Chapter 8
A locomotive roared through town, rattling barred windows, and kicking up a newspaper that skidded across the icy street to smack Amaranthe’s calf. She shook it off with a sheepish glance at Sicarius. Dressed all in black—again—he waited at the base of steps leading up to the Brookstar Tenements. Only his panoply of daggers and throwing knives broke the monochromatic look of his attire. Fate, she supposed, would never be so blasphemous as to pelt him with trash.
She adjusted the tight collar of her business suit. Where he had found the outfit, she did not know, but everything from the boots to gloves to the parka and fur cap fit reasonably well. And there were no grizzly bloodstains to suggest he had killed someone to get it. That was something, at least.
“I’m ready,” Amaranthe called over the chugging wheels of the locomotive.
Sicarius led the way up the cracked concrete steps. Black, textured mats covered the ice but did little to enhance the decor of the old brick building. At the door, Amaranthe paused to straighten a sign that promised the availability of rooms for monthly, weekly, nightly, or hourly usage.
Inside, they stopped before a desk manned by a plump grandmotherly woman. Forehead furrowed, she did not look up. An abacus rested on the desk, and she alternately flicked its wooden beads and scribbled figures in a ledger.
“Is Marl Mugdildor here?” Sicarius asked.
“No.”
“He may go by Books.”
The landlady regarded them for the first time. “Yes, are you relatives? Are you here to pay his bill?”
Amaranthe sighed. Sicarius’s acquaintance did not sound particularly reputable.
“No,” she said. “We have some business with him. Can you direct us to his room?”
The landlady eyed Sicarius with apprehension. “Books, he’s not a bad fellow, just had a rough time this past year. He doesn’t really deserve...” She cleared her throat and turned beseeching eyes toward Amaranthe, probably thinking they had come to collect on a loan.
Sicarius did have the icy demeanor of a debt collector. If only he were that benign, Amaranthe thought dryly.
“We aren’t going to hurt him,” she promised.
“He’s usually in the common room on the third floor.” The landlady scooted around the desk. “I’ll show you up.”
“Thank you,” Amaranthe said.
A threadbare carpet led them up two flights of stairs permeated with the scent of lye, which did not quite overpower the underlying urine stench. At the end of the hall, the landlady stopped before a door and held up a finger.
“Let me just straighten him, er, the room up.” She shuffled inside, shutting the door part way behind her.
For a moment, Amaranthe thought the lady meant to warn Books that someone was looking for him and that he should run, but exasperated words soon tumbled out, eliminating the concern.
“Books? Wake up, there’s a pretty young lady here to see you. Are you drunk already? Here, comb your fingers through that, that, why can’t you find someone to give you a haircut? And a shave? And, gah, why don’t you use the baths? Give me that bottle. It’s too early to be drinking. By the emperor’s teeth, why don’t you do something with yourself? You owe me three months back rent. Straighten up. You’re slouching like a—”
“Leave me be, you meddling shrew!” The male speaker, voice raspy from disuse, sounded hung over.
Amaranthe put her hand over her face and shook her head. She looked at Sicarius through her fingers. As usual, his expression was unreadable.
Maybe this was a test. If she couldn’t get this Books to help them, Sicarius would know she wouldn’t be able to deliver on her other promises either. If that was true, she had better win this fellow to their cause.
She lifted her chin and pushed the door open, entering even as the landlady was on the way out. Arms laden with wine bottles, crusty food plates, and newspapers, she wore a harassed expression but struggled to smile for Amaranthe.
“All yours,” the landlady said, as if she had done some great favor in “straightening” Books for his guest. If anything, the man would be harder than ever to talk to after that nagging session.
“Thank you,” Amaranthe said anyway and plucked a half-full bottle off the top of the passing stack.
Inside a spacious common room, three men sat near a clean but cracked window, chortling in the aftermath of the landlady’s ire. A game of green Strat Tiles sprawled over their table like creeping ivy. A young fellow with the mien of a university student sat reading near another window. When Amaranthe saw the textbooks on mathematics and engineering stacked next to him, she sighed wistfully. Why couldn’t this have been Sicarius’s acquaintance?
