The Emperor's Edge (a high fantasy mystery in an era of steam)

by Lindsay Buroker

  * * * * *

  Ink Alley, a frequent stop for business supply shoppers, meandered through four city blocks. Shops advertised stationery, accounting books, wax and seals, ink, and paper of various weights and sizes. Despite being a well-known destination, the ancient street was narrow, and Amaranthe had to dodge bundle-laden shoppers. Maldynado, who walked at her side, made no apologies for his broad shoulders and let others do the dodging. He did offer a smile if the person happened to be young and female.

  “I gave Books a large portion of my funds,” Amaranthe told him, “so I need you to get me a good deal on paper and ink.”

  “Your big plan involves blackmail and counterfeiting,” Maldynado said. “Why don’t we just steal your printing supplies?”

  “And damage the livelihood of some poor businesswoman trying to make a living? I couldn’t do that.”

  “You need to work on this criminal stuff.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, we don’t need to leave a trail of burglaries that would tell some enforcer investigator what we’re up to.”

  Etchings in the window panes of a shop portrayed old-fashioned ink pots, quills, and scrolls of parchment. Bins of pencils and pens and myriad types of paper lay behind the glass.

  “How about this place?” she asked.

  “Sure. I’ll probably have greater success if you wait outside.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you come in hanging on my arm, it’ll look like I’m not available. Charming women works best if they think they have a chance.”

  Amaranthe hesitated, not sure whether to trust him to get the right items. But, if it meant getting a better deal... “Very well. I’ll write our needs down for you.”

  “I don’t need a shopping list. I’ve got a great memory.”

  “We’ll need rag paper, not pulp-based. And pay attention to the weight. We won’t find an exact match, but we want the closest we can find. Make sure to get printing press ink. Books says it’s made from soot and turpentine and nut oil. Anything else will smear. We’ll need a paper cutter too. And plates, but I’ll select those from an engraving shop.”

  “Rags and what oil?” Maldynado asked.

  “I’ll write it down.”

  “Good idea.”

  After he went inside, Amaranthe continued down the street. Newspaper articles plastered a brick wall near a window, and she stopped, wondering if any mentioned the “bear” slayings. The yellowed clippings only highlighted old stories featuring Ink Alley.

  About to move on, she paused at a reflection in the window. A boy of ten or twelve watched her from across the alley.

  Ensconced in numerous layers of raggedy clothing, he slouched against a wall. When she turned, he yawned and looked away.

  Amaranthe wandered farther down the street. A low rail paralleling a wall offered a place to park bicycles and street skis. She propped her foot on it and peeked under her arm while pretending to adjust the fit of her boot.

  The boy lurched to a stop, hunkered over a trash can, and rummaged through it.

  Great, who set this child to following me? Enforcers used youngsters as informants, since adults tended to ignore them, but she could not assume he was one of theirs. Other people employed youths for similar reasons. Businesses used them to spy on other businesses. Gangs gathered intelligence on rival gangs. Even lovers sent children to watch partners suspected of cheating. Given how long it had been since Amaranthe’s last romantic relationship, she easily eliminated the last possibility.

  A few stores down, she found a shop that sold engraving tools. She stepped inside and browsed the display case nearest the window. The boy appeared again, whistling as he strolled past the shop. He sat against a wall a dozen paces down, took off his fur cap, and begged for coins.

  Definitely watching me.

  “Help you, ma’am?” a clerk asked.

  “I need a couple of metal plates about so big.” Amaranthe outlined the rectangles with her hands. “Better make it four of them.” Akstyr might need to practice first.

  While the clerk wrapped the plates, Amaranthe glanced out the window again. The boy had not moved.

  “Mind if I cut through the back?” she asked after she paid.

  The clerk pointed to the rear exit. Amaranthe entered an ‘alley’ as wide as the front street, though it smelled less pleasant. Discarded food wrappers frozen to the icy cobblestones crinkled beneath her boots. Streaks of yellow decorated the dirty snow piled against the walls.

  Amaranthe knocked on the back door of the ink and paper shop. Nobody answered, so she tried the knob. Unlocked.

  Inside, Maldynado was...posing? Amidst the shelves and cases of paper, he stood with one leg propped on a chair. One of his hands rested on his raised knee, the other on his waist. His jaw jutted toward the ceiling. A seated woman wearing a blouse and a long felt skirt hunched over a sketch pad in her lap, drawing him.

  Amaranthe cleared her throat. “I thought you were—”

  “Yes, yes,” Maldynado said without breaking his pose. “It’s all over there.”

  Three boxes and several wrapped bundles waited on a counter next to a paper cutter. On the way across the room, Amaranthe shot Maldynado a what-are-you-doing look that he ignored. She peered under the lid of the topmost box to make sure he had purchased rag paper. She picked up a sheet and rubbed it between her fingers. It didn’t feel exactly like ranmya paper, but the heft was right. It would have to do.

  “Maldynado, what are you doing?” she asked.

