“Your name?” the sergeant asked.
Perched on an uncomfortable wooden chair, Amaranthe flirted with making up an identity, but with her wanted posters plastering the city, the soldiers would figure it out sooner or later. Besides, her interrogator would probably see through her lies.
Hard, experienced eyes studied her from beneath graying eyebrows. A scar ran down his cheek, tugging his lip into a sneer that made it look as if he had eaten something unpleasant for breakfast. His last prisoner perhaps.
“Amaranthe Lokdon,” she said.
No one sat at the lone desk, but two armed guards stood by the office’s only door. It was open, and a man wearing captain’s pins leaned against the frame and further blocked the route. At least the soldiers were questioning her here instead of some dank interrogation chamber, though the vertical iron bars securing the sole window offered little hope of escape. No one had bound her hands, but with so many soldiers around, she failed to see how it mattered.
“Occupation?” the sergeant asked.
Counterfeiter of money, plotter against business coalitions, and all-around hindrance to Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest. “Enforcer.”
“What district?”
“Commercial.”
The sergeant strolled around the room, hands clasped behind his back. His boots alternately clacked or thudded as he crossed back and forth over a thin rug. It did little to cover the web of cracks marring the concrete floor, evidence of the building’s age.
“A female enforcer,” he said. “There can’t be many. It’ll be easy enough to check your story.”
“I imagine so.”
“Women warriors. Ridiculous notion. You can’t beat a man in a fight.”
“Depends on the man,” she said. “Why don’t we leave the fort, just you and me, and we can test your theory?”
The sergeant steered a frosty look her direction. “Who’s your friend that ran?”
Amaranthe hesitated. In the doorway, the captain’s eyes narrowed. She shifted on the hard chair. The sergeant dropped his fists on the desk, leaned on them, and glared at her.
“My partner,” she said.
The sergeant snorted. “That man is no enforcer. He evaded our soldiers slicker than a greased fish.”
“Did he kill anyone?” Amaranthe asked. Please, no more deaths on my hands.
“It depends on how much you two had to do with the men who were murdered by the lake and under the water tower.”
“We had nothing to do with that,” Amaranthe said. “We were only following the trail to see what did kill them.” She leaned forward and gripped the edge of the desk. “And we did. We saw it, and we fled from it. Your men need to be very careful. It’s not a bear or panther, like the papers said. It’s much worse.”
“Oh?”
Amaranthe frowned. The sergeant sounded more skeptical than interested. Was he not concerned about his lost men?
“Yes, oh,” she said.
“What did you see?”
“It was like a cougar but much bigger. It was strong, but it wasn’t graceful. It was ugly and blocky—like something molded out of clay. It’s not of natural origins.”
The sergeant exchanged significant glances with the captain, who was apparently content to let his man do the questioning while he observed. A part of her wanted to tell them about everything: Forge’s assassination threats, Hollowcrest’s drugging of the emperor, and her suspicions about the creature. But they would never believe her. Still, if there was a chance she could get them in on the monster hunt, she had to try. After seeing Sicarius’s knife clank uselessly off the beast’s eye, she knew killing it was beyond her team.
“What do you mean not of ‘natural origins?’” the sergeant asked.
Amaranthe leaned back and felt the hard edge of the chair against her shoulder blades. She considered her next words. If she simply said the beast was a magical Nurian creation—something imperial subjects were supposed to know nothing about—she would find herself thrown in a cell as a conspirator. She had to lead them to make their own conclusions.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anything like that monster. My comrade threw a knife at its eye, and the blade didn’t penetrate.”
“The weapon must have spun and hit with the hilt,” the sergeant said.
Amaranthe shook her head. “The point struck true. Right in the eye. It clanged off as if it had hit steel.”
“Impossible. You saw wrong.”
Believe me, curse you. “I’m just an enforcer, and I don’t know too much about politics, but isn’t it possible that some—I don’t know—enemy of the empire sent the creature over here to make trouble? Especially now, with the emperor’s birthday celebration only days away? Foreign diplomats and hundreds of important officials from all across the empire will be in town. Don’t you think it’s a bad time for soldiers to start showing up dead?”
“It’s never a good time for soldiers to show up dead.” The sergeant dropped his chin to his chest. “It is kind of suspicious though. The timing and all. I suppose...”