In the darkest corner of the room, in a faded floral chair, sat an unkempt man with gray peppering his bushy beard and scraggily black hair. He glared at Amaranthe, or maybe just at the door in general. Wine stained his shirt in multiple places.
When Sicarius glided in, the man’s brown eyes bulged.
“Dark Vengeful Emperor!”
“That’s not the name he gave me,” Amaranthe said with a smile, “but details aren’t important.”
The man hunkered deeper in the chair.
Sicarius cleared his throat. The gamers and the student looked at him.
“Leave us,” he said.
Amaranthe was glad the cold voice was not directed at her. The four men considered him, and the small armory he wore, for only a second before obeying.
Making no effort to greet—or even acknowledge—Books, Sicarius walked over to a window overlooking the street. It seemed Amaranthe was on her own.
She strolled closer to Books, forcing herself to keep the smile, despite the miasma of alcohol and unwashed armpits clinging to him. His gaze latched onto the bottle she had purloined from the landlady.
“I’m Amaranthe,” she said. “Do you have a few minutes? I could use your advice.”
His mouth sagged open. He made a show of sticking his finger in his ear, cleaning it out, and turning it toward her. “You’re a woman, and you want my advice? You don’t want to give me advice?”
She wondered how many tirades he had suffered from the landlady and felt a sympathetic twinge. “What would I advise you on? I’m sure you can handle your own problems.”
“Then by all means, join me.”
“Marl Mugdildor, right?” She deposited the wine bottle in his lap, dragged over a lumpy chair, and placed it closer to him than her nose suggested wise. “Or do you prefer Books?”
He seemed surprised to have his bottle returned. “I prefer Marl, but precaution necessitated the assumption of that dubious sobriquet.” He took a swig of wine.
Given his sobriety level, Amaranthe was surprised he had made it through that tangle of words without stumbling. She supposed with a nickname like ‘Books,’ he must be a librarian or a teacher.
“Not that it matters. I don’t care if they find me or not anymore.” He held out the bottle, offering her a drink.
“You’re being chased too?” She accepted the bottle and, doubting he would be impressed if she went and found glasses, took a sip. The wine was as mellow as a steam hammer, but she held back her grimace. She caught Sicarius glancing her way and felt a self-conscious stab. Yes, I’m sharing a drink with someone in the middle of the morning. Go back to watching out the window for enforcers.
“Probably not any more. I don’t know.” Books’s bleary eyes focused on her. “Too?”
Amaranthe debated what to tell him. If enforcers were chasing him, he might not appreciate her occupation—former occupation—but if he found something similar in their stories, it could only help establish a rapport. “I’m not actually sure anyone is chasing me yet. If I’m lucky, they think I’m dead. But somehow I doubt Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest—”
“Hollowcrest!” Books sat up straight. “That murdering bastard!”
“Er, yes,” Amaranthe said, “that was his intent for me. He tried to kill you?” What could an academic have done to earn Hollowcrest’s ire? She almost snorted. What had she done?
Books slumped back in the chair, accepting the bottle when she passed it to him. “He had enforcers kill my son.”
“What? Enforcers wouldn’t kill a boy. They—”
“I’m not lying!” He clenched the chair arms, knuckles white. Almost immediately the anger turned to anguish and his face contorted with grief. “Why would anyone lie about...?”
For a moment, Amaranthe was too dumbfounded to respond. Enforcers had murdered a child? Even under Hollowcrest’s orders, they should never have done something so horrible. Some orders could not be followed.
No? Maybe they were hoping for promotions.
Amaranthe snapped at her too-frank conscience. She was different. I’m different. Still, the comparison was unsettling.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can see you’re telling the truth.”
Books didn’t relax, but his voice returned to a less agitated register. “The enforcers do whatever Hollowcrest wants. My son, Enis, was only fourteen. He was so excited to earn a summer job working at the newspaper. He wanted to prove he could do more than run the presses. He set out to find stories, but he was...a little too good at investigating.” Books sighed and looked over her head, eyes distant. “He saw Hollowcrest and his flunkies murder a Nurian diplomat. He ran back to me at work, but they’d seen him, and I didn’t get him to safety in time. It’s all my fault. If I’d believed him right away...” Books drained the rest of the bottle. “The enforcers cut him down in the courtyard below my office window. I screamed, and they saw me. I should have just stayed there, let them finish me. What was left after that? My wife left years ago.” He picked at a thread on the chair arm. “But, coward that I am, I ran.”
