Assassin's Gambit: The Hearts and Thrones Series (5 page)

6

A
t the campsite, servants collected poles and canvas panels from the baggage carts and began to erect the tents. Meanwhile, a fire mage coaxed some damp wood into a blaze, and a servant brought Vitala and Lucien mugs of steaming spiced wine.

“I could get used to this,” said Vitala as she sat on a cushioned seat and wrapped her hands around the hot mug.

“Could you?” said Lucien. “Because I’ve been thinking. I want someone like you on the imperial staff, to teach Caturanga. First to me, and later to my children.”

Vitala’s eyebrows rose. “Really? But you don’t have children.”

He shrugged. “Someday I will.”

“If you’re offering me a position in the palace, I’ll take it.” The wine was strong, especially on an empty stomach, but Vitala drank it, anyway. “Given this talk of children, are you planning an imperial wedding?”

“I have no immediate plans. But I must produce an heir, if only to take the pressure off Celeste, and that means finding a wife. I don’t want bastards.”

Vitala suppressed a wince. That stung, however unintentional the insult. He could not know she was a bastard. “I thought it was traditional for emperors to sire bastards.”

“If by
traditional
you mean commonly done, yes. But they foul up the succession. Did you know my great-grandfather was a bastard?”

“No.”

“He murdered his half brother, the rightful heir, and claimed the throne for himself. I suppose I should thank him for it; it’s because of him that I’m emperor. But it’s dangerous to have too many potential heirs. People start having fatal accidents.”

“Your father ended up needing all three of his heirs.”

Lucien smiled wryly and glanced, perhaps unconsciously, at his missing leg. “Only because he was a sapskull, sending me and my brothers to Riorca all at once, where the assassins had easy access to us. And, yes, I am offering you a position in the palace. I’ll confer with my advisors about payment, and they’ll present you with a formal offer when we get back.”

“Thank you, sire.” A job in the Imperial Palace! Now she had more time to carry out her mission, if for some reason she was unable to perform it on this trip. She sipped her wine and watched the workmen swarm over the campsite.

The site was a large, grassy field, which had clearly been used for this purpose before. Large, circular bare patches told the story of fires once laid, while holes in the ground marked the locations of former tent pegs. Lucien’s staff was raising tents, some of them small, others immense. Farther away, in a separate field, cavalrymen were untacking and airing their horses and putting them on hobbles to graze.

Remus approached them and bowed. “Sire.”

“Yes, Remus?” said Lucien.

“We’ve had another message from Tasox.” He glanced sidelong at Vitala.

Lucien sighed. “Very well. Is my tent up yet?”

“Partly, sire. It’s usable.”

“Miss Salonius.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “I’ll send for you later this evening.” He rose and limped across the field.

Vitala rubbed her arms and shivered, then scooted closer to the fire. She was glad to be rid of Lucien for a while. It was stressful being around him; she feared she would slip up and say the wrong thing. Gods, he’d offered her a job. A part of her was tempted to forget her mission entirely and just be the imperial Caturanga instructor.

Which was ridiculous. While she idled away her days in the palace, her people would be starved and massacred.

Still, what an opportunity to pass up. She needed another way to make a living. She’d thought her visions had stopped, but they hadn’t. The door guard had triggered one simply by resembling the young soldier who was the subject of her nightmares. Lucien resembled him too, just not as closely. It was sheer luck that only the door guard triggered her visions, and not Lucien himself.

She wasn’t the first Obsidian Circle assassin to experience visions, and she wouldn’t be the last. But the others had all been removed from field duty. It could strike at any time; it made an assassin unreliable. And who could replace her? No one, not even Ista. No one else could gain intimate access to Lucien. She’d kept her problem quiet and spared her handlers from making a decision they wouldn’t want to make.

Maybe after she killed Lucien, she would tell Bayard. But it seemed a shame. She had only one official kill, not counting the practice ones, while Ista had nine. At least Lucien would be a spectacular kill; an emperor was a more impressive target than the minor government officials and military officers Ista had gone after. Perhaps afterward she could step down and take a service role. Weapons trainer or something.

She sniffed. Gods, who was she kidding? She’d be lucky if she got out of this alive.