In the doorway, the captain cleared his throat. The sergeant glared at Amaranthe.
“I’m asking questions,” he said. “For all I know, you’re trying to distract me from your involvement in the deaths of our men.”
“Did you see the bodies?” she asked. “They were mutilated. By something with fangs and claws. How could I possibly have done that?”
“Human beings are vile and resourceful creatures. I’ve seen ‘em do wicked things to each other.”
“Yes, I had retractable six-inch claws installed beneath my fingernails to do this job.” Amaranthe thrust her hand out. There was not even room to hide a speck of dirt under the chewed nubs at the ends of her fingers. “Besides, you saw the tracks. You know something inhuman is about.”
“What are you suggesting? That this is some sort of magical beast planted by enemies of the empire?”
Yes! “Magic? I thought it didn’t exist.”
The sergeant rapped his knuckles on the edge of the desk. “That’s exactly what you should think.”
“But if it did exist...” Amaranthe furrowed her brow thoughtfully, silently urging him to make the connection.
He stared blankly at her.
Exasperation welled in her. “If it did exist, we could all be in danger. If someone using the mental sciences shows up at the emperor’s birthday—”
The captain and sergeant’s heads snapped up like bloodhounds that had caught a scent. Idiot, wrong word!
The captain jerked his chin toward the hallway, and the sergeant followed him outside. The two statuesque soldiers who had guarded the exit followed. The door thudded shut. A lock clanked.
Amaranthe went to the door and pressed her ear against it.
“...worse than murder... Nurian collaborator.”
“...said science, not magic... dangerous.”
“...jail?”
“...influence prisoners. Leave her... general will want...”
The voices moved out of range. The cool wood of the door felt deceptively calming against Amaranthe’s cheek. What are they going to do with me?
She sank to the floor, back against the door. The concrete radiated warmth beneath her palms. No fireplace or stove burned in the room, but the air was comfortable. A lot of large buildings in the city were heated by hypocausts. If this one was, that would mean flues in the walls and crawl spaces beneath the floor where hot air flowed.
Her fingers drifted toward one of the many cracks. It meandered into a corner by the window wall. Might the building be dilapidated enough that she could escape through the floor?
On hands and knees, Amaranthe crossed the room, probing at promising rifts. After pushing aside the rug, she found an area where multiple cracks intersected, creating a diamond-shaped island in the middle.
She dug her fingers into the wider crevices and wiggled the piece. It shifted slightly, but she could not lift it free.
Amaranthe stood and investigated the desk. A smooth stone being used as a paperweight caught her interest. She grabbed it, then rummaged through the drawers. A stash of wrapped flatcakes occupied one. Apparently, the captain had a sweet tooth, or maybe he bribed his men with rewards. She dumped them on top of the desk. Maybe she could use them if she escaped the building.
The letter opener stashed behind a collection of writing supplies had a more immediate use. Though too blunt to make much of a weapon, it had sufficient heft for an impromptu chisel.
She grabbed a scarf from a peg near the door and used it to muffle her work. The tap of the paperweight against the end of the letter opener still sounded too loud in her ears. Fortunately, the remaining threads of mortar shattered easily. Amaranthe lifted the one-inch-thick slab free. Beneath the top layer rested two foot square tiles. Though not surprised, she groaned at the additional barrier. Her captors would not leave her alone indefinitely.
Only one tile was fully visible and it held no cracks or signs of weakness. Nonetheless, she would have to work with that one or try to pull up more of the floor, which would take too long.
Amaranthe placed her hand on the tile. Warmth seeped through the ceramic. She tapped on it with the paper weight, and the hollow thuds gave her reason to continue. It sounded as if a duct or crawl space ran underneath. She grabbed the letter opener again and chipped at the worn mortar around the edge of the tile.
Time bled past. Whenever voices or footsteps sounded outside, she glanced at the door, letter opener clenched in her fist.
Finally, she wiggled the tile free. A black opening yawned beneath it, and warm air wafted from the gap. Pillars supported each corner where the square had laid, and darkness lurked all around them. Amaranthe reached down to measure the space to the bottom. Moist grime and mold cloaked the rough concrete beneath. She shuddered and wiped her fingers on the rug. What were you expecting? A freshly scrubbed crawl space?
