* * * * *
The gargantuan stone structure that gave Pyramid Park its name hogged four city blocks in the middle of the business district. Thousands of years old, the pyramid had been confounding city planners throughout imperial history. Various administrations had attempted everything from dismantling it to selling storage space inside. It had taken a graduate from Amaranthe’s school to make the structure profitable. The woman had bought the land and turned the old pyramid, with its labyrinthine tunnels and burial chambers, into a tourist destination replete with guides, food stands, and shops hawking tacky replicas. That was in the summer. In the winter, the pyramid stood silent and abandoned, locked steel grates barring the interior from the curious.
Amaranthe arrived at the park an hour before midnight. On the chance Sicarius was the type to likewise arrive early, she wanted to out-early him. More, she wanted to see him coming, and the top of the pyramid was the one place in Stumps that assured that opportunity. Thanks to previous vandalism problems, it was also well lit, with gas lamps lining the walkways and even the steps of the looming structure.
Though she had debated on a public meeting spot, she doubted a room full of people would keep Sicarius from killing her if things went badly. No, she would meet him alone, without distractions. The better to analyze him.
Nodding to herself, she strode toward the base of the pyramid. Stairs on the west side, slick from snow that had melted during the day and refrozen, led to the top. The steps were high but shallow, as if their makers had possessed tiny feet and abnormally long strides. The steepness and the lack of a railing made Amaranthe’s ascent cautious.
A single gas lamp burned at the top. She could cross the platform in five strides and see the lights of the city sprawled out in all three directions. Only to the west, where the frozen lake stretched, lay darkness. Four columns supported a flat stone roof adorned with a foot of snow. In the center of the platform, an altar held a headless statue. Two wings, clawed feet, and the suggestion of a furry chest remained. People had worshipped some odd things in those days.
Amaranthe slipped a mitten-clad hand into her parka and withdrew the thin stiletto that had replaced her enforcer-issue knife and sword. She examined the blade without enthusiasm. It was a believable weapon for a businesswoman to carry, but it felt flimsy to her.
“An infamous assassin is coming to meet me and I’m armed with a letter opener,” she muttered.
Amaranthe hid the weapon. If she got into a fight with him, it meant she had already fouled up beyond redemption anyway. Comforting thought.
She checked her pocket watch. Midnight.
Not a single person walked the streets near the park. She made a fist and dropped her chin on it. What if he didn’t come? What if Mitsy had not believed Amaranthe’s story and hadn’t sent the message? What if Sicarius had received the message but had seen through it?
She turned to check the view from the other side of the platform.
He was there.
Amaranthe jumped, dropping her watch. It clanked against the frozen stone and skidded into the base of the pedestal. Sicarius’s eyes never left her face. He was leaning against one of the back pillars, his arms folded across his chest.
Unlucky fallen ancestors, she cursed silently. How had he gotten up here without using the stairs? How long had he been there? Had he seen her checking the knife?
To give herself a moment to recover her composure, Amaranthe bent to pick up the watch. She wondered if her mittens hid how much her fingers shook as she grasped it.
As she slowly stood, her gaze traveled up his black boots, fitted black trousers, tucked-in black shirt, an armory’s worth of daggers and throwing knives, and came to rest on his face. He was the person from the sketch, no doubt, but unlike the menacing image Hollowcrest had given her, this man’s face bore no emotion at all. By the flames of the lamp, his eyes appeared black, and they gave no indication of feeling—or humanity.
He had the bronze skin of a Turgonian, but that pale blond hair was rare in the empire. It was short and damp around the edges. Whoever had cut it looked to have used hedge clippers instead of scissors.
“Thank you for being prompt,” Amaranthe said, relieved her voice didn’t waver or crack.
He said nothing. His eyes never left hers.
It was unnerving, though she dared not show it. It was time to play the role she had designed for herself. If he agreed to the job, they would travel together to Amaranthe’s fictitious warehouse in Itansa, which would involve a four-day locomotive ride. He would sleep sometime, and she would fulfill Hollowcrest’s mission then. Assassinate the assassin.
She remembered a piece of advice from a marketing class. Start out asking potential customers questions they have to answer with yes. Consistency is your ally. People are more likely to say yes to a sale after a string of positive responses. Just don’t let them start out saying no.
She cleared her throat. “I’m Amaranthe Lokdon. You are Sicarius, correct?”
“You know who I am.”
“Are you as good as they say?”
“You asked for me by name. Frequently.”
Amaranthe tried to decide if his words implied suspicion. His tone never fluctuated. Like his face, his voice betrayed nothing of his thoughts.
“That doesn’t answer my question.” She smiled.
“You have work to propose. Do so.”
So much for the get-them-to-say-yes strategy.
“Very well,” Amaranthe said. “I need to move some machinery across the border to buyers in Kendor. Since sharing technology with outsiders is illegal, I anticipate trouble from the soldiers who inspect the ports. I’ve tried bribes before with little luck. I need someone who can handle them, in whatever way deemed best, should they try to block the shipment. I’ve heard you’re not squeamish about such things.”
Sicarius stared at her, eyes hard and unwavering. Amaranthe forced herself to meet his gaze, lest he suspect her of dishonesty.
“I decline,” Sicarius said.
“What? Why?”
“You are lying,” he said and passed her, heading for the stairs.
Desperation dawned—this was her only chance!—but she kept herself from reaching for the stiletto. There was no way someone with his experience would fail to anticipate a stab in the back at this moment.
She noticed something that made her freeze: a small smudge of red dirt on the back of his boot. Not dirt, finely crushed brick, and there was only one place in Stumps where one might walk in that. She knew the stuff intimately because she wiped it off her shoes every morning after a run. Then she remembered his damp hair. By the time Sicarius reached the bottom and glided into the darkness, she had a new plan.
“I may be a liar,” she muttered to herself, “but I know where you spend your evenings.”
The Emperor's Edge (a high fantasy mystery in an era of steam) Page 6
