Some would be spies; some would be support staff. There was a role for everybody, but the assassins were the most important members of the Circle. They learned magic. They learned how to fight and how to kill. They were the ones who would make a difference, who would one day set Riorca free.

Vitala would show them. She’d be the best in her year. She’d study nights. She’d work harder than anyone else. Then when her four years were done, Bayard would come for her. And she’d show him how much better she was than Ista.

4

“
T
he Kjallan infantryman.” Lucien’s voice rang out over the vast hall, returning to him in a slight echo. “My estimate of him was formed in Riorca when I fought by his side.” He paused to let the words sink in. He was no soft aristocrat, but a seasoned war veteran. Eager young faces stared up at him from stiff, new uniforms, their eyes shining. “I know his patience, his fortitude, his grim determination. I have seen him march from dawn to dusk in wind and rain, bent under his soggy pack, and then form up for battle, his back straight, his strength undiminished.

“Today you join the finest fighting force in the world. You are well trained and well equipped, but that is not the secret to your success.” He looked out over the crowd, making eye contact with a few individuals, who swallowed and blinked. “The secret to your success is your Kjallan heart. You were born to this legacy, as your fathers were before you, and their fathers before them. Your fathers did not sit idle, resting on the achievements of their forebears. Instead, they carved the Kjallan legacy on the breast of their enemies.”

His eyes roamed the silent crowd. “You have much to live up to. I say this not to intimidate you—but, then, it is not the nature of the Kjallan infantryman to be intimidated. He conquers grasslands, hills, and mountains. He sails the Great Northern Sea in all its capriciousness of wind and weather. He stands unflinching in the face of gunfire; he stands before the cavalry charge with bayonet in hand, straining to meet the enemy. He fears nothing, but, I assure you, his enemies fear him. Sons of Kjall, welcome to our country’s most august tradition. It is time to write
your
legacy.”

Cheering and foot stomping rose behind him as he stepped down from the podium. He clasped wrists with soldiers in the front row until his Legaciatti closed ranks around him and escorted him toward the door. “That went well,” he commented to no one in particular.

“Indeed,” rumbled a deep voice beside him. “Your Majesty is surprisingly eloquent.”

Three gods, had Septian actually
spoken
? “Why do you say
surprisingly
?” he teased.

Septian’s voice was humorless. “Because your father never possessed the talent.”

It was true. Lucien was a better orator than his father. And no one ever acknowledged it unless they were baldly attempting to curry his favor. He smiled at the unexpected praise.

Pox.
Remus was standing in front of his carriage. Lucien’s smile faded. “Is there
another
disaster?” he called out.

“The same one as before,” said Remus. “May I ride back with you?”

Lucien nodded wordlessly and climbed into the carriage. Remus stepped in after him. Lucien had barely settled before the vehicle jolted into movement. He reached down and massaged his stump where the peg leg attached. It often became irritated when he walked on it. “So, Tasox has taken a turn for the worse.”

“Several of the larger groups of bandits have formed an alliance and taken control of the town. They’ve run out the troops you sent and publicly staked the governor.”

“What’s our paper in Tasox? The
Tribune
?”

“They’ve shut it down.”

“Who’s leading the bandits?”

“A man named Gordian.”

“Never heard of him. Is he a former officer?”

“A former prefect,” said Remus.

Lucien slumped against the plush carriage back. What a mess. He’d have to send a whole battalion. Worse, the situation could spiral out of control if he didn’t manage it carefully. “We’ll send Blue Hawk.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Clear my schedule and send word. I’m going with them.”

Remus stared at him. “Personally?”

“This will require a delicate hand. I need to be there.”

“We’ll be up half the night making preparations—”

“That was an order, Remus.”

“Yes, sire.”