Amaranthe wondered how many times Books had sat here reliving those moments. Maybe the alcohol let him forget sometimes.
“Six enforcers chased me out of the city and into the Emperor’s Preserve. They were younger, faster, and they were about to catch me when I ran into...” Books looked at Sicarius, who had moved to another window, checking a different street, and did not look back.
Amaranthe shifted in her chair. This story sounded familiar. Last summer, she remembered hearing about a squad of enforcers who had been found murdered outside the city. The killer had not been identified.
“We’d met the day before, you see,” Books continued. “When everything was still normal in my life. He was in the library researching some artifact I later found out he’d been hired to retrieve. I walked up to see if I could help him, told him I was a history professor, and—” Books glanced at Sicarius again and lowered his voice, “—he just stared at me, and I swear he was thinking about killing me just for daring talk to him.”
Sicarius, whether curious about something he had seen outside or just aware he was crimping story hour, chose that moment to walk out of the room.
Books lunged forward and startled Amaranthe by grabbing her arm. “What are you doing with him? Do you have a death wish?”
The concern on the older man’s face surprised her, and she kept herself from pulling away.
“We have an agreement,” she said. “He’s helping me to protect the emperor and maybe get Hollowcrest out of power.”
“He is not helping you. If he hasn’t killed you yet, it’s because you’re helping him.”
“What happened in the preserve?”
“He was camped there and saw me run in. Apparently, he had a use for a history professor in his research after all. He decided to haul me all over the satrapy to help with his assignment.”
“What happened to the enforcers?” She shouldn’t ask. It would be better not to know for sure, but she supposed she already did.
“Oh, he killed them. Six men in about six seconds. Maybe ten because the last one had time to get down on his knees and beg for his life, which earned him a dagger in the eye.”
“I see.” Amaranthe sat back in her own chair, and Books released her arm. She clasped her hands in her lap as she struggled for detachment. It’s not as if you didn’t know what he is.
“He says he never leaves enemies behind, and I got to see more evidence of that on our little adventure.”
“He did save your life,” Amaranthe said. “And he let you live afterward.”
“Because I was useful to him, and I wasn’t a threat. Don’t think we walked away friends. I was trying to mourn the loss of my son—actually I was thinking about killing myself—and he didn’t care, not one iota. In the end... Never mind. Just, listen to me on this: don’t ever let him think you’re a threat.”
“I understand. Thank you.” Amaranthe drew in a deep breath. She had meant to get Books sympathizing with her, not the other way around.
“What advice did you want?” he asked.
She shared the last week’s events, glossing over Sicarius’s role and her suppositions about him. She finished by explaining her counterfeiting scheme.
Books stared at her a while before speaking. Remembering Sicarius’s similar pregnant pause, she wondered if she should be worried that her plans stunned men to silence.
“While I suspect a female enforcer is indeed the perfect person to research an underground business coalition, I don’t see how you can possibly start a counterfeiting operation in two weeks. It’s not something you saw done in your years as an enforcer, is it?”
Sicarius returned to the room and his self-appointed observation post at the window.
“No,” Amaranthe said. “I thought there might be a historical precedent you’d know about.”
“It has been attempted numerous times in the empire and even more often in the desert city-states. Elsewhere, gold and silver coinage is preferred over paper money, which is more susceptible to clipping than forgery. In any instance, counterfeiting is a huge liability for all governments, and they squash startups quickly. It has, however, been successful in the short term for various criminals seeking to enrich themselves and for governments seeking to undermine enemy nations. It’s not so much that your plan doesn’t have merit; it’s that it would take months to set up. The paper ranmyas are printed on is a proprietary blend of hemp and pulp, and it’s not something you can buy. And let’s talk about crafting the plates themselves. Do you know a crooked engraver who will help?”
“See—” Amaranthe was more delighted than chagrinned at his logic, “—I knew you could help. You’ve already thought of more than I had. You’re perfect.”
