Chapter 9
When Amaranthe returned to the icehouse, she did not see Sicarius, but the mountains of frozen blocks hid a lot. Grinding machinery and yelling workers from neighboring buildings penetrated the walls. Inside, nothing stirred.
She padded around the perimeter of the building, her boots scattering sawdust. If Sicarius was sleeping down here, she saw no indication of it.
Her boots clanged on metal. She knelt to push aside sawdust, and the scent of cedar grew stronger. Beneath the wood chips, steel grates covered much of the floor. Many of them had hinges and handles. She unfastened one that was not barred with ice and peered inside the dark well. More ice. Ladders led down another fifteen feet to a massive chamber, where a single narrow corridor allowed access to the blocks. Packed with more insulation than the stacks above, the underground ice would probably last through the heat of the next summer.
She dropped the grate, turned around, and almost bumped into Sicarius.
He held out a familiar box. “Your flat is empty, and two enforcers are watching the building. This was still under the floorboards.”
They had taken all her belongings? Her furniture, her weapons, her books, all her treasures and mementos?
Amaranthe sighed and accepted the age-worn alder box. She traced the faded yellow canary painted on the lid. Her mother, whom she barely remembered, had made it for her father when he first started working in the mines. This is all that’s left of my parents and my past.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Amaranthe turned and took a few steps from Sicarius before lifting the lid. Her savings were still there, nestled next to an old but well-kept knife that had belonged to her grandfather. She removed both. She had never been able to wear the blade at work, since it was not enforcer-issue, but no one was around to set rules now. After a look at drawings of her parents and grandparents, she folded them and laid them to rest amongst running medals from the Junior Games, a marksmanship pin from the Academy, and silly treasures from her childhood.
“I located a fish cannery that’s not used in the winter.” Sicarius had moved to the stairs and laid out his weapons for cleaning. The tang of blade oil mingled with the aromatic cedar. “It has the prerequisite floor space, and there is little traffic on the street outside. We should not have to worry about someone hearing the creaking of the printing press.”
“It’ll have to wait for morning.” Amaranthe took a deep breath and faced him. “You have a duel this evening.”
“A what?”
“A duel. The recruit of one gentleman—” remembering the loincloth, Amaranthe almost choked over that title, “—is contingent on your besting him in a sword duel. I apologize for committing you without asking, but our time is limited.”
“I don’t duel.”
Amaranthe had expected refusal or reluctance but not that statement. She surveyed the array of weapons in front of him. Garrote. Dagger. Throwing Knives. Dagger. Utility knife. Serrated jackknife. No swords. A flash of panic clutched at her chest. What if he had never used one? Maldynado, her only near-sure thing, might poke a thousand holes into her assassin, and where would her mission be then?
“Surely,” Amaranthe said weakly, “you’ve some familiarity with swords.”
Sicarius finished sharpening a dagger. “I can use a sword. I do not know the rules of sport dueling or much about it.”
Great, neither did she. All she knew was that young members of the warrior caste found it fashionable as a means to acquire a scar or two before heading off to officer candidacy school.
“Who’s my opponent?” Sicarius asked.
“His name’s Maldynado. According to his current, ah, employer, he’s highly ranked amongst the city’s duelists. You say you’ve never dueled?”
“Never.”
“This should be interesting then.”
“I imagine so,” Sicarius said.
* * * * *
Darkness was gathering in the streets when Amaranthe and Sicarius arrived at the gymnasium. The sprawling complex covered a city block and included a running track buried under a white field of snow, steam rooms, heated baths, and the area they approached: the rings.
“Remember,” Amaranthe said, “the goal is to recruit this fellow to work for us. We don’t want him killed or maimed.”
Sicarius slanted her a cool look.
“Of course, you know this already. I’m just concerned that your—” she groped to express her concern diplomatically, “—admirably honed assassin’s instincts might forget.”
Silence was her answer.
She tried not to feel nervous. It didn’t work.
They stepped inside a massive chamber open to the night on three sides. Intermittent columns offered the only barrier to the wind. Icicles like spears hung from the roof, which kept out the snow but little else. Bare-chested men, bodies too warm to notice the cold, sparred in circles chalked on the black clay floor. Spectators, and those waiting their turns, crowded the edges of the rings.