Double pox.
Clearing his schedule meant canceling his tryst with Vitala, and he’d been looking forward to that. Her come-on had been so obvious that he wondered what she wanted from him. A promotion for her father, perhaps? A rich gift? Once in a while he ran into a woman who wanted nothing more than the notoriety of having slept with the emperor, but he doubted Vitala was that type. She had a strategic mind; she was after something.

And who was he to gainsay her? She was no Nasica, trying to dam the river and starve her family’s business competition. Vitala was a commoner, with a commoner’s needs. Any favor she asked of him would be something simple. Indeed, he’d be happy to do her a good turn. He’d probably do it even if she didn’t sleep with him. She was more deserving of imperial aid than most of the brainless aristocrats he made concessions to.

What a strange woman Vitala was. She had a hardness to her, a distance. His cousin Rhianne had been openhearted and loving, and she kept no secrets—none that she wouldn’t share with Lucien, anyway. But Vitala had layers. It fascinated him. He wanted to peel back those layers and figure her out. What did she want? What made her tick?

He thought back to the state dinner and what she’d looked like in that borrowed blue gown. Oh yes, he wanted to peel back some layers, all right.

Damn Tasox.

•   •   •

One day when Vitala entered her classroom, each table was covered with a strange, double-tiered structure. On each structure sat crudely carved blue and red game pieces.

“This is the game Caturanga,” explained her instructor, after the other girls filed in. “The emperor’s youngest son, Lucien, has become obsessed with the game, and we think it might benefit you to know how to play it.”

Caturanga turned out to be a war game. The objective was to gain control of all three moons, the Soldier, Sage, and Vagabond, using foot soldiers, cavalry, and the so-called Principles, powerful pieces, such as the Tribune, that had special abilities. Terrain pieces could also be used either to speed one’s own way or block the enemy’s progress.

Vitala soon found her classmates were easy prey. They moved defensively, trying to protect their pieces while advancing slowly toward the objectives. Vitala moved boldly. She sent her Traitor behind enemy lines. She pushed her cavalry straight into enemy territory. She learned to feint on one side of the board, then make a decisive strike on the other.

Soon none of the other girls wanted to play her anymore.

•   •   •

The stress of the game with Lucien had brought on a headache, and Vitala made the mistake of lying down. She fell asleep and had one of her nightmares. In it, the young soldier spoke to her, but she couldn’t hear his words. He mouthed them, first calmly, then with increasing fervor and desperation, but no sound came. And she was too paralyzed to say anything back.

She awoke feeling hopeless and lost.

She checked her window. Good. The sun wasn’t too low. She still had time to visit the baths and freshen up.

She stared at her hands and wriggled her fingers. Ten tiny contact points shone there, one on each finger, visible only to her. Warders were capable of an additional, little-known form of magic. Not only could they anchor magic from the spirit world in the physical world, but they could also do the reverse. They could pull an object from the physical world into the spirit world and hide it there. It could be done only with very small objects. Shards, for example, which were no larger than arrowheads. She had enough of them to kill ten people, but she hoped to need only one.

She wasn’t looking forward to this kill. It was hard to reconcile the Lucien who victimized her people with the one who played Caturanga. The first was an evil tyrant; the second, almost likeable. She supposed it must often be thus. People behaved one way in one situation and differently in another. A Legatus might brutally stake a hundred Riorcans, then go home and be kind to his wife and children.

As long as she could stay focused and keep the visions at bay, it didn’t matter whether she wanted to kill Lucien or not. Even if Lucien were innocent of all crimes—and he wasn’t—he had to die, for the simple reason that he stood in the way of Riorcan freedom. Lucien was a strategic sacrifice, like the Tribune she’d offered up as bait during the first Caturanga game. If killing him meant more nightmares for her, more visions, so be it. He wasn’t the only strategic sacrifice in this game.

Someone rapped at the door, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Come in.”

The door guard admitted Remus, who clutched a single rose, deep purple in color. “Miss Salonius, I bear a message from the emperor.”

Her stomach dropped. “Yes?”