Books snorted, but a smile peeked through that overgrown beard, and something more.... Pleasure at being needed again? Maybe that was it.
“Your points are valid,” she said, “but, remember, we don’t have to successfully print billions of ranmyas and pass them to all the storekeepers of the city. We just have to make some convincing-on-the-surface copies, enough to concern Hollowcrest and Forge and bring them together to deal.”
“We?” Books rubbed his lips. “Are you here for my advice or to enlist my aid?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“I see. Well, this is the least tedious chat I’ve had in a long time, and I could use a distraction.” His eyes flickered toward the bottle. “It’s clear you desperately need my help.”
“Desperately,” Amaranthe agreed. “And then there’s that landlady who’s on the verge of kicking you out.”
“Indeed. I suppose payment will be in counterfeits?”
She coughed. “Well, I wasn’t planning to circulate any of the bills. I do have a few scruples left.”
“So, no payment at all?”
“I can promise you a place to sleep and food to eat.” Actually, she couldn’t yet, but she would figure out a way to make it happen. “Think about it.” She stood and dragged the chair back to its original location, identifiable by the lighter, stain-free square of carpet. “If you decide to come, you can find us at the icehouse on Fourth and Wharf Street in the morning.”
“Wharf Street? Didn’t something just happen down there?” Books peered about. “Drat, that nag took my papers.”
“Nothing to do with our mission.” She hoped.
After a farewell wave, she trailed Sicarius into the hallway. Outside the building, gray clouds had thickened, blanketing the city. The breeze smelled of snow, and Amaranthe pulled her parka tight.
She glanced at Sicarius. “What do you think? Any chance he’ll come?”
“Perhaps. You found his vulnerabilities and exploited them.”
Amaranthe winced. Was that what it seemed like to him? How could she relate to someone who saw everything as a battlefield?
An intrepid bicycle delivery boy skidded out from a narrow street, tires rasping on sanded concrete. He cut across their path, daring icy roads for his employer. A tower of crates strapped down with cords tottered behind him. Amaranthe wished she had a bicycle so she could move around the city without having to walk. She had not fully recovered from her illness and likely would not for several days.
“I’m going to look for more recruits,” she said. “Could you find us a place to set up our operation? We’ll need more room than the packed icehouse provides, and I’m not convinced someone won’t walk in to check on the stores before we finish. Also—” she fished out a scrap of paper she had written on that morning, “—this is my address. For obvious reasons, I’d be stupid to show up there, but perhaps you could slip in undetected at some point. There’s a box under a loose floorboard between the bed and the wall. There’s about a thousand ranmyas in it.” Along with some sentimental mementos she hoped Sicarius wouldn’t poke through. “I’m hoping it’ll be enough to buy a used press, paper, and ink.” She supposed stealing paper and ink would be possible but a printing press?
Sicarius accepted the address and left without a word.
Amaranthe waited until he disappeared around a corner, then she leaned against the nearest wall. She had only been awake a couple of hours, but exhaustion dragged at her. The only thing worse than being weak was being seen being weak. She wanted Sicarius to have confidence in her, not worry about her collapsing.
After resting for a few moments, she headed for the business district. Unemployed men and women often loitered outside shops, hoping to win a day’s work. Such folks might be converted to her cause.
A few blocks in, she turned a corner and almost collided with a pair of enforcers on patrol. Her heart lurching, she tried to keep the concern off her face. She nodded greetings to them and continued past. A few steps later, she glanced in a storefront window, pretending interest in a strop-and-razor kit. The enforcers had stopped and were staring at her. Did Hollowcrest already have the word out about her? Had he guessed Sicarius would find someone to heal her?
One man pointed at her. Great.
When she resumed walking, Amaranthe kept her pace normal. This wasn’t her old district, and the enforcers did not know her. They must only suspect her of matching a certain description, or they would have already arrested her.
She turned into an alley at the next corner. When she reached the other end, she turned again, glancing back the way she had come without moving her head. The two enforcers were entering the alley. Definitely following her.
