The Emperor's Edge, no. 1

by Lindsay Buroker

  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 if he sought an alternative.

  The creature slammed against the door. A hinge popped off. Wood splintered. Only the bar kept the door standing. And that would not hold long.

  “Fine,” Amaranthe said. “Let me know how it goes up here.”

  She grabbed the lantern and climbed down the ladder. She paused to close the grate. Sicarius appeared and caught it before it fell. He waved for her to continue down, then slipped in and secured the grate behind him.

  “I thought you might change your mind,” she said.

  A crash came from above—the sound of the bar shattering and the door collapsing. Feet or paws or something like padded through the sawdust.

  Amaranthe wished she knew what the creature looked like, specifically if it had digits that would allow it to turn the handle to their hideout. Or if its strength might let it rip the grates open without bothering with a handle. She shivered. Maybe she should have tried the window route.

  There was not much room between the stacks of ice and the wall. A block pressed against her shoulder and numbed her arm. She wished she had grabbed her parka.

  The footsteps altered pitch as the creature moved from solid floor to the grate. Tiny flecks of sawdust sifted through. With the darkness above, Amaranthe could not see anything through the tiny gaps in the metal. She could only hear the creature. Sniffing.

  Sicarius faced the entrance, his back to her and the lantern. Neither of them spoke, though there was little point in silence. It knew where they were.

  The scrape of claws on metal replaced the sniffing. Slow and experimental at first, the noise then grew faster, like a dog digging under a fence.

  When claws slipped between the gaps in the grate, she sucked in a breath. It was the span between them that unsettled her. No animal she had ever seen had paws that large.

  She lowered her eyes and stared at Sicarius’s back, the steady expansion and contraction of his rib cage. The air felt tight and constricting, and her own breaths were shallow and fast. She tried to emulate his calm. After all, he had not drawn a weapon. Maybe he knew they were safe. Or maybe he knew fighting the creature was pointless.

  Above, the clawing stopped. Nothing moved.

  A soft splatter to Amaranthe’s right made her jump. At first she thought it had come from the ice above, a drop melting. But it steamed when it hit a block. Another drop struck the back of her hand. As hot as candle wax, it stung like salt in a cut. Not melted ice, she realized. Saliva.

  Slowly, she looked up. More drops filtered down. Puffs of steam whispered through the grate—the creature’s breath, visible in the chill air. Two yellow dots burned on the other side of that fog. Eyes reflecting the flame of her lantern.

  Amaranthe sank into a crouch and buried her face in her knees. She closed her eyes, willing the thing to go away. A drop of hot saliva hit the back of her neck.

  Time seeped by like molasses. The footsteps finally started up again. They padded away and moved beyond the range of her ears.

  For several long moments, she and Sicarius hunkered there, between the wall and the ice. The cold bit through Amaranthe’s night clothes. Her teeth chattered and she shivered. She held her hands close to the lantern, but it gave off little heat.

  “Is it gone?” she asked.

  “Impossible to tell,” he said.

  “Well, I’m freezing. Either one of us is going to have to check or we’ll have to start cuddling.”

  Sicarius climbed the ladder. He opened the grate, peered out, then disappeared over the edge.

  “There’s something wrong with a man who chooses to face death over cuddling with a woman.” Amaranthe grabbed the lantern and followed him out. “Of course, there may be something equally wrong with a woman who goes after him instead of waiting in safety.”

  Once up top, she left the grate open in case they needed to jump back down in a hurry. She looked for Sicarius, but her light did not illuminate much of the icehouse. Snow falling outside the broken-down door caught her eye. The body had been dragged to the side, and only an arm remained in view. Amaranthe swallowed.

  “It’s not inside,” Sicarius said.

  He stepped out from behind the ice stacks carrying a couple of boards. He resealed the door as much as the warped hinges would allow. The splintered wood did not make a reassuring barrier. Sicarius threw the old bar—now snapped in half—to the side and replaced it with the boards.

  “Maybe we should go out and check on that man. See if...” He’s dead Amaranthe. You were too late to help.

  “I wouldn’t,” Sicarius said.

  He was as cool and emotionless as ever, but his unwillingness to leave the building concerned her. If, with all his skill, he did not want to confront whatever stalked the streets, who else could?

  10

  Amaranthe woke to Sicarius saying, “Lokdon,” from the doorway of the tiny icehouse office.

  She dropped her legs over the edge of the cot, feeling the chill of the floor even through socks. “We’ve been drooled on by a horrible man-slaying beast together. I think you c
an call me by my first name.”