She estimated a depth of two feet to squirm through. Good enough.
Amaranthe grabbed the wrapped cakes and stuffed them into her shirt. Feet first, she squeezed into the hole. Hunkered on her knees, she dragged the rug back into place behind her. Her escape route would not remain a mystery for long, but she need not be obvious about it.
Darkness swallowed her, stealing sight. She inhaled deeply and forced herself to remain calm in the tight space. Hot smoky air, heavy with the scent of burning coal, irritated her nostrils and throat.
She groped around, skinning her knuckles against a pillar. The heat seemed to originate from her left, so she belly-crawled that direction. Mold squished beneath her fingers. Sweat soon bathed her body. Grit and dust stuck to her palms. Something furry brushed her wrist and scurried away. She jerked her hand up. Though she doubted she had anything to fear from rats, she couldn’t keep from imagining hordes of the little beasts swarming over her and gnawing at her flesh.
Amaranthe sighed with relief when she made it to a shaft slanting down. She climbed in and wriggled through it. As she descended, the smoke grew more concentrated and the heat intensified. Stifling coughs, she turned a corner and a square of light appeared below her. When she reached the end of the shaft, she swung out, scattering the burning embers of a fire. She banged her head as she hustled through the flames. Once free, she stomped her feet and swatted her clothes to make sure nothing was burning.
Two sooty, bare-chested men gaped at her. Both held shovels heaped with coal. Aside from the glow of the fire, a single lantern provided light. Stairs rose behind the workers.
Amaranthe pulled two mashed flatcakes from her shirt and handed one to each man. “You fellows are doing excellent work. You never saw me, right?”
They jabbered in a foreign language. Perhaps Arbitan and Larocka were not the only ones exploiting illegal slaves. Fortunately, the men showed more interest in the cakes than her.
Amaranthe slid past them and climbed the stairs. She cracked open the door at the top. A few feet away, a brick wall loomed. She was behind the building near the edge of the compound. A guard clanked past on a walkway above. No going over the wall, but the smooth brick defied scaling anyway.
She brushed dust, mold, and other dubious smudges from her clothing. Then she arranged her remaining flatcakes in one arm and stepped into the sunlight. An ice-and-gravel path took her along the wall, then veered through an alley between buildings.
The gate came into sight, but the busy square stretched before it. Dozens of soldiers streamed here and there. Two more men guarded the exit, but at least it was a different pair than at dawn.
Amaranthe lifted one of the cakes with her free arm and walked into the square.
“Fresh flatcakes! One for two ranmyas, two for three.” She waved the sweet and meandered toward the gate. “Get your flatcakes right here! No need to wait until chow call for a tasty snack. You, sir. You look hungry. Just two ranmyas for a sumptuous sweet.”
A soldier brushed past her but did not look up. Excitement thrummed through her limbs. Maybe this would work. The men barely noticed her. Soldiers who would have pounced on a fleeing prisoner avoided eye contact with a pushy vendor.
She was halfway to the gate and congratulating herself when a hand clamped onto her shoulder. Amaranthe turned, locking the expression of an eager merchant onto her face.
“Sir,” she said to the corporal who restrained her. “I can see you’re a man who appreciates the delicious taste of a fresh flatcake. My sweets use superior ingredients and—”
The corporal growled and jerked her around. He propelled her, not toward a jail cell, but toward the gate.
“How did you get in here? How many times have I told you people the fort is off limits to civilians? Sell your junk outside the walls if you must.”
“Sir, I protest,” Amaranthe said, as the corporal manhandled her through the gate. The two soldiers avoided glares the corporal sent them, no doubt wondering how they had let her pass. “How is a good businesswoman—and a loyal citizen, I assure you—supposed to make a living with such stringent rules? I have children in need of new parkas.”
“Not my problem.” The corporal released her with a shove.
“I’m going to complain to the emperor!”
“You do that.”
Thrusting her chin in the air, Amaranthe marched down the road away from the fort. She bit her lip to keep from grinning. There were still soldiers to avoid. Numerous men strode the snowy paths beyond the walls on some errand or another. If one of the soldiers who had captured her was about, it would mean trouble.
