Colonel Backcrest’s first intelligence report arrived well before dawn, and Sespian shuffled to his desk to read it. Still wearing slippers and pajamas, he slid into the icy wooden chair without bothering to shovel coal into the stove. Someone would figure out he was awake and come in to feed the fire shortly. The staff always wrung their hands in respectful distress when he did that sort of thing himself.
According to the report, the borders were oddly untroubled and no one had seen a Nurian warship in months. Perhaps that signified a lessened interest in hostilities, but more likely it represented a pause for plotting and planning. An unidentified creature murdering citizens on the waterfront struck him as a more immediate concern. He scribbled a note for Backcrest that requested more information.
When Sespian set the report aside, he glimpsed the sketches he had made a few weeks earlier for a new art wing at the university. Pretty but not structurally stable. His mind had truly been affected by that drug. Poor Amaranthe Lokdon—harassed by a simpleton.
His frown deepened as he again considered that evening she had leaped from Hollowcrest’s window. Why had she even been in the Barracks? She must have been returning from Hollowcrest’s special mission, a mission Sespian still knew nothing about. Maybe Dunn would find out more. Why would Hollowcrest have chosen her for secret work? He was barely cognizant of the city’s enforcers—why would he have brought one to the Barracks?
Because of me. Fool. With his love-struck babbling, he had brought Amaranthe to Hollowcrest’s attention. Dully, he realized whatever trouble she had found since was very likely his fault. But how had she ended up with Sicarius’s knife? Surely Hollowcrest had been lying; she couldn’t possibly be working with that monster.
A tentative knock sounded on the door.
“Come in, Lieutenant,” Sespian guessed. Hollowcrest never knocked tentatively or showed up that early.
Papers in hand, Dunn entered the office. Despite the early hour, his uniform was pressed, his hair combed, his beard shaved, and his boots polished. Wondering whether he should feel pleased at the dedication or embarrassed of his own pajama-clad state, Sespian waved the lieutenant to a seat opposite the desk.
“I’ve identified some of Hollowcrest’s cronies, Sire,” Dunn said. “It’s going to take time to complete a thorough list without drawing attention, but I’ve started with the higher ups. They’d have more power to influence subordinates, I imagine.”
Sespian nodded and leaned forward to examine three papers Dunn laid out.
“Those are men loyal to you.” Dunn pointed to each list as he spoke of it. “Those are Hollowcrest’s men, and these are the indifferent ones who said they’re just here to work and don’t care who’s in charge.”
“Those men don’t worry me.” Sespian’s chin drooped as he read the long list of names under Hollowcrest. “The Commander Lord General for every satrapy?”
“Regrettably, yes, Sire.”
Don’t panic, Sespian. It was alarming, but those men were hundreds or thousands of miles away and a less immediate threat than the traitors in and near the Imperial Barracks. “General Lakecrest,” he named the base commander for Fort Urgot, outside of Stumps. “That’s a problem.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“I see you’ve placed yourself on my list,” Sespian said. “Right at the top too.” He smiled.
“Of course, Sire.”
“We’re outnumbered. Sure you don’t want to change sides?”
Dunn’s nostrils flared with indignation. “I would never back someone who would drug his emperor. Hollowcrest has no honor.”
“Indeed not.” Sespian slid the papers into a stack and cleared his throat. He strove for the appearance of no-more-than-casual interest on his next question. “I’m sure this kept you very busy, but did you happen to find out anything about Corporal Lokdon?”
A guarded expression came over Dunn, and Sespian braced himself for bad news.
“She’s still alive, Sire.”
“Oh?” Excitement fluttered in Sespian’s belly, but Dunn’s grim expression stole his pleasure. “But?”
“Yesterday morning, she escaped from Fort Urgot, where she was being held for questioning about some dead bodies. It’s believed she has something to do with the creature that’s been murdering people around the waterfront.”
“Yes, I read about the creature,” Sespian said, though he did not see how Amaranthe could be related to it.
“Also, there was a man with her who escaped,” Dunn said. “He was later identified as the criminal Sicarius.”
Sespian sank low in his chair. “Maybe it just looked like... Maybe she’s not...” No, he couldn’t think of a logical reason as to why she’d be with the assassin. “Damn. I wanted...” Aware of Dunn watching, Sespian sat up and shut his mouth. He could mull and moan when he was alone.
