“Definitely arson, sir,” a rookie enforcer reported to Wholt, who stood near a window. The flooring was more stable next to the walls. “We found empty kerosene tins downstairs.”
“Thank you, ah...”
“Quets,” Amaranthe supplied the name, looking up from the bodies to focus on the younger enforcer. He and his partner had been nearby and had also responded early to the fire. “What else is down there?”
“Just some tools, a bunch of pots stored on shelves, and the biggest kiln I’ve ever seen,” Quets said.
“One wonders why they didn’t just cremate the bodies in the kiln,” Amaranthe mused. “Why torch the whole building?”
“They?” Wholt asked.
She could only shrug, having no idea yet who ‘they’ were nor why anyone would choose a pottery studio for a mass murder. Of course, the corpses could have come from anywhere and been brought here and arranged like this for...what? She shook her head.
“Quets,” Amaranthe said, “take the trolley back to HQ, tell the chief what we’ve found and that we need a steam wagon. The Sawbones will want to take a look at these corpses.”
The smell of singed flesh was turning her stomach. Amaranthe picked a path around puddles and over to the window where Wholt stood. Soot stained the panes that were not broken. Snowflakes flitted in through burned holes in the ceiling, mingling with water dripping from the rafters.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“It’s a mess.”
“Very perceptive, thank you.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Wholt asked. “Someone killed a bunch of people and wanted to cover it up by rendering the bodies unidentifiable. They probably meant for them and the floor to burn completely. The Fire Brigade was just too good.”
“Hm,” Amaranthe said. “I want to look in the basement. Then we’ll have to interview the artists who work here, see if anybody—eight anybodies—are known to be missing and if anything odd has been going on around here. We should find out who owns the building too.”
“We?” Wholt raised his eyebrows. “We’re patrollers, not detectives. The chief will send a lieutenant down to oversee the investigation.”
Amaranthe grimaced. He was right, of course. This case would make the papers, though, probably the front page. Working on it might be just the opportunity she needed to stand out and earn her promotion. Maybe she could get herself put on the investigation team.
“I bet it’s Sicarius,” Wholt said.
Amaranthe blinked. “What?”
Wholt was staring at the charred corpses. “You know, Sicarius, the assassin, the only criminal with a million-ranmya bounty on his head. The only criminal with a bounty signed by Emperor Sespian himself.”
“I know who Sicarius is,” Amaranthe said. Thanks to that bounty, everyone in the empire knew who he was. “But why would you think he’s responsible for this?”
“He’s back in town. I just heard last night. One of the gymnasium pickpockets we’ve been after all winter turned himself in. Seems he was in the baths, doing his looting circuit, and he touched Sicarius’s towel before realizing whose stuff he was trolling through. The thief spent half the day looking over his shoulder and then showed up at HQ wanting to be arrested so he could hide out in a cell.”
“Did the chief send some men to the gym?” Amaranthe asked, annoyed at the idea of a criminal daring to exercise and bathe in public facilities.
“He claims he doesn’t believe the pickpocket,” Wholt said. “I don’t blame him. The last time Sicarius was in Stumps, we lost thirty men trying to get him.”
“I remember.” A couple of men from her class at the Academy had been among the slain. Still, the idea of looking the other way for a criminal did not sit well with her. Throwing men at someone so dangerous might not be the answer, but surely there were alternatives. If she were chief, there was much she would do differently. Amaranthe sighed. “I’m checking the basement.”
Several of the blackened wooden stair treads were broken where the big rookie’s foot had gone through. For once, being smaller than all the men was helpful, for she made it to the bottom unscathed.
Fallen boards, broken tables, and other detritus from above littered the cement floor. When she spotted a soot-covered broom in the corner, she almost went over to grab it. Alas, whoever came to investigate officially would not appreciate her cleaning the crime scene.
Her foot crunched on ceramic as she walked toward the kiln entrance. None of the pots on the back shelves were broken. Why were there shards all over the floor?
