Assassin's Bond (Chains of Honor, Book 3), Page 2

  Why did you come down to get me? Jhali asked, changing the subject—or ignoring it. On your mother’s ship.

  I knew you were locked in the brig and couldn’t get out.

  So what? We are enemies, Yanko White Fox.

  So you say, but I didn’t sign up to be anyone’s enemy, and even now, I have no desire to see you dead. He didn’t point out that he didn’t want to see anyone dead. He had been training to be a warrior mage because of his family, because they all expected it, not because he wished to pit himself against others in battle. His heart had always lain with the greenhouses and the gardens back home, the trails through the forest, the mushrooms one could pick, the berries one could gather. He liked being a part of the natural world and providing food for people. Was that not what men were meant to do? Why this insistence on war and killing? We have a common goal right now, he pushed on. I don’t see why we shouldn’t work together, even if it’s just for a day.

  You are right that I must return to Nuria, but I will escape on my own. You are my enemy because my sisters in the sect gave me the mission to kill you, and because Snake Heart is your mother, and she wronged me—my family. And finally, because you serve the Great Chief, a man who cares nothing for his people. There is too much between us for us to work together.

  Even temporarily?

  She did not answer, only shifting so that her back faced him, and he sensed her walling off her mind. The conversation was over.

  Shouts drifted down from above, and the guards began murmuring in Turgonian. On the hard floor of their cell, Lakeo and Arayevo stirred. Kei woke and squawked as the reverberations rumbling through the ship changed subtly.

  “What’s going on?” Lakeo muttered.

  Yanko couldn’t see through the porthole from his position, so he stretched out with his senses. He encountered an almost overwhelming number of human auras. A city of tens of thousands of people stretched along a shoreline ahead of the vessel.

  “We’ve arrived,” Yanko whispered.

  2

  More than an hour after the thrum of the ironclad’s engines had stopped reverberating through the deck, Yanko, Lakeo, Arayevo, and Jhali remained in their cells. Their guards also remained on duty. Yanko was starting to wonder if they’d been forgotten—a hopeful thought—when the hatch finally clanged open.

  Kei turned on his bar, ruffled his red and blue feathers, and squawked, “Dyku?”

  “Dyku?” Lakeo pushed a hand through her shaggy short hair, though it wasn’t clear if she meant to tidy it or leave it even more defiantly tousled.

  “I think that means biscuits,” Arayevo said. “In Turgonian. Maybe the cook has been feeding your bird, Yanko.”

  Yanko hadn’t met the cook on the ironclad, but going by the rest of the crew, he thought it more likely the man would have tried to throw Kei in the stewpot.

  “Dyku, dyku,” Kei said, raising one foot, then the other. “Jorrats, jorrats,” he added cheerfully.

  A squadron of tall, burly Turgonian soldiers—the only kind, as far as Yanko had seen—marched down with rifles in their arms and cudgels and cutlasses belted at their waists. At least twenty men filled the brig, so many it was almost laughable. It was certainly claustrophobic. They ignored the parrot’s chatter, which was good, since Kei was throwing racial slurs in with his request for biscuits. As usual.

  Yanko ran through the possible ways he might use his powers to distract the Turgonians so he could escape, but it wasn’t yet time. Right now, they would have to run through several corridors, up three flights of steps, and across the huge upper deck of the massive ship before they could leap to a pier filled with hundreds of people. Who knew how many of them would eagerly shoot someone trying to escape from a military ship? Yanko had never been to Turgonia, but he had a notion of an empire—yes, it called itself a republic now, but it had been an empire for centuries—full of people clad in warrior attire and bristling with weapons.

  “Yanko?” Lakeo nudged him as one of the soldiers unlocked Jhali’s door. She didn’t say anything else out loud but twitched her eyebrows.

  Yes? he asked telepathically.

  When are we making our move? Lakeo looked like she wanted to try now, or as soon as possible, even though she had only a few magical tricks to call upon. You can make a barrier to protect us if we run away, can’t you? Turgonian bullets shouldn’t be any harder to deflect than fireballs, right?