•   •   •

“It’s all right, Vitala,” soothed Bayard. “He can’t hurt you.”

Vitala stepped closer. Of course the soldier couldn’t hurt her. He was tied to a chair. He strained at the loops of rope pinioning his limbs, but he couldn’t break them. Since he was gagged, he couldn’t even hurl insults at her.

He certainly wanted to hurl insults. He was sweating and red faced, his eyes bulging with hatred as he watched her approach.

She broke one of her contact points. A Shard materialized from the Rift, and she caught the tiny bit of obsidian neatly between her fingertips. What had happened to the man’s comrade? There’d been two of them originally, a pair of unwise Kjallans who’d blundered into the enclave’s sentries.

The soldier’s chin jerked—he was trying to spit at her. Ineffective, since he was gagged. Poor man.

Bayard’s voice grew sharp. “Do it, Vitala. No more stalling. You need me to give you some extra motivation?”

She gave Bayard a look of disgust. Then she jabbed the Shard into the soldier’s throat.

•   •   •

Lucien’s tent was a near replica of his rooms at home, with a sitting room up front, a door that led presumably to a bedroom, and furniture laid out in almost the same configuration. The bookcases and the magicked Caturanga set were missing, as were the wall hangings and the windows that overlooked the palace grounds, but a different Caturanga set sat on a table in the same spot—one of carved agate, similar to the one he’d given her.

Lucien limped across the room. The guards who’d escorted her filtered out of the tent, leaving only Septian, who lurked quietly near the door. She hoped he would stay there and not follow them into the bedroom.

“I’ve been thinking about you all afternoon,” said Lucien.

She smiled. “Weren’t you supposed to be thinking about Tasox?”

“Tasox—what’s that?” He winked, then followed her gaze to the Caturanga set. “Would you like a game?”

Her mouth quirked. “Would you?”

“Gods, no. How about dinner? Are you hungry?” He gestured toward a covered tray that sat on a table.

She hadn’t eaten since midday, but she feared she might throw up if she ate now. She forced a smile. “Actually, I’m feeling rather vulnerable right now. Too much Vagabond influence on the board, and my Principles are under threat.”

He chuckled. “Are they really?”

“And there’s only one answer to that. A bold move.” She went to him.

He braced himself on his crutch to receive her. “You make a decisive strike, indeed,” he murmured, and greedily took her mouth.

A decisive strike—if only he knew! She’d been a bundle of nerves all afternoon, stiff and anxious about the task that lay ahead, but now, in the warmth of Lucien’s embrace, she felt herself relax. Lucien did not close his eyes when he kissed; rather, his dark eyes studied her, calculating. It was a little disconcerting to think that this time he wasn’t analyzing the Caturanga board; he was analyzing
her
. And yet it pleased her to be, at this moment, the center of his universe.

She barely noticed when his tongue entered her mouth. He’d been teasing her with it, and now he took liberties. A delicious tingle ran through her, and she pressed herself closer to him, suddenly wishing the clothes were not a barrier between them—wouldn’t his flesh feel lovely against hers? A soft sound purred from her throat, entirely unbidden. She wanted to devour him. She pushed a little too hard, and he stumbled backward.

She helped catch him.

“Careful,” he chided.

His face was flushed, his eyes liquid with desire. “I’m not too solid upright. Shall we . . . ?” He gestured toward the bedroom door.

She nodded.

“I’d carry you, but . . .” He shrugged.

She giggled, feeling like she’d had too much to drink. Some distant part of her marveled at her absurd behavior. He had stumbled, but she was the one who was off balance. What was it about this man that her body responded to with such enthusiasm?

He’s a tyrant. You hate him.

Her body wasn’t listening.

He led her to the heavy leather tent panel that served as a bedroom door. He unfastened the panel, drew it aside for them to step through, and closed it behind them. Septian did not accompany them, thank the gods. However, the leather panel, thick at it was, would not muffle sound very well. She hoped it would not be an issue. If she did this right, there would be no struggle. And if there was a struggle, the bodyguard might still mistake the sounds of violence for lovemaking.