She knelt for a closer look.
The first piece she picked up didn’t look like part of a pot at all. Cone-shaped, it reminded her of a cup, but since it couldn’t be set flat, it seemed fairly useless in that capacity. She turned it sideways and then upside down. In the last position it looked a bit like a perked dog or cat ear, though it was far too large to be either.
Other shards she picked up were even less identifiable. It would take someone with a lot of time and devotion to piece together the puzzle.
“There are fresh ashes in here,” Amaranthe called when she reached the firebox.
Wholt dared a few steps down the precarious staircase. “You may not have noticed, but there are fresh ashes everywhere.”
“These are from the kiln, not the building fire.” Amaranthe held her hand above the embers. “They’re still warm.”
“Again, you may not have noticed, but everything is still warm here.”
“You’re not being very helpful, Wholt. I’m saying the kiln was used recently.”
“I imagine people fire pots here every day.”
She grabbed a poker and overturned gray coal to find still-red embers. “How about in the middle of the night?”
Wholt had no sarcastic answer for that question.
“What if...” Amaranthe chomped on her lip and eyed the broken pieces of ceramic on the floor. “What if the fire wasn’t about covering up the bodies at all? Or maybe that was a secondary reason. What if someone was down here, trying to destroy something in the kiln, but there wasn’t enough room?” That seemed unlikely given its massive two-story size. “Or maybe they were making something in the kiln, something they didn’t want anyone to see. Or what if—”
“Emperor’s balls, Amaranthe. What nefarious thing could you possibly make in a kiln?”
“I, well, you’re probably right. I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Well, quit it. The steam wagon is here, and, yup, there’s a lieutenant from the NoDoc District. Better get up here before he yells at you for disturbing things.”
Sighing, Amaranthe climbed the stairs. She eyed the pile of corpses again as she headed for the knot of enforcers gathering inside the front door. Who were those people? Victims? Cohorts? Innocents? Colluders?
As soon as she spotted the lieutenant, Amaranthe jogged over and came to attention before him. “Sir, I’m Corporal Lokdon, and I’ve been looking around here. I’ve got some ideas. Are you choosing people for your investigation team?”
“I’ve heard of you, corporal,” the tall, slender graying man said.
He had? She raised her eyebrows. In a good way?
“You have a reputation for fastidiousness,” he said.
Blighted ancestors. That was what enforcers in other districts knew about her?
“Why don’t you and your partner head up the cleanup team out here. The whole block is a mess.”
Amaranthe stared. That was a task for a couple of rookies! If she was going to earn her promotion, she’d have to distinguish herself by arresting villains and solving crimes, not poking around on the street with a broom and dustpan.
“Is there a problem, Corporal?” the lieutenant asked.
She stifled the first response that came to mind, one that would only get her in trouble. “The...cleanup team, sir?” she said instead. “I have a good eye for detail. I believe I could—”
“Yes, the cleanup team,” the lieutenan
t said, a warning in his eyes. “It’s a more appropriate assignment. Young ladies shouldn’t be surrounding themselves with gory bodies.” He walked toward the stairs, patting her on the shoulder on the way by. “You’ll do fine.”
Just barely, Amaranthe had the discipline to walk outside, where the crowd had dissipated, before ripping her sword out and hurling it at the closest wall. The point glanced off instead of sinking in with a satisfying thunk, and the weapon clattered onto the frosty sidewalk. She stalked over, grabbed it, and thought about throwing it again. She really wanted to skewer something.
Wholt, who had just come outside, lifted his arms, stepped back, and wisely kept his mouth shut.
Amaranthe stuffed the blade back into its sheath, nicking her hand in the process. “Lovely,” she muttered at the stab of pain.
She would oversee the street cleanup, but then she was going to get herself put on the investigation team. One way or another.