“The emperor sends his regrets. He must travel tomorrow to Tasox and will be up half the night preparing.”

“Oh.” Gods curse it. She’d been so close.

Remus handed her the rose. “He desires your company, however, and asks if you will accompany him to Tasox in the morning.”

She brightened. Going with Lucien to Tasox might be better than seeing him tonight. On a trip, his security should be lighter than here in the palace. Not only would that make her more likely to succeed in her mission, but it increased the odds that she might get away afterward without having to use her deathstone. After all, willing as she was to die for her cause, she was hardly
eager
. “I would be honored to accompany His Imperial Majesty.”

Remus smiled. “I’ll tell him the good news. We’re leaving with Blue Hawk battalion early tomorrow morning. A guard will come for you at dawn. Be ready.”

Vitala ran an eye over the few possessions she’d brought with her. Lucien might be up half the night preparing, but all she needed was ten minutes. “Thank you, sir. I will.”

•   •   •

It was not uncommon for them to move their location. The news would come suddenly. Vitala and the others would be told to pack their few possessions. In no time at all, the mountain sanctuary would be an empty shell, and its inhabitants would trek to the new place, by varying routes, in small groups of three or four.

During her fourth year, they moved five times. The fifth time, when she arrived at the new location, a familiar face was waiting for her.

“Bayard!” she cried, rushing into his arms.

“My dear Vitala,” he murmured, “you’ve surpassed all expectations.”

“You’ve come for
me
this time. Haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve come for you,” he said. “I’m to make an assassin of you, but I’m afraid this is the last time you’ll feel such fondness for me.”

“But you rescued me.”

“For a purpose, and not a gentle one. The finest weapons are shaped in the hottest of forges, and I shall hone you into a blade so keen, so wicked, that the imperials shall weep to cross you.”

They traveled to yet another enclave. There her instruction continued in Caturanga, history, and literature under new instructors, and she began new subjects. She learned to dance in several styles, some suitable for the ballroom, others for the bedroom. A stern matron spent endless hours teaching her to walk with good posture and just the right amount of sway in her hips. Another woman tutored her in the care of her hair and skin, and in Kjallan fashion.

Yet another woman began to teach her Rift affinity to prepare her for soulcasting.

And Bayard instructed her in combat.

5

T
he day broke muggy and wet, making for a dark and misty dawn. Vitala huddled in a borrowed raincoat next to the Legaciattus who carried her valise and stared at the array of soldiers who stood in perfect formation in the yard ahead, seemingly indifferent to the rain. Four magnificent gray horses trotted toward her, splashing mud on the gravel road. They drew a large, sleek carriage that she knew at once had to be Lucien’s. It was cross-barred with gold, and the blue panels along its sides were inset with vivid, colorful paintings. As she stepped out of the path of the carriage and its escort of mounted Legaciatti, she squinted at the paintings, curious about the scenes they depicted.

Before she could make them out, the horses, blanketed with brindlecat pelts, reined to a stop and waited, snorting, their heads held high. The carriage door opened, revealing a crowd of people. She heard Lucien’s voice, followed by a young woman’s laughter, and she froze. Had Lucien’s excuse last night been a lie? Had he rejected her in favor of someone else?

The carriage began to empty. A uniformed Legaciatta stepped out first, followed by a kind-faced matron, a young woman smothered in a raincoat, and finally another Legaciatta. Vitala angled for a closer look at the young woman, but the Legaciatti blocked her view. She had the impression the woman was small or young, possibly just a girl. Could she be Lucien’s sister, the imperial princess?

Lucien gestured to her from inside the carriage. “Get in.”

Vitala glanced back to see if he was talking to someone else. She’d expected to ride with Lucien’s support staff, not in the imperial carriage.

“Miss Salonius, ride with me,” called Lucien.

Well, that was clear enough. Someone carried away her valise, and Vitala stepped into the carriage, trying not to get mud on the floor.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” she said, making an awkward attempt at a curtsy.