  Yanko offered a noncommittal, Hm.

  He had deflected fireballs before, channeling the air into a wall too dense for them to penetrate, but that had been while he’d stood stationary at the railing of a ship. Magic took concentration, and he wasn’t sure if he could concentrate that well with soldiers firing at them from all directions. There was a reason even warrior mages had bodyguards.

  I think the best opportunity will come when we’re in transit from here to wherever they intend to take us. He also shared the words with Arayevo, who nodded slightly at him. Her eyes weren’t as bright and perky as usual. For once, she did not seem to regard all this as a fun adventure. It should be easier for us to disappear within their city, among the crowds and buildings, he added.

  So I shouldn’t try to kick any Turgonians in the balls as we leave? Lakeo asked, glaring at the one who stepped forward to unlock their door.

  Well, I won’t be doing that, but you’ve rarely followed my example in matters of etiquette.

  No, because you’d apologize as you kicked someone, and then call them “honored enemy.”

  Perhaps.

  “Dyku?” Kei asked.

  The Turgonian with the keyring took a lazy swing at him. Kei squawked and sprang from his perch, flapping over their heads and out the hatchway at the top of the steps.

  Yanko curled his fingers into a fist. It had been a half-hearted swing, but he was tempted to punish the soldier for trying to hit the bird.

  But all sets of eyes were upon him. They expected him to use his magic, to fight them. This wasn’t the moment.

  “Out,” the guard said, backing up so Yanko and the others could squeeze into the crowded passage.

  Jhali was already out. She growled low in her throat as two soldiers gripped her.

  Chains clanked, and a man stepped forward with a set of shackles with wrist and ankle bindings. Jhali tensed and looked like she might struggle, but she ended up sighing. As talented as she was in combat, there were too many soldiers. She stood still as the shackles were locked onto her wrists and ankles with a chain that linked both sets together.

  Agree to work with us, and I can break those locks when the time comes, Yanko told her silently, figuring it was worth one last try.

  She glared over her shoulder at him.

  Soldiers came forward with three more sets of shackles, heavy, gray, and made from excellent Turgonian steel. Even though he knew he could break them with magic, Yanko had a hard time not feeling daunted as a man clasped the cold metal around his wrists and ankles.

  It was a further insult that he, unlike the others, had been stripped down to his smallclothes, since someone had recognized his mother’s robe as something Made that increased his power. His perfectly normal, if dirty and ripped tunic, had no such power, but they had also taken that. Thus, the shackles felt icy against his bare flesh.

  “They’re not very fashionable, are they?” Lakeo glowered as she and Arayevo were also bound.

  The guards surrounded them and ushered them up the steps, their grips firm and professional. As always. Yanko had always imagined the warmongering Turgonians as being cruel and sadistic as well as obsessively militaristic—he’d heard countless childhood stories that lent credence to the notion—but only that latter word seemed a fair descriptor for the men on the ship.

  Oh, they weren’t friendly—the word humorless came to mind often—but they hadn’t mistreated him or the women, and given Arayevo’s appealing beauty, Yanko had worried she would be harassed. Even Jhali, underneath that flinty demeanor, was an attractive woman. Lakeo… well, sh
e was handsome, he supposed, when she managed not to look sarcastic and unapproachable.

  He squinted when they reached the main deck, the morning sun gleaming off the steel railings. He didn’t see Kei anywhere. Maybe the parrot had gone down to the galley in search of those biscuits.

  Yanko squinted inland, trying to guess what port city this was. Not easy since he only knew Turgonia from books and maps. Judging by the position of the sun and the balmy temperature, they had to be toward the southern end of the nation’s western coast. That probably made this Port Morgrant, which stretched along the Bay of Blood.

  Fleet Admiral Ravencrest waited on deck near the ship’s gangplank as the guards led their prisoners toward him. Dak stood next to the admiral, wearing a uniform without insignia, and Yanko tried to catch his gaze. It didn’t work.

  Dak wasn’t in shackles, but he also didn’t carry his usual panoply of weapons. His face was stony as he looked out over the city. Irked.