Telling herself to stay calm, she eyed the passing storefronts, businesses, and eating houses. Due to gathering storm clouds, or just bad luck, little foot traffic harried the street. No chance of losing the enforcers in a crowd. If she ducked into a building and slipped out the back door, maybe she could elude them. She crossed the street and turned again at the next intersection.
A sign caught her eye: MALE ESCORTS.
Amaranthe darted into the establishment, suspecting her male followers would prove reluctant to step inside. With luck, they would search every other building on the street first.
Inside, a tall ceiling rose two stories and disappeared over the railing of a loft on the second floor. Several fine couches and overstuffed chairs welcomed visitors. Amaranthe, who was no more likely to visit such an establishment than the enforcers outside, half-expected men draped across the furniture. Only one person occupied the room, however, a handsome, impeccably dressed woman.
“Greetings, do you have an upcoming event that you require an escort for?”
Did blackmailing the most powerful man in the empire count as an event? Amaranthe resisted the urge to ignore the woman and hunt for a backdoor. If she plowed through, the proprietor would be suspicious, and likely volunteer information to the enforcers when they came in. If Amaranthe was a potential customer, though, the woman might be less inclined to point her out.
“Possibly,” Amaranthe said. “Do you have...” A list? A pamphlet? A room full of naked men lined up like pastries on the shelf at Curi’s Bakery? “How does it work?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re planning and I can suggest someone?” the woman said. “We have a wide variety of men available. Their fees vary depending on their popularity and skills. Some are just pretty faces, while others are experts in manners and etiquette appropriate for any occasion. If you need not only an escort but a bodyguard, we have several former military men available.”
As if waiting off-stage for this introduction, the most handsome man Amaranthe had ever seen strolled into the room. He was a foot taller than her, a couple of years older, broad of shoulder, and nicely muscular, as revealed by the lone piece of clothing he wore: a—was that fur?—loincloth. To fight reddening cheeks, she forced her attention to his face. Curly brown hair hung tied back from his neck, leaving a few wisps to frame prominent cheek bones and clean jaw. His warm brown eyes glinted with good humor.
After a flustered moment during which she could not remember her name or why she was there, Amaranthe’s mind shifted to calculation. She imagined the ink-and-paper purchasing trip she must soon go on. With her buying, the merchant would say, “Yes, that will be full price plus tax and a shelving fee.” With him buying, it would be, “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly charge you for these supplies, and are you available for dinner tonight, my treat?” That was probably an exaggeration, but with most of the business in the city handled by women, surely he could arrange hefty discounts simply by smiling.
“Costasce,” the man said to the proprietor, “you told me Lady Ludwist was a sophisticated woman from a warrior-caste family. You didn’t say she was five hundred years old.”
“Nonetheless, I notice you’re not returning from your evening’s duties until—” Costasce pulled out a pocket watch, “—10:30 the next morning. It couldn’t have been that unpleasant.”
The man appeared scandalized. He shuddered. “That old crone hung on to me like a starving titmouse grasping for the last piece of corn before winter, but I assure you there were no extra services performed. Not that she didn’t try to inveigle them out of me. After the harrowing experience, I chose to spend the night drinking myself into a state of amnesia.”
“Maldynado, go sit down. Can’t you see I’m doing business?”
“Sure, boss. I just thought you might like to show off some of the wares.”
With no sense of humility or embarrassment, Maldynado stuck a thumb in his loincloth and struck a pose that displayed...a lot. An easy-going smile and amused gleam in his eyes suggested he neither took himself seriously nor expected anyone else to.
“Oh, sit down,” the proprietor said, tone somewhere between exasperation and affection.
Maldynado offered the sort of sweeping bow the warrior caste had spent generations perfecting, then ambled across the room and flopped onto a sofa.
“What’s his story?” Amaranthe glanced toward the door as she spoke, torn between wanting to flee and wanting to recruit this Maldynado.
“Hm, eighth son in an old warrior caste family. Apparently, he refused to go to officer candidate school and join the military. He’s been loafing around on the family estate since. His parents disowned him, and he showed up here a few months ago. Despite being lazy, his looks have made him profitable.” The woman’s face took on a speculative cast as she studied Amaranthe. “He can put on good manners if the situation demands it, and he’s one of the top-ranked duelists in the city, if you have need for protection.”