With a chill wind skidding fresh powder into the building, Amaranthe did not feel conspicuous keeping her hood pulled low over her eyes, the fur trim nuzzling her cheeks. Though they were in the upscale Mokath Ridge neighborhood, where low-paid enforcers would not make up any of the clientele, running into army officers was possible. Her encounter that morning left her inclined to keep her face hidden. Sicarius, striding along at her side, did not share her inclination. At least he was not wearing his knives and daggers openly tonight.
They passed small rings used for boxing and wrestling and weaved toward the larger circles. Amaranthe craned her neck, searching for Maldynado. Despite night’s approach, the area was well-lit by gas jets burning on the wall and braziers positioned between the circles.
A servant meandered through, offering water, towels, or bandages as needed. A musician wandered from fight to fight, beating an invigorating pattern on a hand drum. He held out his fur cap for donations between bouts.
“There he is,” Amaranthe said.
She pointed out Maldynado, who stood near the wall, behind rings full of men sparring with rapiers and sabers. Since their last meeting, he had changed clothes—or at least added a few. Clad in a velvety exercise outfit that probably cost a week’s enforcer salary, he was chatting with a balding man.
When they stepped within Maldynado’s line of sight, he nodded toward Amaranthe and took in Sicarius with an unconcerned boot-to-head survey. His gaze lingered above Sicarius’s eyebrows. Maldynado lifted a finger, walked over to a bag of gear, retrieved a card, and returned. He extended his arm toward Sicarius.
“My barber. He’s excellent.” Maldynado flicked his fingers at Sicarius’s tousled hair. “He can fix that rat’s nest.”
Sicarius did not accept the card. He gave Maldynado that flat, cold stare he did exceedingly well. Though Maldynado was broader and half a head taller, he was the one who shifted uncomfortably. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat and pocketed the card.
“Shall we begin then? Ado here will judge. First to five points wins.” Maldynado winked at Amaranthe. “And collects the reward.”
“A point is what?” Sicarius asked.
“Uhm, are you joking?”
“No.”
“Ah,” Maldynado said. “We use blunted swords and wear padded vests and helmets. Anything above the waist is a point. Anything below the waist is, well, no man should attack another man down there, eh? It’s off target, no point. You have to stay in the ring or it’s a penalty. Three penalties and you start losing points. Follow me. I’ll show you the communal gear.”
Amaranthe tagged along. Maldynado led them to an equipment chest jammed with bent and rusty blades. Another chest held equally dilapidated armor. Apparently, the serious folks had their own gear.
Maldynado set down his saber and shrugged into a pristine padded vest and grabbed a monogrammed helmet. With a wave, he indicated Sicarius should select from the chests and arm himself. Amaranthe crinkled her nose. She could smell the stale sweat from several feet away. Yellow stains marked the armpits of the vests and several sported dried blood spatters.
Sicarius selected a saber for his left hand and eschewed the armor. Amaranthe would have done the same, even if it meant death by impalement. So armed, he walked over to one side of a large circle and waited.
Maldynado nodded to Amaranthe. “What’s his problem? He trying to get hurt? I thought you were bringing a serious contender.”
“Oh, he’s serious.”
As she watched Sicarius waiting, dark eyes cold, face a mask, Amaranthe felt new twinges of uncertainty about engineering the match.
Maldynado shrugged. He ambled into the circle opposite Sicarius. He lifted his saber in a salute to his opponent and to the judge, then plopped the helmet over his curls. Sicarius did not return the salute. Amaranthe had heard of wine-stompers displaying more courtesy to the grapes in their vats.
She walked to the side where the judge stood. It might not hurt to get on friendly terms with him. “Good evening. Have you known Maldynado long?”
“Yes.”
“Is he as good as he claims?”
“He has a lot of talent, but he doesn’t train enough. Everything’s a game to him.”
As opposed to Sicarius, who had probably never played a game in his life. I think I made a mistake. She nibbled on a fingernail.
Maldynado assumed a ready position, elbow bent, weapon raised, side facing his opponent. Sicarius stood casually, sword lowered. Wind gusted through the columns and stirred his short blond hair.
“Ready?” the judge asked the combatants.