  True, Dak always looked irked—the side effect of a couple of scars, a nose that had been broken several times, and knotted scar tissue where he’d lost one of his eyes—but his expression was more pronounced at the moment. That probably meant his loyalty was still in question, and his career still in jeopardy.

  The soldier gripping Yanko by the back of the arm stopped a few paces from the admiral.

  Ravencrest looked toward the long articulating gangplank that descended almost twenty feet from the huge ironclad to the pier. Was he waiting for someone?

  Yanko wondered if he could manipulate the man the way Sun Dragon had. He had been trying to practice his magic surreptitiously in his cell, especially the mind mage tricks that he’d first learned about in Senshoth’s book, but did he dare attempt them for real? Maybe if he spoke to the admiral, he could figure out how amenable he would be to suggestions without risking being caught using magic.

  “Excuse me, Honored Admiral,” Yanko said in Nurian, drawing the man’s eye. “Where are we to be taken?”

  Ravencrest looked to Dak for a translation. Dak provided it with a few terse words. Ravencrest nodded at him. Did Dak already know the answer?

  “Imperial Intelligence has a headquarters in town,” Dak said. Apparently, it hadn’t been renamed when the empire turned into a republic. “We’re all taking a trip there.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to take us to the Nurian consulate and let our people deal with us?” Yanko doubted he could change the admiral’s mind through a translator, so he mostly asked in the hope of finding out if there was a Nurian consulate.

  “You’re to be questioned by our people first,” Dak said.

  “Won’t that be fun?” Lakeo muttered.

  Arayevo gazed out toward the harbor, scanning the dozens of ships in port. Hoping to see Captain Minark and his vessel so she could be reunited with her former employer? It would be utter luck, or the will of the gods, if Minark were here after abandoning Yanko, Arayevo, and the others on that island. Yanko couldn’t imagine wanting to reunite with him, regardless.

  “Imperial Intelligence.” Yanko looked at Dak instead of the admiral. “Isn’t that the military division you work for?”

  “Yes, but I’m to be questioned too,” he said. “As you’ll recall, defending you and attacking Ambassador Sun Dragon’s attaché—” his eyebrow twitched as he glanced at Jhali, “—has cast aspersions on my name.”

  Yanko almost choked on the word attaché. “If Sun Dragon was an ambassador, then I’m the Great Chief.”

  “I suspect my people will be interviewing cooperative members of the Nurian consulate in regard to his claims and checking them against our stories,” Dak said. “Just answer honestly and don’t make trouble. My people shouldn’t have a reason to harm or keep you if you don’t give them one. In a few weeks, you’ll likely be handed over to your consulate, and it’ll be up to them to determine your fate.”

  Not only was that entirely too long—the Turgonians could send reports to their capital city and organize a fleet to sail back to the new continent by then—but Yanko had no idea how safe he would find his own consulate after a few weeks. By then, the Nurian consul could have sent questions back to the homeland and received unflattering answers about what Yanko had been up to as he tried to fulfill Prince Zirabo’s wishes. Unfortunately, Yanko had lost the letter that proved he was working for the prince. He needed to get on a ship to sail home immediately.

  “Don’t make trouble, Yanko,” Dak said, his voice low. “Especially not for those escorting you. Some of the soldiers here would prefer it if you didn’t make it to your consulate. I’ve had a hard time convincing the admiral that you weren’t the one who tried to blow up the engine room. Several people saw Sun Dragon throw the lodestone, as he was expected to do, and you attacking him.”

  “I thought you weren’t helping me or giving me advice anymore, Dak,” Yanko said, doing his best not to avoid his gaze. He didn’t want Dak to know that attacking his escort—or at least arranging a distraction that he could exploit—was exactly what he had in mind.

  The admiral said something curt. Probably telling Dak to wrap it up, that he was incriminating himself by chatting with Yanko.

  Dak sighed. “I’m not. But I’d like to hear someday that you found your way home without getting killed.”