“A fencing expert?” Amaranthe knew little about the sport dueling the warrior caste practiced, except that enlisted soldiers had little respect for it. A gentleman’s game or not, it was still an art that required years to master. Hardly the pedigree of a lazy man. “May I speak with him?”
“Of course.” The proprietor withdrew to give them privacy.
Amaranthe paused at a window to peer both directions down the street. She was just in time to see the two enforcers entering an alley that advertised several shops and cafes. Good, she had a few minutes.
She sat next to Maldynado. “I hear you’re a highly ranked swordsman.”
He smirked. “In more ways than one.”
Amaranthe resisted the urge to roll her eyes. With his looks, anything less than a gargantuan ego would have been shocking.
“Are you a gambling man, Lord Maldynado?” Amaranthe asked.
“Just Maldynado. I’ve been disowned, you know. What kind of gambling?”
“I have a comrade who is something of a fighter. What would you say to a contest?”
Maldynado’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not Jano or Kasowits, is it?”
“No.”
He relaxed and threw his arm over the back of the sofa. “Your friend prefer saber or rapier?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve actually never seen him fight.” Unless the time Sicarius had almost killed her counted.
“Ah.” The confident smirk twitched across Maldynado’s face again. “What did you want to wager on the outcome?”
“If my man wins, you will work for me for two weeks without pay, though I will see to it that you are fed and have a place to stay.”
“What kind of work?”
He was smarter than she had first guessed. Confident or not, he wanted the details before he committed himself. She leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered her voice.
“I confess, it’s slightly illegal, but you shouldn’t be in any danger. I just need help setting things up.”
Maldynado appeared more intrigued than appalled. But then, the warrior caste tended to think itself above the law. Besides, he was probably bored after spending the last couple months chaperoning old ladies around.
“Danger doesn’t scare me,” he said.
“I mean to help the emperor. I’ve recently found out he’s in trouble from his trusted advisors.”
Maldynado lifted his shoulder, apparently less interested by this addendum. “So, what do I get if I win?” A suggestive leer accompanied the question, but his innuendo failed to obtain a sinister note. The amused warmth never left his eyes.
“What do you want?”
“How about the same deal?” he suggested. “Your buddy loses, and you work for me for two weeks. Doing anything I say.”
“Agreed. Though my period of indenture could not begin until I finish my current work. After the emperor’s birthday.”
“What happens if you get caught?”
“That is a risk,” she said. More of one than she cared to admit.
“I want three weeks then.”
“Fair.”
“Dusk at the Scarbay Gymnasium,” Maldynado said. “I’ll arrange a judge. You and your pal just show up.”
“Agreed.” Amaranthe stood. “Oh, uhm, if any enforcers wander in, I wasn’t here.”
“Of course not.” Maldynado winked.
With his help, Amaranthe found a back exit out of the establishment. She eased through the alley, watching for enforcers. Though she did not see any, she decided a quick trolley ride out of the neighborhood was in order.
Her car rumbled beneath a clock tower as it tolled eleven. She had plenty of time to return and talk Sicarius into his evening bout. Since Books was no guarantee, she felt obligated to search for another worker.
She dared not return to the business district, so she let the car speed her toward the factories and warehouses along the waterfront. Before she reached the industrial area, she spotted a crowd gathered in a square near one of the stops. Raucous shouts and curses rose above the churning wheels of the trolley. Curious, she disembarked.
In the center of the throng, a young man stood locked into a pillory, wrists and neck bound by heavy timbers. Expletives flew through the air along with rotten apples. The freezing temperatures gave the fruit the authority of stones, as evinced by a number of bruises swelling on the man’s face. Hardly a man. Dressed in oversized clothing, he appeared no more than sixteen or seventeen. On one hand, he bore the circle-and-arrow brand of the Black Arrows. The last time she had seen the mark had been on one of the infected men in the dungeon. They could only be dead now, she thought darkly. Across the back of the prisoner’s shirt, someone had chalked WIZARD. That accounted for the flying fruit.
The gang brand on the young man’s hand almost made Amaranthe reject him without further consideration, but the clouds started unloading snow, and the c