“All right,” Sespian said. “Just complete these lists for me, please. And if you can, requisition someone to keep an eye on Hollowcrest. Someone on the housecleaning staff perhaps. I want to know if he leaves the Barracks or meets with guests here.”
Sespian wasn’t going to have time to spend hours lurking in the ductwork to spy on Hollowcrest himself. He had to figure out how to subvert—or was it un-subvert?—General Lakecrest and all the other local men on the list. All soldiers, he noted grimly. All men he had nothing in common with. Nothing to worry about.
* * * * *
“When you asked how to get in touch with my former gang,” Akstyr said, “I didn’t think you were planning to take me along.”
Amaranthe trailed him, her scabbard dragging in the knee-high drifts lining the path. She felt silly wearing a short sword with her businesswoman’s long skirt and jacket, but in this neighborhood no one worried about fashion. The packed-snow trail parted a narrow street, and spurs provided access to dilapidated tenements, brothels, and alcohol shops. Behind wrought iron bars, the cracked window of a smoke shop promised illegal drugs in several languages. The bundled men and women they passed bore pitted and rusted swords, long knives, or axes.
“I thought you might want to brag to your old comrades that you escaped and were well,” she said.
“And working for a crazy woman for no pay?”
“Careful, you’ll make them jealous.” Amaranthe stepped over a wad of human excrement mashed into the snow. “Besides, you know these people. I can’t think of anyone better to have along when dealing with them.”
“Except him.” Akstyr jerked his chin to indicate Sicarius, who walked a few steps behind, scanning their surroundings alertly.
“He’s just here in case there’s trouble,” Amaranthe said. “It’s your advice I’ll need.”
“Whatever. I don’t see why you can’t use official couriers to deliver your messages.”
“Because...” I’m trying to involve you with our mission and get you to care so you don’t turn us in for our bounties. “The Courier Network requires too much personal information about the sender. I can lie, but if someone comes back later asking about me, they’ll answer. We need people we can count on for discretion.”
“And murdering gang members came to mind?” Akstyr asked.
“Surprisingly, yes. Can you imagine them answering honestly if Hollowcrest’s minions come around asking questions?”
“Probably not,” Akstyr said. “They’ll charge you more than couriers would though.”
“I expected it.”
“We are being watched,” Sicarius said.
“I expected that too,” Amaranthe said.
Her group turned a corner. Beggars, drunks, and drug dealers lined the drifts. Amaranthe guessed most served dual purposes as lookouts and spies.
“The entrance is down there.” Akstyr pointed to an alley barely two feet wide.
No obvious doors marked the chipped sides of the brick buildings, though a narrow metal stair on one wall rose in switchbacks to the roof.
“Do we invite ourselves up or wait for a welcoming party?” Amaranthe asked.
“It’s already here.”
A boy of nine or ten detached from a shady nook and planted himself in front of Akstyr, fists on his hips. “You’re s’pose to be dead, you magic-cursed cur.”
“We here to see the boss, Pigeon,” Akstyr growled. “You can eat street.”
“Tuskar don’t want to see some pretend wizard,” the boy said.
“How about me?” Amaranthe lifted a finger. “Would he consent to seeing me?”
“What you want, woman?” the boy asked.
“I have a job for someone in your gang. Paying job.”
The work ethic ran strongly through the empire’s citizens, a social construct too embedded to be cast aside as easily as the legal code. Amaranthe hoped even gang members would value the idea of earning their pay.
“That truth?” The boy pointed at Sicarius. “Who’s he?”
Amaranthe suspected more ears than this youth’s were listening to the conversation. “My secretary.”
The boy snorted. “Whatever. Follow me.”
Amaranthe led her men into the alley, trailing their new guide.
“Secretary?” Sicarius murmured behind her.
She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “You did write my letters.”
The narrow stair rose so steeply, Amaranthe decided to reclassify it as a ladder. Make that a deathtrap. As they ascended, the rickety contraption quaked with such enthusiasm that she pictured falls and broken bones.
Three stories up, the climb ended on top of the building where much more than a roof awaited. A permanent camp consisting of wood and scrap-metal huts sprawled across the footprint-laden snow. The elevated village spanned at least ten adjacent buildings connected by flimsy planks. The roof provided an excellent view of the icy lake, which sparkled white beneath the blue sky.