  The coals had burned low in the stove, and it gave off little warmth or light. She groped for her boots.

  “Your team is here,” Sicarius said, a hint of bemusement edging his voice.

  Either I’m getting better at reading him or he’s starting to emote. “You sound surprised.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Yes. “Of course not.”

  “Huh.”

  Sicarius left before Amaranthe could inquire who or how many had come. She dressed and left the office. At the bottom of the stairs, Akstyr and Books waited. Books yawned and rubbed red eyes. The bulge of a bottle sagged outward from his jacket pocket, and the sword attached to his belt looked like it hadn’t been used since his boyhood weapons classes. Akstyr slouched against the wall, his baggy clothes rumpled, his hands jammed in his pockets. Bruises and lumps splotched his face.

  The men stood taller when they saw her, though the effect was not particularly inspiring. At least they had come.

  As Amaranthe descended the stairs, Maldynado strolled through the broken door. He wore a jaunty sword belt with a sheathed saber hanging from his left hip. An obnoxious amount of gold gilded the hilt and scabbard. Akstyr’s gaze lingered on the valuable weapon.

  When Maldynado came even with Books and Akstyr, his upper lip wrinkled. “Which one of you boys fell in a vat of cheap wine on the way over here?”

  Akstyr sneered. Books glared. Unperturbed, Maldynado surveyed them further, then pulled out a case and extricated two cards.

  “Your barber?” Amaranthe asked.

  “Tailor. I’ve never seen two people in such need of sartorial attention.”

  “Considering you were wearing a furry loincloth when we met, I’m not sure you should be offering fashion advice.”

  “Ah, but it was a stylish loincloth that showed off—” Maldynado winked, “—everything.”

  She could not argue.

  He raised a finger. “Say, did you know there’s a half-eaten body in the street out there?”

  “Yes.” Since she did not want to alarm her troops this early into the mission, lest they decide to leave, she decided on nonchalance. “It’s not the best neighborhood.”

  “On that we can agree,” Books said.

  Maldynado waved a hand in front of his face. “Is your breath always that rank?”

  “If I offend you, you have my permission to move to the other side of the room.” Books lowered his voice. “Or the empire.”

  “Since you’re the offensive one, maybe you should do the moving so the rest of us can breathe. There’s a dumpster down the block where you might feel at home.” Maldynado turned to Akstyr. “Do you believe this fellow?”

  “Who cares?” That surly curl to Akstyr’s lip seemed permanent.

  Amaranthe realized getting these men to come had been the easy part. Getting them to work together without blood, and business cards, flying would be the true test.

  “You said you’d have food. And a place to sleep.” Akstyr eyed the towers of ice. “Figured it’d be warmer inside than outside.”

  “We won’t be staying here,” she said. “As soon as Sicarius returns, he’ll show us to the place we’re going to set up. We’ll buy food then.”

  “That was him, wasn’t it?” Akstyr’s tone changed for the first time. He sounded reverent. “The one who let us in? Is it true he’s a Hunter?”

  A what?

  “I’m not sure,” Amaranthe said. “You can ask him.”

  Akstyr prodded the sawdust with his toe. “I wouldn’t want to annoy him.”

  “I’ll ask him for you,” she said.

  “Who asked you to?”

  So much for the reverence.

  “I’ll let you know what I find,” Amaranthe said dryly.

  “Whatever.”

  “Wait,” Maldynado said. “Are we talking about the same fellow who trounced me last night?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “That was Sicarius? The Sicarius? The assassin?”

  Surprised someone from the upper echelons of Turgonia’s social hierarchy had heard of him, she only said, “Yes.”

  “I wish you had told me that last night before the fight. When he slaughtered me, I wouldn’t have felt so...” Maldynado’s mittened fingers flexed in the air as he groped for the word.

  “Inept?” Books suggested. “Inadequate? Unmanned?”

  Maldynado scowled at him. “I’m manned just fine, thank you.” He turned back to Amaranthe. “I figured he was just some random thug you picked up at the docks.”

  “Not a random one,” she said.

  “Is Sicarius working for you?” Akstyr asked dubiously. “Or are you working for him?”

  Amaranthe hesitated. Her “team,” especially Akstyr, might be more inclined to obey her if they believed she commanded Sicarius, but his cooperation was just that, cooperation.

  “It’s my plan,” she said. “He’s going along with it for now.”

  “But you’re giving him orders?” Akstyr asked.

  “I’d call them suggestions.”

  Sicarius chose that moment to return from wherever he had been skulking. She wondered how much he had heard.

  “We should go,” he said. “That body is likely to draw enforcers.”