He took her hand and helped her to her seat. “Please don’t stand on ceremony.”

Though the carriage was less crowded than before, they weren’t alone—the bodyguard sat opposite them. That meant no assassination attempts in the carriage. She hoped Lucien didn’t plan to while away the miles with lovemaking.

“Was that the imperial princess I just saw?” she asked.

Lucien smiled. “Indeed it was. My sister, Celeste. She wanted to see me off, so I had her ride with me from the gates.”

What a relief. Not another lover after all. “Are the two of you close?”

His smile turned sad. “I’m nine years her senior. By the time she was old enough to talk, I was in training at the palaestra and the academy, and then off to Riorca. For most of our lives, we’ve been strangers. But she’s all the family I have left, so I’m making an effort to get to know her.”

The carriage rolled forward. Vitala peered out the window at the now-marching musketmen on the right side of the road. “How can the soldiers keep up with us?” she asked Lucien.

“The infantry can’t. We’ll go ahead with the cavalry and establish a campsite. They’ll catch up by evening.”

She craned her neck and spotted the cavalry. The horses were just beginning to move, one line of them at a time, at a trot. If the carriage was pacing itself to match the cavalry, this would be a slow journey.

“I’m sorry we can’t play Caturanga in here,” said Lucien.

She nodded. The carriage was well sprung and the road was good, but nothing could smooth the ride sufficiently for a Caturanga board.

“I brought a set, though. For later.”

“So did I,” said Vitala. The set he’d given her, which she hoped she might smuggle away somehow afterward. “What’s the emergency in Tasox? If I may ask, Your Imper—”

“Lucien,” he corrected. “What’s going on in Tasox is a man named Gordian has united several groups of bandits and taken over the city. He murdered the governor and the city officials.”

“Three gods.”

“Worse, most of the bandits are former soldiers—members of White Star and Red Eagle battalions, disbanded last summer.” He shook his head. “It’s tricky, because the men will not like killing their fellow soldiers. I felt the situation was touchy enough that I ought to handle it personally. You know what Plinius says— Have you read Plinius?”

She shook her head.

“‘The only strategist is the man on the ground.’ Meaning you must see the situation up close to make good decisions.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“First, recapture the city. Then dispense justice.”

Vitala bit her lip. That meant he was going to stake people. She’d seen staking victims in Riorca. The Kjallans left the impaled bodies up on the stakes for weeks to rot in the sun and serve as a grisly reminder of their power and cruelty.

“Perhaps we should speak of something else,” said Lucien.

Vitala nodded.

“Tell me about your Caturanga career. People you’ve learned from, tournaments you’ve competed in. I want to know how you got to be so gods-cursed good at the game.”

She launched into her cover story, a fabricated tale of a Caturanga-loving father who’d had no sons and taught the game to his eldest daughter, who’d shown so much promise she’d been passed along from one august tutor to another.

“I envy you,” said Lucien. “All that time to study! I’ve never been able to learn the game as well as I’d like.”

Vitala smiled wryly. “The Emperor of Kjall envies a nobody like me?”

“Don’t call yourself a nobody. There are quite a few aristocrats who’ve had every opportunity available to them, yet they didn’t do a gods-cursed thing with their lives. Whereas you had no advantages at all and wound up a Caturanga champion.”

“Thank you.”

“Besides,” he said. “I envy you just for having a father who loves Caturanga. My father, the emperor, thought it a colossal waste of time.”

“It’s not given to us to choose our parents.”

“Nor is it given to parents to choose their sons and daughters, which for me is rather fortunate.” He paused. “Vitala, is there something you want from me?”

She turned to him, perplexed. “Only the honor of playing Caturanga with you.”

“But is there a favor I can do for you? I’d like to help you, Vitala. Depending on what it is you need.” His fingers reached up and pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. Her flesh tingled where he touched her.

