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 father 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.”
Chapter 17
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 H
ollowcrest 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?”
The Emperor's Edge (a high fantasy adventure in an era of steam) Page 25