She had to reach the curve in the road ahead. Trees there obscured the view and would provide cover for her to run down to the lake. Only then would she relax.
Pounding boots thundered down the snow-cleared road behind her. Amaranthe winced. So close.
She turned, and a soldier bigger than Maldynado stopped before her. He was armed but by himself. Maybe she could...
“Two, please,” he said.
“What?” Amaranthe asked.
The soldier pulled out three bills. Relief made her smile genuine. She handed him two flatcakes. He gave her the money, a curt wave, and ran off, fingers peeling away the wrappers.
Amaranthe hurried down the road, certain she had surpassed her luck quota for the week. When she turned into the trees, she almost tripped over Sicarius. He was crouching on the balls of his feet, watching her approach.
“They let you go?” His gaze fell on the cakes and ranmyas clutched in her hands.
“Not intentionally.” An alarm bell clanged at the fort, and Amaranthe winced. “In fact, we should leave. Now.”
They ran down the slope and onto the lake trail.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“Waiting for nightfall so I could retrieve you.”
“Really? Like a rescue operation?” Touched, she smiled at him. “Is it possible the stodgy, emotionless assassin has perhaps grown to care about me?”
“You are needed to implement the final phase of the plan.”
Her smiled deepened. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to say it.”
“What?”
“You like me.”
“Since it’s your plan we’re following, it is logical to make a priority of your safety until Forge is thwarted.”
“Easy, Sicarius. If you’re not careful with all these affirmations of affection, I might assume you want to be friends.”
He gave her a sidelong look with the faintest hint of amusement seeping through his stony façade. “Did you warn the soldiers about the creature’s origins?”
“I tried. My new knowledge of magic only drew their suspicion.”
“We must focus on the emperor,” Sicarius said. “There’s nothing else you can do about this creature.”
“We’ll see.”
* * * * *
“Where’s Akstyr?” Amaranthe asked when she and Sicarius returned to the cannery.
She wanted to know if Akstyr knew anything about soul constructs, such as how to kill them. She peered past counters and drying bills but did not see him.
“Dunno.” Maldynado dropped the handle of the paper cutter to slice a new counterfeit twenty into existence.
“Nor do I.” Books was applying ink to the press. “I thought he was on watch.”
“No one’s on watch.” Amaranthe looked at Sicarius. “Can you check outside and see if there was a scuffle?”
Sicarius inclined his head and left.
“It’s not my fault,” Maldynado said.
Amaranthe joined them. “I didn’t say it was.”
“No, but women like to blame things on me, so I figured I’d announce my innocence preemptively.”
“What type of things?” Books asked. “Their unwanted pregnancies?”
“Of course not. To bear my offspring would be an honor. They know that.”
After trading eye rolls with Books, Amaranthe grabbed a pen and several sheets of paper. With stacks of counterfeit bills ready, it was time to see if her bluff would work.
She sat at a counter and penned a note:
Have a compromise that will benefit both our interests. Imperative we meet before the emperor’s birthday. Midnight three days prior in the scrapyard outside the Oak Iron Smelter.
Sicarius entered the cannery, and Amaranthe waved him over.
“Akstyr walked away of his own volition,” he said.
“Thank you for checking.” She pushed the note across the counter to him. “I’m in need of your artistic abilities.”
Silently, he sat across from her and read the note.
Amaranthe spread the crumpled reject she had removed from Larocka’s waste bin. “Could you make a copy of my note in her handwriting? And I need an identical note in Hollowcrest’s handwriting.”
She folded her hands on the counter and watched his face, half expecting Sicarius to deny knowing what Hollowcrest’s handwriting looked like, half expecting him to say nothing and simply stare at her.
He did give her a bland gaze, but picked up the pen and started writing. Both notes.
“The Oak Iron Smelter isn’t one of Larocka’s, correct?” His work complete, he set down the pen.
“No,” Amaranthe said. “A warrior caste family has owned it for generations; it should be neutral territory for all parties.”
Sicarius stood, but seemed to recall something. He withdrew a folded piece of paper and handed it to Amaranthe. Remembering her wanted poster, she winced. What now?
She stared at the drawing and wasn’t sure whether to be amused or chagrined by the familiar image. “Maldynado, this one’s for you.”