Maldynado bounced on his toes. “Ready!”
Sicarius gave a single nod.
The judge clapped his hands. “Begin!”
Sicarius charged like a locomotive, crossing the ring in less than a heartbeat. Maldynado side-stepped and stuck out his sword so his attacker would run into it. Sicarius anticipated the move and blurred past the weapon. He darted to the outside, coming up behind Maldynado. Sicarius grabbed Maldynado’s far shoulder, snaked his foot between the bigger man’s legs, and thrust up with his hips even as he pulled down with his hand.
Maldynado toppled backward, accelerating to the ground. When he hit, his breath whooshed out, and his helmet spun into the air.
Sicarius went down with Maldynado, albeit in a more controlled manner. Sicarius pinned his opponent and jammed the blunt blade against Maldynado’s throat.
Both combatants froze in tableau. Maldynado’s helmet hit the ground, clattering as it bounced several feet.
Blunt weapon or not, Sicarius could have killed his opponent easily. Amaranthe read the fear in Maldynado’s eyes, a reflection of what she had felt in nearly the same position.
The judge choked out a series of protests. “Warning for illegal use of the feet, body, hands. Out of bounds. No point!”
Sicarius rose lithely and returned to his side of the ring. The judge launched into a lecture on the rules while Maldynado groped for his helmet with a shaking hand. Sicarius listened without expression.
Amaranthe rubbed her face. What was he doing?
Maldynado pushed himself to his feet. He plopped the helmet back on his head. It obscured his features, but Amaranthe could read the reluctance in his sagging posture as he stepped back into the ring.
Perhaps sensing more than a practice bout, other men drifted over. Amaranthe resumed nibbling on her fingernail and watched the crowd. This was far too public. She should not have let Maldynado choose the meeting area.
Two of the onlookers whispered and pointed at Sicarius. Making bets or discussing the number of wanted posters they had seen him on?
“Point,” the judge called.
Amaranthe started. She had missed the resumption of the match. She glanced at the judge in time to see him stab a finger at Sicarius.
“Begin,” the judge said after the two fighters returned to their sides.
This time Amaranthe watched. Sicarius charged across the ring again. Maldynado skittered aside, but not before Sicarius tapped him on the ribs with his saber. Maldynado’s attempt to parry came too late.
He was rattled. Sicarius’s opening strategy became clear. What man could concentrate on a game when he was afraid his opponent would kill him?
Maldynado charged the next time. That did not keep Sicarius from doing the same. They met in the middle. Maldynado feinted and lunged only to find Sicarius’s blade pressed against his chest, his own uselessly wide.
“Three to zero,” the judge said.
Shaking his head, Maldynado returned to his side. The onlookers nodded their admiration for Sicarius’s speed and accuracy.
“Watch his footwork,” someone said.
“It’s amazing.”
On the next round, Sicarius feinted to the head before gliding under Maldynado’s raised guard to prod him in the side. Unlike Maldynado, Sicarius never seemed to lunge. He was just there. Amaranthe had seen men with lightning-fast hands before. She had never seen anyone’s feet move so quickly. The last point came when Sicarius side-stepped Maldynado’s vain charge and jabbed him in the kidney.
Maldynado, blade drooping, stared at Sicarius’s feet as he walked away. Maldynado saw it too. But too late to figure out a way to compensate. If he could.
“Match over,” the judge said. “Winner.” He pointed to Sicarius, though he grumbled to himself.
“Not a typical bout?” Amaranthe asked.
“It got off to an appalling beginning. Your comrade has poor sportsmanship.”
“Yes, I don’t think he’s really into sports.”
“Maldynado should have recovered better though. He wasn’t fighting his best.”
One hand braced against his back, Maldynado hobbled to the wall and removed his gear. He waited—at some distance—while Sicarius returned his blade. Maldynado’s gaze never left Sicarius. To his credit, it was not a glower of hatred, but one of wariness. At least he did not seem to be entertaining notions of vengeance. Amaranthe knew many men would be if they perceived their pride damaged.
“My...comrade rattles everyone,” she said to the judge. “It’s not Maldynado’s fault.”
“I wish I could have awarded Maldynado a few points, at least,” the judge said. “He has superior style and technique.”