“Nice location,” Amaranthe said.
The boy bowed as if he had orchestrated the construction. He led them past defenders posted at the roof’s corners. Crossbows or muskets leaned against the low walls for easy access. A moment of doubt sank into the pit of Amaranthe’s stomach. These were the types of folks who would be up-to-date on the latest wanted posters. Perhaps she should have looked elsewhere for messengers. Still, these men would have underworld connections, too, and could probably deliver her notes without drawing attention.
“Tuskar’s office.” The boy stopped before one of the larger shacks.
Two meaty brutes stood guard outside. One presented missing front teeth as he leered at Amaranthe.
The boy did not stay to make an introduction. Amaranthe glanced at Akstyr, who merely shrugged. When she reached for the door latch, the guards made no effort to stop her. Expected, are we?
The room inside seemed more of a recreational area than an office. Ten or twelve men loitered. Some played Tiles on top of a crate, one gave another a tattoo, and two practiced at knife fighting. At least, Amaranthe thought they were practicing.
Everyone paused and glared when Akstyr entered. At the far end of the room, a rangy man sat behind a desk—if one could call a couple boards propped on concrete blocks a “desk.” He lounged in a chair with his muddy boots atop a stack of papers. He, too, affixed Akstyr with a frosty glare and worked a toothpick back and forth with his tongue.
Amaranthe crossed the room and stopped in front of the man. “Greetings.” She decided not to mention her name. “Are you the leader? Tuskar? I have a job proposition for you.”
Tuskar’s eyes never left Akstyr. “How’d you escape from the pillory, boy? ‘Round here, magic’s forbidden, death penalty.”
“I wasn’t doing no magic,” Akstyr growled. “Though it was real nice of you to turn me in without even asking about it.”
“You gotta fit in to be one of us. You never did. Always having airs, pretending you’re something better. Truth is you just crawled out of a piss pot, same as the rest of us.” Tuskar pointed at Akstyr’s hand. “I see you with my brand after today, I’ll put my boys on the hunt for your hide.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Akstyr asked. “Gnaw my hand off?”
Tuskar surged to his feet and around the desk. “If you can’t figure out a way to get it off, I’ll do it for you.” He slid a dagger out of his belt.
Amaranthe did not notice Sicarius move. Between one eye blink and the next, he was simply there, standing in front of Akstyr, blocking Tuskar’s path. Sicarius did not draw a weapon or posture threateningly. He merely offered his cold stare.
The gang leader sheathed his knife and propped his hip against the edge of his desk as if he had never thought to do more.
Akstyr looked at Sicarius with wide-eyed surprise. That turned into a smug smile when he faced Tuskar again.
Behind Amaranthe, men stopped talking and the room grew silent. Her skin crawled under the gazes that had to be focused on the confrontation. She resisted the desire to turn around and look. No doubt by design, Sicarius stood at an oblique angle so everything in the room fit in his peripheral vision. Amaranthe shifted her own stance.
“Perhaps,” she said, “if we’re done menacing each other, we can talk business.”
Tuskar curled his lip at her and sniffed twice. “You smell like an enforcer.”
“Is that a guess?” Amaranthe asked. “Or is olfactory career identification your special talent?”
Akstyr snickered. Tuskar glared.
Amaranthe put a hand on Sicarius’s shoulder. “Can you smell his occupation?”
“Assassin.”
She hid a grimace. Yes, Tuskar knew who they were, and he probably knew how much of a bounty hung over their heads.
“You are good,” she said. “I bet you’re popular at parties.”
Tuskar withdrew his toothpick and flicked it into a corner of the room where it landed in a pile of similar discards. He took the stack of papers off his desk, shifted through them, and pulled out two sheets. He slapped down the wanted posters for Amaranthe and Sicarius.
“We like to keep track of criminals with bounties on their heads,” Tuskar said. “You never know when we’ll chance across one and have the opportunity to collect. Never had someone dumb enough to come to us before. Sure is convenient.” Tuskar perused the documents. “Looks like you two are wanted dead. That simples things up. No need to capture you and force march you up to Enforcer Headquarters.”