“Eh?” Maldynado left the paper cutter and ambled over. “What do you—ho, I recognize that gorgeous fellow.”
“I imagine so,” Amaranthe said.
The wanted poster featured the picture the woman in the ink shop had sketched of him. This version came with a few words at the bottom: Maldynado Monticzhelo, Wanted Dead or Alive: 250 ranmyas.
“Two hundred fifty ranmyas? That can’t be right.” Maldynado raked his fingers through his soft brown curls. “My last hair cut cost more than that!”
“I see you’re regarding this with the utmost seriousness,” Amaranthe said.
“It must be a misprint. Don’t you think it’s a misprint?” Maldynado gave Sicarius a pleading look.
Sicarius stared back without comment.
“Two-fifty.” Maldynado’s gaze shifted to Amaranthe. “Yours is for ten thousand! And Sicarius, they’re offering a million for him.”
“Surely you don’t put yourself in Sicarius’s league,” Amaranthe said, amused at Maldynado’s whining, despite regrets that she had somehow gotten him noticed by the law.
“No,” Maldynado admitted, “but you’re just a girl. How can yours be for...” He stuck out his fingers and started figuring under his breath.
“Forty times more, you dolt,” Books said, eyes glinting with apparent appreciation for the poster.
“Forty times?” Maldynado clasped his forehead. “That’s insulting. I’m much more, er... I’m... Look!” He stood sideways, thrust out his chest, and flexed his biceps.
“Indeed,” Amaranthe said, struggling not to laugh.
“Two-fifty.” His head dropped, and his hair flopped about his angular cheekbones as he slunk back to the paper cutter. “Bounty hunters won’t even bother to get up from the table when they see me in an eating house. Why risk a muscle pull drawing a sword for such a measly reward? I’ll be lucky if they throw a fork.”
A moment later, Akstyr sauntered through the doorway. Amaranthe stared at a frosting-drenched pastry hanging from his mouth. He clutched a greasy sack that read Curi’s Bakery.
Apparently forgetting his disgruntlement, Maldynado sidled up and smiled at the sack. Akstyr graciously offered him a pastry, which Maldynado stuffed in his mouth.
“I thought you didn’t have any money,” Maldynado said.
“Don’t.” Akstyr grinned at Amaranthe. “Your fake money works real good.”
She almost fell off her stool. “You used the counterfeits?”
“Uh huh.”
“How could you? You’ve put us all in danger. That merchant is going to realize it’s not genuine eventually, if she hasn’t already. If it gets traced back to us...” Amaranthe resisted the urge to run to the front of the building and peer through the boarded windows facing the street. It was probably too soon for a squad of enforcers to tramp down the dock to their door.
“Imbecile,” Books said to Akstyr. “How could you be so thoughtless? To jeopardize everything for a sweet.”
“I didn’t know it’d be a problem.”
“How could you not know? What you mean is you didn’t think.”
Akstyr threw the sack on the table. “This chews rat balls.”
“What a colorful colloquialism,” Books said. “Clearly your gang years educated you well.”
Akstyr’s hands clenched into fists. “I’ve been working night and day, and I’m getting nothing out of this. If you’re going to treat me like an idiot, I’m leaving.”
Amaranthe frowned, tempted to let him go. If he was going to be more of a liability than a help, why keep him? But, no, she needed all the man power possible to finish printing bills and stage the meeting with Forge and Hollowcrest.
“It’ll be fine,” she soothed. “Just don’t spend anymore. And you make a good point. We’ve all been working hard. From now on, we’ll only have two people working the press and one standing watch. The other two can relax.” She opened her hand, palm up to Akstyr. “Or study.”
“Whatever.” Akstyr grabbed his sack and headed for a corner.
Maybe involving him more in the plotting and planning would engage his interest, or at least keep him focused and loyal.
“Akstyr,” she said, “can you arrange a meeting between me and your old gang boss?”
“Whatever.”
“Is that a yes?” she asked.
A silent glare answered her. Lovely. A Sicarius in training.
Amaranthe joined Books at the press. Eyes wide with concern, he shook his head. She shared the feeling.
“Let’s start packing the dry bills in Maldynado’s chicken crate,” she said. “Just in case we have to leave in a hurry.”