“If he hadn’t been shaken in the beginning, do you think he would have won?”
“No, your man is too fast. It might have been a more interesting match, but...” The judge massaged his bald pate. “Technically speaking, Maldynado is the better fencer. Your man is the better killer.”
Amaranthe nodded. The accolade certainly did not surprise.
Maldynado approached her as the judge departed. Sweat dampened the strands of curly brown hair that hung in his eyes. Sicarius came, too, and Maldynado sidled away, giving him more wary glances.
Amaranthe waved Sicarius back. “Can you give us a moment, please?”
Sicarius went outside with spectators moving far aside to let him pass.
“Two weeks starting tomorrow at dawn.” Amaranthe gave Maldynado the address to the icehouse. “Agreed?”
He sighed. “I’ll be there. Will he be there?”
“Yes, but he won’t bother you if you don’t bother him. We’re all working toward the same goal.”
Maldynado rubbed the back of his head. “I’m going to be reliving those opening two seconds over and over for a long time, trying to figure out what I should have done there.” He met her eyes. “I don’t want you to think I’m...I mean, I know how to fight. I’ve been in real brawls, not just dueling matches. He...caught me by surprise.”
“I know. He did the same thing to me. Had me within a half-inch of breaking my neck before we reached an agreement.”
“Huh. And you trust him now?” Maldynado asked.
“As long as we’re angling toward the same ends and can benefit from each others’ skills, I believe we can work together.”
“So, the answer is no.”
Amaranthe smiled faintly and shrugged.
“What happens after you two don’t have a common goal anymore? He whacks you and moves on? Some trust.”
“It’s enough for now,” Amaranthe said. “Just as I trust you to show up tomorrow and work for me for two weeks.”
Maldynado blinked. “You do? Why?”
“I believe you’re an honorable man.”
Another blink. Several actually. Amaranthe only meant it to inspire him to come in the morning, but he straightened and nodded, as if the comment meant something.
“Yes,” he said. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * * * *
Sespian looked up from a report when the door opened and Jeddah walked into the suite. Trog sauntered into the servant’s path, but Jeddah managed to maintain his poise—and hold onto the tray with Sespian’s tea—without tripping when the cat rubbed against his shin. His lips flattened, but he was too professional to scowl at the creature leaving hairs on his uniform.
“Thank you, Jeddah,” Sespian said when the man set the tray down. Steam rolled off the freshly poured cup of tea. “Is Hollowcrest in his suite?”
Sespian kept hoping for a chance to snoop in Hollowcrest’s office, but the honor guard that trailed him everywhere made it impossible to ensure his movements would not be reported. As a boy, he had crawled through the old hypocaust ducts in the walls and under the floors, and he was thinking of taking up the hobby again.
“Yes, Sire,” Jeddah said. “I believe he has a guest.”
Sespian glanced at the grandfather clock ticking against one wall. “It’s late for entertaining.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“I don’t know the gentleman’s name.”
“Has he been here before?” Sespian asked.
“I have served him a few times, Sire.”
“Thank you.”
After Jeddah left, Sespian stared thoughtfully at the door. Maybe he should take more of an interest in what went on in Hollowcrest’s private meetings.
He pushed himself to his feet, only to double over with a hiss. Stabs of pain ricocheted through his head. The problem was getting worse every day.
Sespian sucked in a few deep breaths. The stabs subsided into a more manageable ache.
His guards came to attention when he exited the suite.
“Just going across the hall,” he said.
Three steps took him to Hollowcrest’s door. He lifted a hand to knock but paused midair. He always knocked before entering. Emperor or not, he felt it the polite thing to do. Yet he could do as he wished, right? Maybe he should surprise Hollowcrest.
His hand lowered to the knob. He twisted it and stalked inside.
Hollowcrest and a brown-clad man Sespian had never seen before stood in front of a desk. Surprise blossomed across Hollowcrest’s face, but he quickly recovered. The other man looked...guilty. What were they discussing in here so late at night?
“What can I do for you, Sire?” Hollowcrest asked.
Got to be faster, Sespian. You should have spoken first. “Who’s this?”
“This is Malford, the assistant to the Chief of Finance in the Urkart Satrapy,” Hollowcrest said. “He’s here on business.”