The door creaked open. Two men with muskets stepped in, the barrels trained on Amaranthe and Sicarius.
She lifted her hand to her mouth and yawned widely. Tuskar frowned at her reaction. If only she truly felt that calm.
“May I?” Amaranthe gestured to the posters.
Brow furrowed, Tuskar handed them to her.
“Sicarius,” Amaranthe read. “Assassin. Crimes include but are not limited to: murdering Satrap Governor Urgaysan and burning his residence to the ground, stealing priceless documents and blowing up the First Imperial Museum, killing enforcers, sinking a navy ironclad, and slaying a platoon of imperial solders.” Amaranthe looked at Sicarius. “A whole platoon?”
“Yes,” Sicarius said.
“Was that all at once?”
“One night. In a swamp.”
The musket men exchanged worried glances. Others in the room shifted uneasily.
“Reward: one million ranmyas,” Amaranthe said. “Impressive. I imagine you get lots of would-be bounty hunters stalking you.”
“Yes.”
“And yet, you’re still alive. Based on what I’ve learned about you, I’m guessing those hunters are not.”
“A correct surmise,” Sicarius said.
In the back of the room, one of the knife fighters set his weapon down on a crate. He edged toward the door.
Amaranthe flipped to the second sheet of paper. “Mine isn’t so extensive, but this is my favorite part: illegal magic user.”
“That true?” one of the musket wielders asked.
Tuskar scowled at the speaker.
“Would Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest print it if it wasn’t true?” Amaranthe smiled.
She let Tuskar mull for a moment before speaking again. “My friend, with this many people, you could possibly take us down. But is the reward worth the lives you’ll have to sacrifice to get it?”
Tuskar opened his mouth.
“Including yours,” Amaranthe said. “Sicarius always goes for the leader first.”
“Always,” Sicarius said.
Fury leapt into Tuskar’s eyes, and his fingers snapped into a fist.
He was going to let them go—Amaranthe saw that—but she did not like what else she saw. The quickest way to humiliate a leader, and make an enemy for life, was to force him to back down in front of his troops. Maybe she could let him save face.
“But,” she said, “I’m sure you’ve found that it’s always smart to make powerful friends. Even more, it’s smart to have others know you’ve made powerful friends.” She arched her eyebrows and looked Sicarius up and down. “Wouldn’t you like to brag to your associates about how you sat down and chatted with the infamous assassin, Sicarius, the last time he was in town? Drank some applejack together? Went out hunting for women?”
Akstyr made a choking sound and watched Sicarius as if expecting him to strike her down for her audacity. When she glanced at him, however, Sicarius’s expression seemed no fiercer than usual. She even thought she detected a hint of amusement in the glance he flicked her. Her imagination, no doubt.
“And what’s it going to hurt,” Amaranthe continued to Tuskar, “if you imply you have his ear?”
She watched Tuskar’s face for a reaction. His eyes grew speculative, and his fist relaxed.
“I can see how that maybe would be a smart decision.” Tuskar plucked another toothpick off his desk and slipped it into his mouth. He eyed the men in the back of the room. A few of them nodded encouragement. “What’s the job you want done, girl?”
“Two messages delivered to two different people,” Amaranthe said.
“That sounds doable.”
They negotiated the details, and the three of them walked away without anyone else pointing weapons at them.
Back in the alley, Akstyr said, “I can’t believe they’re going to deliver your messages for free.”
Amaranthe caught Sicarius’s gaze. “I’m sorry about using you that way.”
“You are not,” he said.
“You’re right.” She grinned. “You’re my biggest asset. I can’t imagine not using you.”
“They don’t do anything for free,” Akstyr said, still staring up the ladder.
Amaranthe murmured to Sicarius, “Can you make sure our notes are delivered?”
He nodded and disappeared into the shadows. Amaranthe and Akstyr headed out of the gang’s territory, setting as brisk a pace as the snow would allow. With Sicarius gone, she wanted to escape the neighborhood as soon as possible. Too many faces peered at them through broken windows. A fresh blood stain splattered the snow in front of a stoop.
“We’re out of Black Arrow territory now,” Akstyr said, perhaps sensing her feelings.
“Good, I—”
Two men stepped out of an alley. They carried clubs fashioned from broken boards jutting with nails. Akstyr cursed. Though she had a sword, Amaranthe stopped a generous ten feet from them.