  “Lead the way,” Amaranthe said.

  Several more inches of snow had dropped during the night, obliterating the creature’s footprints. Sicarius stepped around the corpse, which dogs had partially uncovered. Amaranthe could not keep herself from looking and remembering. If she had been faster, if she had not hesitated, she might have saved the man’s life.

  Under the surface gnawing, longer and deeper wounds ravaged the chest. Wind gusted, and a few snowflakes flitted off the corpse’s frozen hand, revealing a Panthers’ mark. Amaranthe never thought she would feel sympathy for gang members, but it seemed these folks were being preyed on from every front.

  Her group traveled along the bottom of the hill fronting the lake. Despite the fresh snow, a handful of young athletes jogged past on their way to the lake trail. It was months until the summer Games, but the dedicated souls trained all year around.

  A wagon loaded with ice rumbled through a cross street, and the driver whistled at Amaranthe. Maldynado snickered, and she quirked an eyebrow at him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Am I supposed to defend your honor when they do that? I’m a little unclear on the boundaries of our agreement.”

  “No, I was just wondering why it was funny.”

  “Because he was eyeing you like he thought you’d be a good time, and you’re...ah...”

  “Reserved?” Books suggested. “Dignified?”

  “No,” Maldynado said. “Do you think you’re a dictionary or something?”

  “A thesaurus perhaps,” Books said.

  “Proper?” Akstyr asked. “She’s kind of proper.”

  “No,” Maldynado said. “It’s more...”

  “Focused,” Sicarius said.

  The others considered, then nodded and grunted agreement of this pinpoint description. Amaranthe smirked; at least dissecting her character together kept them from snapping at each other. She might be able to create a cohesive unit after all.

  “Yes, exactly,” Maldynado said. “You didn’t notice any of the men at the gym last night, I guess because you’re busy with your emperor scheme. You didn’t even look at me when you first saw me, and I was very look-at-able at the time.”

  Amaranthe blushed. She had looked.

  “Praise her good taste,” Books muttered, stepping into the street to avoid a lamppost—or perhaps Maldynado’s glare.

  “Old man,” Maldynado said, “you are crippling my serenity. If you keep insulting me, I might have to come over there and—”

  “Gentlemen,” Amaranthe said. “I believe we’re almost there.”

  She decided to forgo her ambitions of creating a cohesive unit. An occasionally functional one with tendencies toward violence seemed more within reach
.

  They passed the last of the city’s industrial buildings and crossed the railroad tracks skirting the lake. Along the waterfront, fisheries, warehouses, and boatyards reigned, their long docks stretching into the frozen water. In spring and summer, the area would bustle with activity. For now, it lay sedately under its snowy blanket.

  “This is it.” Sicarius stopped before a tottering wooden structure on a dilapidated dock.

  The building hunched over the lake like an old soldier, arthritic from a lifetime’s worth of battle wounds. Icicles hung from the eaves, and frost edged the panes of broken windows. Age-yellowed buoys and frayed nets dangled from the walls, someone’s idea of decorating. Amaranthe touched a splintered piece of cedar siding. It fell off. The odds of this building keeping that creature out were not good.

  She leaned over the edge of the dock. A few feet below, ice and snow gathered around the pylons.

  Akstyr peered in a window. “A fish cannery?”

  “There are bunks inside, and it has a large work space,” Sicarius said. “It’s winter. Nobody human will bother us.”

  And the inhuman? Amaranthe would wait until she had him alone to ask.

  She withdrew a ten-ranmya bill and handed it to Maldynado. “Will you find the nearest market and buy as much food as you can, please?”

  “Will do.” Maldynado trotted up a street running perpendicular to the waterfront.

  “You’re sending him to purchase supplies?” Books asked. “That overgrown fop from the warmonger caste has probably never shopped in his life.”

  “He’ll get a good deal,” Amaranthe said.

  A sizable lock on the front door of the cannery precluded a direct entrance.

  “I bet I can get in.” Akstyr produced a large clip with at least three dozen keys of various shapes and sophistication dangling from it. “I’ve got a couple of skeleton keys that—”

  “Unnecessary,” Sicarius said.

  He led them to the lake side of the building. The lock in the back also remained in place; however, the door had been removed and was leaning against the wall.

  When Amaranthe stepped inside, glass crunched beneath her boots. Weak light filtering through grimy windows, revealing rows of long counters littered with salt, dented cans, and torn labels. Rotting wooden bunk beds lined one wall. Here and there, rats scurried beneath the fish-gut-spattered sawdust spread across the floor. Only the cold kept the smell tolerable. Sort of.