Now she understood. He believed her interest in him was pragmatic. She wanted something from him, and he wanted to know what that something was before he committed. For Nasica, it had been the dam. For Vitala, it was . . . well. The true price he would not want to pay.

Was Lucien laying a trap for her? If she named something, he might become offended and send her packing. Or it could be the other way around. If she seemed to want nothing, he might become suspicious and wonder what trickery was involved, what price she might try to exact from him later.

“Sire,” she said. “I don’t want anything from you except . . . except your company. You’ve done so much for me already.”

“What have I done for you?”

“You gave me the Caturanga set.”

His eyes lit. “Right! I’d forgotten about that. I’m glad it pleases you.”

She closed her eyes in relief. Gratitude, apparently, was a safe middle ground, neither arousing his suspicion nor risking his disapproval.

“Vitala.” His eyes were soft and desirous. “You’re very beautiful.” He leaned toward her.

Pox.
He
was
looking for a tryst in the carriage. With the bodyguard sitting right across from them!

But a kiss would be all right—wouldn’t it? She parted her lips slightly.

He took them directly, needing no further encouragement. His mouth was warm and soft, assertive without being rough. So many Kjallans were sloppy kissers, especially younger men. Lucien was only twenty-two, but because he was the emperor, he’d probably been with a hundred women or more. His experience showed.

His hand slipped behind her neck, seeking skin, and she found herself worming deeper into his grasp. Gods, he was delicious. Her flesh prickled at his touch. A spike of heat and pleasure stabbed through her and settled in her groin, where it slowly spread.
Pox, pox, pox.
She’d let herself get attracted to her target. This was not good.

I hate this man. I hate him. I hate him.
If she repeated it enough times, she might just get her body’s ridiculous reaction under control.

Lucien released her. “Are you all right? You’re tensing up.”

“Yes. Oh yes,” she said breathlessly. “It’s just . . .” She turned to the bodyguard, who was staring at them, expressionless. Gods, this must be all in a day’s work for him.

Lucien chuckled. “You don’t like an audience.”

Vitala nodded, her face heating.

“I’m used to Septian, but I can see how you wouldn’t be.” He shrugged. “We can do this later. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, later,” she said. “When I can have you all to myself.”

Lucien grinned. “When we reach the campsite, you shall have me all to yourself. But do me a favor between now and then.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell me everything you know about the Cartasian Defense. Because if you don’t change the subject fast, I’m going to have a cockstand all the way.”

She laughed. The Cartasian Defense it was.

•   •   •

It was not long before Vitala learned Bayard had spoken the truth. She was rapidly becoming less fond of him and coming to dread her sessions with him in the training room.

Bayard crashed through her guard, spun around her, and with the flat of his wooden sword, delivered a stinging blow across her rear end. Vitala gasped in surprise and pain.

“Where was your defense?” he demanded.

Vitala stared at him.

“Don’t stand there like an idiot.” Bayard raised his weapon. “Inside guard. Now.”

She braced herself for the attack.

“Stance, Vitala! Look at your feet.”

Oops—she’d forgotten. Inside guard required a reverse stance, leading with the opposite leg. The moment she swapped the positions of her legs, Bayard rushed her. She parried his attacks, twisting and turning, but he drove her backwards. He swept her legs out from under her, and she crashed onto her tailbone.

“You’re smaller and weaker than me.” Bayard stood over her, waving his sword. “Can you afford to be slower, too?”

“I’m not that kind of assassin,” said Vitala. “I don’t kill with a sword.”

“Wrong answer.” Bayard hauled her up from the ground, delivering another stinging blow. “You’re targeting an imperial. He’s guarded by the Legaciatti, the finest warriors in Kjall. To handle a target that highly placed, you need to be every kind of assassin. You have no idea what’s going to happen, what you might have to be able to handle. Inside guard.”

Ignoring the pain as best she could, Vitala assumed the correct guard and stance.

“Faster this time,” said Bayard, “or you’re going to be sore tonight.”