“Is there a reason you gentleman are blocking our way?” she asked.
“Not you.” One slapped the wood against his palm and pointed the weapon at Akstyr. “Him.”
The two men wore brands on the backs of their hands, human eyes with Xs through them. A rival gang.
“We heard you was using magic,” the bigger of the two said. “Magic ain’t allowed in the empire, and we sure not gonna stand for you Arrows using none. We gonna smash it outta you like a potato.”
“This man is working for me,” Amaranthe said. “I need him fully functional, not smashed like sort of food item.”
“Who talked to you, woman? You can get gone. We here for him.” Again the thug pointed at Akstyr with his club.
“I’m not with the Arrows anymore,” Akstyr said.
“Sure you ain’t,” the big man said. “And that’s why you’re walking outta their territory just now.”
“It might be smart to run,” Akstyr muttered to Amaranthe.
No doubt, but the men blocked the street. If she and Akstyr ran, it would have to be back into Black Arrow territory. Even if she had parted on good terms with the leader, she had no faith in the safety of the neighborhood.
“Let’s be reasonable, gentlemen.” She decided not to reach for her sword. It wouldn’t deter them and might escalate the violence. “There’s nothing to be gained by—”
The attack was not unexpected. The men charged, one at Akstyr, one at Amaranthe.
Inspired by Sicarius’s style, Amaranthe also charged. A falter in her opponent’s step betrayed his surprise at her choice.
The snow did not give much room to maneuver, but she managed to sidestep the downward arc of the club without leaving the path. She jumped in close behind his swing. The man’s attack left him tilted forward, off-balance. She slammed her palm into the side of his jaw. His head snapped to the left, and he grunted in pain.
The blow might have hurt, but it did not incapacitate him. He grabbed Amaranthe’s wrist.
Beside her, Akstyr and his man floundered into the drift and started wrestling. Snow flew.
To distract her opponent, Amaranthe kicked him in the shin. She clamped her free hand on top of his, pried his grip loose, and forced his arm into a twisting arc that left his wrist upside down and her elbow on top of his locked arm. She leaned on him, forcing his arm against the joint. The thug folded in half, and something snapped. He yelled and pulled away from her.
She tensed for another attack, but he stumbled back, clutching his arm to his chest. After an incredulous look at her, he staggered away.
In the snow next to the path, Akstyr struggled with his opponent. They writhed, each groping for a devastating hold. She jumped out of the way as the two men thrashed and rolled through the trail and into the snow on the other side. They bounced off a wall, and the gang member came out with the advantage. He straddled Akstyr, hands wrapped around Akstyr’s throat.
Amaranthe lunged through the snow, came up behind them, and clapped her palms over the man’s ears with all her strength. He yelled, grabbed his head, and rolled away.
Akstyr lunged to his feet and kicked the thug in the stomach. He curled into a ball, but Akstyr kept kicking.
“He’s had enough,” Amaranthe said.
Akstyr showed no sign of hearing her. His face was contorted in rage that seemed to go beyond the fight.
“Akstyr!” This time, she gripped his shoulder.
Panting, he turned toward her.
“Now is the time to run,” she said. “They may have friends.”
Akstyr stared at the bleeding and battered man for a moment, as if he could not believe he had been responsible. Finally, he managed a curt nod, and when Amaranthe ran from the scene, he followed.
They did not slow until they left the gang-run neighborhoods and reached a trolley stop. Amaranthe kept a nervous lookout until they boarded.
“I didn’t think you could fight,” Akstyr said.
“I’ve had the same training all enforcers have,” she said. “Those are the kind of brutes we’re drilled to subdue. Besides, imperial men tend to underestimate women since most of us don’t study combat.”
“So, you were sure you could take care of them?”
“Not really, no.”
Akstyr grinned. “That’s what I thought. I was surprised you...”
“What?”
“Stuck around when they gave you an out. Tuskar wouldn’t have, for the same reason he backed down in his office. He doesn’t start a fight unless he’s sure he can win.”
“That’s how most people are,” Amaranthe said. “It’s called a self-preservation instinct.”
“Yours broken?”
“I’m beginning to think so.”
“Well, uhm,” Akstyr said, “thanks. For staying.”