  Yanko thought about pointing out that his home had been burned down, and he had no idea if any of his family were even alive, but it seemed impolite not to be gracious and accept Dak’s sentiment. “Thank you. I hope your career will survive having made my acquaintance.”

  “As do I,” Dak said dryly.

  A twinge of sadness went through Yanko at the idea that he might not see Dak again if he succeeded in escaping. He’d spent his entire life feeling like a disappointment to his father, and his father had always been quick to let that disappointment show. Even if Dak was a surly Turgonian, he’d supported Yanko when he could, and had never seemed to judge him.

  A new group of soldiers clomped up the gangplank and onto the deck, six men in crisp black Turgonian military fatigues. They marched in a tidy squad, one after the other, backs straight and chins up, but the leader’s step faltered when he saw Dak, and the man behind him almost bumped into him. Dak’s mouth twisted, but Admiral Ravencrest was the one to address the newcomers. He spoke, pointing at Yanko several times.

  “You’ve definitely established yourself as the dangerous one in our group,” Arayevo murmured.

  “How unprecedented.” Yanko glanced at Jhali—surely, she was far more dangerous than he. He might have talents that she couldn’t claim, but she was willing to use her talents to kill.

  Jhali stood back, watching everything and saying nothing.

  The lead soldier responded with a, “Yes, sir,”—that much Yanko could translate—and approached their little group.

  Yanko twitched in surprise, because a sense of magic lurked about the man. A Made item?

  Back home, such a thing would have been normal for a soldier to have, but here? In magic-fearing Turgonia? He hadn’t sensed anything on the entire ironclad, except the scimitar that Sun Dragon had dropped before being flung overboard.

  The soldier saluted Dak, turning to include Ravencrest in the gesture. Dak saluted back, said one word, and nodded at the soldier’s uniform. Or maybe his pocket? The soldier nodded back and withdrew a headband with a red disc attached to the front. Yanko had no idea what it did, but he recognized it as the Made item.

  He was considering poking into the soldier’s thoughts, to see if he could get a sense for what he believed the device would do, when the man stepped around behind Yanko and tugged the headband over his topknot. He yanked it down to his ears and cinched it tight. The strap had a rubbery consistency that dug in. Yanko could have pulled it off if his hands had been free, but he doubted he would be able to shake it off without them.

  “What’s this?” Yanko struggled for calm, though icy fear stampeded into his belly. Was this some artifact that would zap him if he drew upon his
powers?

  Dak watched him intently. As did Ravencrest and the lead soldier. As if they were waiting to see if their gizmo worked.

  Yanko licked his lips. He was tempted to do absolutely nothing, but curiosity wouldn’t let him ignore the headband. He had to know what it did.

  He tried to reach out with his mind to get a sense of the world around him, the auras of the people on the ironclad and the sea life swimming underneath it. But he couldn’t sense anything. His ears could hear, and he could feel the sun beating against his bare chest, but he wasn’t able to draw upon his mental powers. The fear in his belly intensified, queasiness now mingling with it as the ramifications struck him like a mallet battering a gong.

  Aware of all the eyes upon him—Jhali, Arayevo, and Lakeo were peering curiously at him, right along with all the Turgonians—Yanko did his best to keep that fear from showing on his face. He didn’t want the Turgonians to believe that they’d won, even though he couldn’t now envision an escape. All of his plans had been devised under the assumption that he would have his powers.

  “Interesting,” Yanko said blandly to the onlookers. “Kyattese?”

  It was a guess. He’d never heard of his own people making a device that could nullify a mage’s ability to call upon his magic. Given that all of the people in power in Nuria relied upon their mental gifts, it was hard to imagine them endorsing this…. eunuch maker.

  “Kyattese,” Dak agreed.

  “And here I didn’t think the Turgonians would touch anything magical.” Yanko tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. And the panic too. It felt like someone was choking him, cutting off his air supply so he couldn’t breathe.

  “Imperial Intelligence is full of practical men.” Dak nodded at the soldier who’d brought the device.

  He hadn’t been the one to suggest this, had he? Dak, Yanko recalled, had never been alarmed by the idea of magic being used around him. Practical men, indeed.