Mud and some sort of damp green gunk adorned the stranger’s boots. A worn leather jacket hung nearly to his knees with something that might have been a pistol bulging at his side. Neither the scarred cheek nor shaven head suggested finance expert. In addition, a hint of the sewers clung to the man.
“One wonders what route he took to arrive here,” Sespian said.
“What can I do for you, Sire?” Hollowcrest repeated.
Sespian could challenge him then and there, demand to know who the man really was. But if Hollowcrest continued to lie, what could Sespian do?
“My birthday celebration is coming up,” he said, “a huge holiday for everyone, and there’ll be the gala here at the Barracks, of course. I’d like to invite all the foreign diplomats in the city. It’s time to build real relations instead of simply humoring them.”
“Of course, Sire, I’ll take care of it personally.”
Uh huh, sure you will.
“Anything else, Sire?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
As soon as Sespian returned to his suite, he shoved aside an antique armoire. He grabbed a nail file from a drawer and unfastened a grate at the base of the wall.
He squirmed into the dark and narrow duct. It barely provided enough room to wriggle through on his belly. He had grown in the ten years since he used it last—the age he had decided it was unseemly for the future emperor to crawl through the ducts, spying on people. Perhaps he never should have stopped.
Dust blanketed the inside, and cobwebs wrapped around his face. Drafts of warm air stirred his hair. When he reached a T-section, he folded himself in half to turn right. Before he reached the blob of light that represented the grate to Hollowcrest’s room, he heard voices.
“From your promises, I was expecting a drooling simpleton.” It was not Hollowcrest’s voice—it had to be the supposed finance assistant.
“For a man of average intellect, that would be the result,” Hollowcrest said. “The boy’s naïve but bright. I have everything under control though. The poison has dulled his faculties and is on its way to rendering him bedridden.”
In the stillness of the duct, Sespian’s quickened breaths stirred the cobwebs. His head throbbed dully. Not a tumor. Poison. It was hard to feel relief, since the latter was just as bad as the former. Although poison he might be able to do something about.
“I don’t think he believed your finance chief cover.”
“If you’d avoid mucking around in the sewers, your true occupation wouldn’t be so obvious,” Hollowcrest muttered.
“My work takes me to fabulous and varied places.” The man laughed and something sinister in it chilled Sespian further.
Hollowcrest sighed. “Sicarius never smelled of his work.”
Sespian’s stomach lurched at the assassin’s name, old fear rearing to the front of his mind.
“Sicarius, Sicarius, Sicarius,” the other man snarled. “The way you always talk about him, you’d think you were lovers.”
“He was efficient. Very efficient. A man in my position values that.”
“I hear he’s in the city. Maybe you two should kiss and make up. Unless you’re afraid you’re his next mark. Or perhaps the boy is.” That sinister laugh again. “Many would benefit from the emperor’s death and the succession confusion it would bring. I’m sure there’s a lot of money in that job.” He sounded wistful.
“Let’s focus on why you’re here,” Hollowcrest said. “What have you found out about Forge?”
“I can’t get into the lead lady’s place. I ran up against a bunch of magical protection, and I was almost discovered by some scarred-up security guard.”
The men moved to another room in the suite where Sespian could not hear them. That was fine. He had heard enough. He backed through the duct until he reached his room. When he tried to screw the grate back in place, his hands shook too much for the job.
Hollowcrest was poisoning him.
Sespian stalked the room, mind whirring. How was the old curmudgeon doing it? Putting it in his food? Was the kitchen staff a part of it? Was Jeddah?
His peregrinations halted in front of the tray with the cup of tea on it. He sank to the floor before the steeping liquid. Not his food. His tea. The one thing that most reminded him of his mother. Sespian clenched his jaw. That bastard had ruined it.
He picked up the cup, crossed to the water closet, and poured it down the wash-out. A part of him wanted to stalk across the hall and hurl the empty cup at Hollowcrest—a big part of him. But that would do no good. It would only tip Hollowcrest to what Sespian now knew.
Sespian stared into the empty cup. What was he going to do?