It was the first time he had thanked her for anything. She kept her show of pleasure to a simple smile. “You’re welcome.”
* * * * *
Amaranthe stepped outside of the cannery with an egg-and-flatbread sandwich for Sicarius. It was his turn on watch, and he stood at the base of the dock, talking to a man dressed in bland civilian clothing. Now who had stumbled onto their hideout?
Both men noticed her well before she reached them. Sicarius held out a staying hand, and the stranger turned his back to her to finish the conversation. She stopped. This wasn’t some random passerby, but someone Sicarius knew. A folded sheet of paper went from the stranger’s hand to Sicarius’s and, after a wary glance at Amaranthe, the man walked away.
Sicarius opened the note to read. Curiosity propelled her forward, and she glimpsed a couple lines of pencil before he turned his back to her. All right, what are we being so secretive about here?
After reading, Sicarius crumpled the note, turned back, and accepted the sandwich.
“News on the creature?” Amaranthe asked.
“No.”
“The emperor? Hollowcrest? Counterfeiting?”
“I need to leave.” Sicarius strode down the dock toward the cannery.
“For how long?” She tried not to feel like an attention-seeking puppy bouncing at his heels as she trailed him inside. “Are you coming back tonight?”
Sicarius did not answer. He walked past Books and tossed the crumpled note into a fire barrel. Amaranthe’s shoulders slumped. He wasn’t going to tell her what it said, and now she had no chance of reading it either.
“You are coming back, right?” she asked as he walked out the door.
Without answering, he was gone.
Amaranthe grabbed the burning paper out of the fire. Heat seared her fingers, but she managed to get it to the nearest counter before dropping it. She blew on the flames, but the note had already transformed into a charred ball. When the fire burned out, she could only stare glumly as smoke wafted from the illegible black remains.
Books slid onto a stool on the opposite side of the counter. “Sicarius isn’t sharing his secret missives with you?”
“This is the first secret missive that I know about. I’d trade my grandfather’s knife to read what it says.” She tapped a finger on the lacquered wood of the counter.
Maldynado’s snores competed with Akstyr’s in the sleeping area; they had both pulled long watch shifts the night before. She supposed she ought to go outside and take over Sicarius’s abandoned post.
“Hm.” Books lowered his chin to the table and squinted at the charred ball. “I wonder if it was written in pen or pencil.”
“It looked like pencil. Secret missives should be erasable, you know.”
“Hm.”
“You said that already,” Amaranthe said. “You don’t by chance know some way to read this?”
“I should not like to make promises, but the grease in pencil lead makes it fairly fire retardant. The words are likely still there. It’s just a matter of seeing them.” Books stood. “Let’s take a look in your cleaning supply closet, shall we?”
“Whatever you say, professor.” Amaranthe followed him to the cubby.
He pulled open the door and gaped.
“What is it?” she asked. “Did you find what you need?”
“It’s spotless in here. You cleaned the cleaning supply closet?”
She blushed. “Possibly.”
“I assume there’s soap in...ah, there. And an atomizer, excellent.” Books tossed Amaranthe a bar of soap, then puffed a rubber ball attached to an empty glass bottle. It hissed a few times. “Shave some soap into this and fill it with water. I’ll find a couple panes of glass.”
Trying not to feel bewildered—and dumb—Amaranthe completed her task and met Books at the counter. He nudged the charred ball onto a dirt-free square of glass and picked up the spray bottle. He shook the soapy water and squirted the ball. Mist dampened the black paper.
Amaranthe leaned forward, not sure what to expect, but barely breathing. Once it was wet, Books eased the crinkled mass apart. Instead of crumbling into ash, the black paper slowly but surely flattened onto the glass.
“The soap makes it stay together?” she asked.
“The glycerol in the soap.” Books laid a second pane of glass on top of the first, sandwiching the black paper between them. “Here, hold it up to a light.”
Amaranthe lit one of their kerosene lamps. After a glance at the door, she picked up the glass by the corners.
One of Maldynado’s chickens squawked. She fumbled and almost dropped the glass.
Books watched her, and she feared a mocking comment about her nerves, but only grimness marked his face. “You realize if he finds out we did this, he’ll kill us,” he said.
“Maybe it’s just a grocery list.” Amaranthe tried a smile, but her mouth felt dry and