2
By the time Amaranthe reached Enforcer Headquarters that evening, she had mentally organized a neat list of reasons she ought to be placed on the investigation. With chin lifted, she thrust open the front door and almost crashed into Chief Gunarth, who was pacing in the hallway.
“What did you do, Corporal?” he demanded before she could mention the arson or her list.
“Sir?”
“Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest wants to see you,” the chief said.
The list evaporated from her mind, and she put her hand on the hallway’s cool limestone wall for support. Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest was the highest ranking military officer in the empire. Each of the eight satrapies’ Commander Lords General answered to him personally. He had also been the closest advisor of Emperor Raumesys for forty years and Sespian’s regent for three. Due to Sespian’s youth, many still considered him the ultimate authority in the empire.
“He wants to see me?” Amaranthe cleared her throat to hide the squeak underlying her last word.
“You,” Chief Gunarth said. “Requested by name. You are to go to the Imperial Barracks immediately. Actually the messenger came two hours ago, but you weren’t on your assigned route.” He gave her a cool look.
That was hardly fair. “Sir, Wholt and I were responding to the fire on—”
“Give me your report later. It’s already dark. You better get your arse up to the Barracks before you inconvenience Hollowcrest by delaying his dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crisp twilight air swirled about her cheeks as Amaranthe caught a trolley uptown. She shivered and moved closer to the hissing boiler and the heat radiating through its walls.
Poised at the crown of Arakan Hill, the Imperial Barracks overlooked the city, the frozen lake, and dwarfed even the largest homes on the Ridge. The emperor’s ancestors had rejected the idea of a “palace” and chosen the ancient fortress atop the hill for the imperial seat.
There was no trolley stop near the gate—apparently casual visits to gawk were not encouraged—so Amaranthe jumped off as it rumbled by the outer walls. She had performed similar moves dozens of times before, but the combination of slick pavement and watching sentries probably made the slip inevitable. Her feet skidded on ice and she flailed before recovering her balance, if not her dignity.
Snickers came from above. Atop the high stone walls, two musketeers lounged against a cannon, their silhouettes black against the starry sky. Amaranthe limited herself to a brief upward glower as she walked toward the entrance.
In a formidable display of redundancy, two towering soldiers blocked the barred gate. Amaranthe could not help but feel that as an enforcer she only played at being a warrior. Imperial soldiers were intimidating enough; the elite men privileged to protect the emperor’s home represented the best.
“Uhm, hello,” she said, then cursed herself for sounding like a scared child. “I’m Corporal Amaranthe Lokdon. Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest requested to see me.”
“It’s late,” one of the guards said in a voice reminiscent of boots grinding into gravel.
“I realize that. Could you check to see if I’m on the list?” She had no idea if there was a list, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
Both guards offered flat unfriendly stares. Their humorless expressions were so similar Amaranthe wondered if it was part of the training. Disapproving Stares, the Advanced Course. Finally, one reached his arm through the bars and withdrew a clipboard from some inner hook. He stepped beneath one of the two gas lamps spreading wan globes of light on either side of the gate.
Amaranthe fidgeted while he read. Anticipation wrestled with unease in her gut. What was this meeting about? Would it bode well for her, or ill? Either way, why would someone as important as the Commander of the Armies bother with her? The emperor must have said something after seeing her that afternoon. Did he have some reward in mind? It seemed unlikely—she had done nothing beyond what the job called for. Still, the fledgling hope thrived, and she thought of Wholt’s words. Maybe she should ask Hollowcrest for a promotion. No, she decided. The possibility of a reward thrilled her, but she would not ask for a favor.
“Huh,” the guard said. “You’re listed.”
The other one said, “Looks like the old man wants someone to keep his toes warm tonight.”
Amaranthe fluctuated between anger at their assumption and anxiety at the insinuation. She settled for a curt, “Can I go in, now?”