* * * * *
At the icehouse, Amaranthe woke in the middle of the night with her heart slamming against her ribs. Fleeting memories of a nightmare dissipated like plumes of smoke from a steam engine. All she remembered was something dark chasing her, emitting a horrible, unearthly screech.
The sound came again. She frowned with confusion as dream and reality mixed. Had the screech been real or was she still sleeping?
She sat up on the cot. The wool blanket pooled around her waist. Darkness blanketed the room, though she could feel heat radiating from the nearby stove. She sat motionless and listened.
At first, she heard nothing. Deep in the industrial district, the icehouse neighborhood saw little traffic at night, and silence stretched through the streets like death. Then another screech shattered the quiet. Amaranthe cringed involuntarily; it jarred her nerves like metal gouging metal. An eerily supernatural quality promised it was nothing so innocuous. And it originated nearby, within a block or two.
Thinking of the bear-mauling story in the paper, Amaranthe slid off the cot, reluctant to make any noise. She managed to thump her knee against the desk. So much for not making noise. She groped for the lantern and turned up the flame. The light revealed her neat pile of boots, business clothing, knife, and the box containing her savings. She tugged on the footwear, then grabbed the weapon and lantern. When she opened the door, it creaked. Loudly. She hissed at it in frustration.
On the landing, she glanced around, hoping Sicarius would step out of the shadows. The vastness of the dark warehouse mocked her tiny light. The floor was not visible from the landing. When Amaranthe leaned over the railing, her light reflected off exposed ice, mimicking dozens of yellow eyes staring at her.
Another inhuman screech cut through the walls of the icehouse. It echoed through the streets and alleys outside, surrounding and encompassing. In the distance, dogs barked. The hair on her arms leapt to attention. She shivered and clenched the handle of the lantern more tightly.
“Help!” came a male voice from outside. “Anyone!”
The nearby cry startled Amaranthe. It sounded like the speaker was directly in front of the icehouse.
She crossed the landing, her boots ringing on the metal. A pounding erupted at the double doors below.
“Is someone there?” the voice called.
“On my way!” Amaranthe hustled down the stairs.
He had to be trying to escape whatever was hunting the streets. The doors rattled on their hinges.
“It’s coming!” he shouted.
Amaranthe took the last stairs three at a time. She slid on sawdust when she landed at the bottom, recovered, and ran to the doors. She reached for the heavy wooden bar securing them.
A deafening screech sounded right outside. Amaranthe jerked back.
On the other side of the door, the man shrieked with pain. She wanted to help, to lift the bar, but fear stilled her hand. Armed only with a knife, what could she do?
Coward, you have to try.
She yanked her knife from its sheath. Outside, the cries broke off with a crunch. She reached for the bar again.
“Stop.”
She froze at the authoritative tone of Sicarius’s voice.
“Someone’s dying out there,” she said, more out of a sense of obligation than a genuine desire to open the door.
Sicarius walked out of the darkness beneath the stairs. If he had been sleeping, it was not evident. He was fully dressed and armed.
“He’s already dead,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe forced her breathing to slow and listened for activity. She had a feeling Sicarius was right.
Footsteps crunched on the snow outside, but they did not sound human. They were too heavy. The crunching stopped, and snuffling replaced it. The door shuddered as something bumped it. Amaranthe backed away. The snuffling came again, louder and more insistent.
She continued backing up until she stood beside Sicarius.
“Are we safe in here?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Oh.” Better to know now than later, I suppose.
The door shuddered again, louder this time.
“It’s coming in, isn’t it?” she asked.
“So it seems.”
Amaranthe searched for escape routes. If she ran up the stairs and climbed onto the railing, she might be able to pull herself up into the rafters. From there, she could crawl along the network of steel beams and supports to the high windows. If she performed an amazing acrobatic feat, she might be able to kick out the glass, then swing out and climb onto the roof. Good, Amaranthe, that works for Sicarius. Now how are you going to get out?
She remembered the grates and the stacks of ice stored beneath the floor. She shoved aside sawdust and found an entrance. The inset handle required a twist and pull that only someone with thumbs could open. She hoped that thing out there had nothing of the sort.
“You coming?” she asked over her shoulder.
“It’s cramped down there; a poor place to make a stand.” Sicarius’s gaze drifted toward her, then toward the windows and up the stairs, as