Apparently his conscious attempts to stretch his mouth into a smile lacked an authenticity or, as she said, contained all the joy of someone gritting his teeth as he rode a steam hammer down a cobblestone street. Amaranthe informed him that his faint softening of his lips didn’t count. His mind lingered on the thought of his and Amaranthe’s leisure rather than the thought of mercenaries. For all he knew, one of the would-be emperors who had sought to replace Sespian on the throne had mercenaries stationed here, waiting for word to invade the mainland. They had traveled at a leisurely pace, but still made good time to this island. Sicarius and Amaranthe had left the day after the inauguration and had stopped only once along the way. Ferncrest Isle was a Turgonian holding and trouble should be unlikely here, but he did not know if news of the dissolution of the empire and the creation of the republic had made it to this remote, equatorial outpost yet. He and Amaranthe had already observed the port through the periscope, but he wanted a panoramic view before guiding the craft into the harbor. Sicarius crouched on the hull of the submarine, the open hatch at his back.
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