One of the soldiers shouted to someone in the courtyard. Another man appeared and assumed his post, and the first relieved Amaranthe of her weapons and led her through the gate.
Walkways lined with lampposts sliced through snow-blanketed lawns. Numerous outbuildings adorned the installation, but the guard led her to the main structure. When they reached the polished marble stairs, she had to take exaggerated steps to climb them. On either side of the landing, gold-laced statues of bare-chested men grappled with each other.
“Pretentious architect,” Amaranthe muttered.
“What did you say?” the guard asked.
“Such beautiful artwork.”
The guard grunted dubiously.
The gold-gilded double doors groaned open of their own accord, powered by some hidden machinery. A single hallway stretched away to a distant exit point with dozens of doors lining either side. The decorating style continued on the inside—gaudy but consistent in its reverence toward the warrior. Periodic alcoves featured more statues of ancient heroes, some naked and locked in wrestling matches, others wearing the weapons and armor of their times. They all had clunky, unrealistic features. Her people might be peerless engineers, but great artists they were not.
Weapons from different epochs perched between gas lamps on the walls. Amaranthe’s fingers twitched toward her handkerchief when she noticed one still exhibiting bloodstains. Yes, let’s erase eight hundred years of history with a swipe of a rag. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and resolutely stared straight ahead as she walked.
Her escort led her a long way before stairs branched off, one set leading up, another down. They climbed to the third floor and stopped before a guarded door. Amaranthe’s guide left her to deal with the soldier alone. Fortunately, he must have had orders to admit her, for he pushed the door open wordlessly and gestured for her to enter.
“Thank you,” Amaranthe murmured, though she hesitated before going in. A bead of sweat snaked down her ribcage.
Show some fortitude, girl.
Shoulders back, she strode into the office. Her boots thudded on a cold hardwood floor. The room’s utilitarian furniture was neatly arranged, but the crooked and curling maps papering the walls made Amaranthe want to start rearranging tacks. A coal-burning stove glowed cherry in one corner. It was the only warm thing in the room.
The white-haired man behind the desk had easily seen seventy years, but he still possessed the fit frame of a soldier. His sharp features were humorless. His black eyes glittered behind glasses that did nothing to distort their iciness.
/>
So, this is the one who teaches the Disapproving Stare class. Amaranthe dropped her gaze to the folders and papers stacked haphazardly on his desk. She clasped her hands behind her back to keep from tidying the clutter. He probably did not approve of people touching his belongings. He probably doesn’t approve of people breathing. No wonder such gloom had draped the emperor; with this man as an adviser, there were probably not many laughs at meetings.
“Corporal Lokdon,” Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good of you to come so promptly.” Spoken by another, the words might have sounded friendly, but the man’s sarcastic edge dulled the effect.
Amaranthe shifted her weight. A floorboard creaked.
“You’re wondering why I called you here,” Hollowcrest said.
“Yes, sir.”
He shuffled papers, then opened a folder. “I’ve been looking over your records. You have a halfway decent education, though you didn’t finish the last term at the Mildawn Business School for Women.” He pushed the top page over to look at another. “That’s the year your coal miner father died of Black Lung Disease. All that money he must have scrimped to send you to that school, and you didn’t finish. Instead you lied about your age, took the enforcer entrance exam, and signed up for the academy. Have I got it right, so far?”
“I couldn’t afford to finish school, sir,” Amaranthe said stiffly. “My father was sick for months before he died, and he didn’t get any pay during that time. I worked, and took care of him, and went to school until he passed away, but I couldn’t afford to pay the tuition and rent on a flat after that.”
“I see.”
Amaranthe felt as if she were balancing on the frozen lake. Might a hole open up beneath her and suck her in? It wasn’t surprising that Hollowcrest had access to all her background information, but it alarmed her that he had bothered to look into it. What had she done to warrant such scrutiny? Surely she was not here because she had lied about her age seven years ago.
The Emperor's Edge, no. 1 Page 2