Lucien pulled her across the floor to the bed. She had a brief glimpse of blue and gold—the color of his bedsheets—and then his crutch was on the floor and he was on all fours atop her, kissing her and tugging at the belt of her syrtos. Upright, he’d been clumsy, but on the bed he was agile as a brindlecat. In an excess of enthusiasm, he nipped her lower lip, and she gave a surprised yelp of pain.

“Sorry,” he breathed. “Am I going too fast? It’s just . . . gods, Vitala. I want you so much.”

“Not too fast,” she assured him. Really, the faster, the better. She started to help him with her syrtos, then realized she would be disappointed if he made love to her with most of his clothes on. She wanted to see him,
all
of him, before she committed the atrocity of killing him. She yanked him down onto the bed and climbed over him, reversing their positions. He was stronger than she, but he yielded, looking up at her in curiosity. “I want to see you,” she explained, and wondered how best to remove his clothes.

He was still wearing the glittering imperial loros. It was a precious thing, a Kjallan relic, and she hesitated to touch it. Her hands moved toward it, then retreated.

“I’ll do that,” he said. He lifted the loros over his head, folded it carefully, and set it on the bedside table. He also removed his wooden leg, unbuckling a couple of leather straps that secured it in place, and set the device on the floor. Then he lay back, submitting to her once again.

She sat atop him, mesmerized. She could stare at his face all day. It was a study in contrasts—pale skin, black hair, and reddened, kiss-bitten lips. Those cheekbones—what god had gifted him with those? She touched a single finger to his cheek and traced a line down to his chin and the soft flesh of his neck. The lump in his throat bobbed, and his pulse fluttered. His dark eyes followed her, intent.

She began disrobing him, slowly and methodically, first untangling the knots of his two belts. She pushed the syrtos back, exposing his neck and chest. There was his riftstone on its chain—the yellow topaz of a war mage. That stone was the reason she had to seduce him. Any other mage, or a nonmage, she could have killed more simply.

She wanted to touch it, but she knew better. Mages guarded their riftstones more jealously than they guarded their privates.

She continued undressing him. He lay tame under her ministrations, but a muscle jumped in his arms; he was struggling to remain still. She exposed his nether regions and found him erect and ready. But the sight of a hard cock was nothing new to her; she was more curious about his leg, the missing one.

He swallowed. “Go on and look. It’s all right.”

She peeled back the last bit of his syrtos. The stump of his left leg extended just a few inches below the knee. It was misshapen and ugly, mottled with red marks where the artificial leg and its straps had irritated it. She ran her hand over the area, and he winced.

She pulled her hand away. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said. “It’s just sensitive. Touch it if you like.”

Her curiosity satisfied, she sat back up, looking over the whole of him. Except for the leg, he was a fine-looking man. Though he was not large in build, his body was hard and wiry and surprisingly well muscled. She wondered how that could be, given that the missing leg limited his exercise. Perhaps it was a gift of his war magic.

“Enough of you staring at me,” he growled. His hands moved, almost faster than the eye could see, and her world flipped upside down. She was on her back again, and Lucien atop her. She marveled at his strength, but after a moment’s reflection, she knew it shouldn’t surprise her. Those were the war mage’s talents—preternatural strength and speed. Along with the most dangerous ability of all, the gift of anticipation. A war mage could sense any attack before it came. To get past a war mage’s defenses, one had to distract him to the point that he was oblivious to the outside world.

He began tugging off her syrtos, occasionally pausing to kiss her roughly, as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted most—to look at her or devour her.

In less than a minute, she was naked on the bed. He looked her over, his eyes clouded with desire. “Gods, Vitala.” He swallowed. “What do you like? What do you want?”

“You,” she purred. “In me.”

He paused, considering. Then he grinned. “No.” He lowered his mouth to her nipple and did something with his tongue. She gasped. Her whole body contracted and she shuddered in sudden, intense pleasure.

He chuckled. “I think you like that.”

“Lucien—”

“Shh.” He worked her with hands and tongue, stroking and tasting. She writhed, utterly out of control, half-terrified at what was happening to her, half-consumed with yearning. She wanted him to stop. She wanted more. Lucien’s hands moved farther south. “How about this?” he whispered. Her body shuddered again, and an involuntary moan escaped her. He’d touched her gently, ever so gently, yet the effect was profound. She was thoroughly wet down there.