  “Posing.”

  “Why?”

  The woman with the sketch pad frowned over her shoulder at Amaranthe. “Who’s she?” she asked Maldynado.

  “Uhm.”

  “I hope you’re being paid,” Amaranthe told him.

  “What?” he asked.

  The woman’s frown deepened.

  “I suspect she’s going to use your likeness in her advertising literature. Your handsome face will be a marketing gimmick to sell more paper to her predominantly female clientele. That means she’ll make money, so you should too.”

  Maldynado’s chin dropped, and he addressed the artist. “Is that true?”

  The woman shrugged.

  “You said you wanted to immortalize my face in your memory.”

  “And on her promotional pamphlets.” Amaranthe tugged the paper cutter and one of the boxes into her arms, leaving the rest for Maldynado. “Finish up. I’ll wait outside.”

  Before leaving, Amaranthe checked the front window to make sure the boy was not standing out there with his face pressed to the panes. In the alley, she tapped her foot until Maldynado came out the back door with the rest of the supplies.

  “Is there a reason we’re taking the alley?” he asked. “The air is a tad ripe out here.”

  “Unfriendly eyes out front.”

  “Enforcers?”

  “A ten-year-old boy.”

  “Oh, yes. Terrifying.”

  “He’s someone’s spy,” she said.

  “I could go thump him around a bit, find out whose.”

  “Let’s try to avoid child-thumping for now.”

  They walked to the trolley stop, and at every intersection, Amaranthe glanced left and right for the boy. She did not see him again but did not relax until she and Maldynado boarded. He set down the packages, dug out a wad of bills, peeled a couple off the top, and handed them to Amaranthe.

  “Your split.” He winked.

  With a team to feed, she saw no reason to reject it. “You seemed surprised that was what she wanted. I would have thought you’d have run into that kind of situation before. Were you really taken in by her flattery?”

  “We had servants who did the shopping. Never had much reason to interact with those kinds of people.”

  Amaranthe wondered what kind of people he considered her.

  “That was good of you back there,” he added. “To catch that. Maybe after you’re done with your current scheme, we could work together. You can get
me posing gigs. I’ll be pretty and you can be...”

  “Your agent?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Assuming I survive this, I haven’t thought too closely about what my next career should be.” She had never wanted a ‘next career.’ “I’ll remember your offer though.”

  “Excellent, boss.”

  Amaranthe smiled. Maldynado seemed to be loose with who he called boss, and she doubted it came with any heartfelt feeling of indenture—he had left his previous employer quickly enough—but the title warmed her nonetheless. Maybe she had earned a modicum of his respect.

  None of the others were there when Amaranthe and Maldynado returned to the cannery, though two knotted ropes hung from the rafters, their tufted ends dangling a foot from the floor.

  Thank you, Sicarius.

  “What are those for?” Maldynado asked.

  “Calisthenics.”

  Afternoon light flowed through the cracked and missing windows, and dust motes floated in the air. Dust floated everywhere, Amaranthe corrected. And coated everything. How could she possibly plot a government coup in a filthy base reeking of fish guts?

  After some searching, she found a closet with cleaning supplies cowering under grime dating back to the Bronze Era. She strode triumphantly out with mop in one hand and broom in the other. Maldynado had dumped the ink and boxes on a counter. He leaned against it and watched her warily.

  “How about I sweep and you mop?” Amaranthe asked.

  He eyed the cleaning implements with the enthusiasm of a child debating a plate of spinach and liver. “My father used to warn me that gambling would land me in jail or the poorhouse. He neglected to mention indentured cleaning.”

  “I could mop and you could sweep.”

  “Oh, gee. Much better.” Sighing, Maldynado accepted the broom.

  Hours later, Amaranthe surveyed the cannery with satisfaction. Despite Maldynado’s propensity for using the broom to spar with imaginary foes instead of sweeping, the hardwood floors gleamed. The now-pristine counters would allow them to work without worrying about sawdust or fish guts sticking to their bills.

  She wondered where Sicarius had gone. Even his daily training ought not take all afternoon.

  Akstyr returned before any of the others.

  “I need Maldynado,” he blurted as soon as he entered.

  If he noticed, or cared about, the new cleanliness of the cannery, he did not show it.

  “Why?” Amaranthe asked.

  “To help with the press.”

  “You found one? Good. Is somebody going to deliver it with a steam wagon?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then how—”

  “Don’t worry. Books has a plan. But we need Maldynado.”

  “Even he isn’t big enough to port a printing press on his back.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

  “You’re not going to steal a wagon, are you?”

  “No, no. Maldynado, you coming?”

  Maldynado shrugged and shuffled over to join Akstyr at the door.

  Amaranthe leaned on one of the counters and frowned at Akstyr. “Why can’t you tell me what you’re doing?”

  “Because it’s Books’s plan.”

  “Yes, you said that. I notice he’s not here, however.”

  “I know.” Akstyr grinned. “He didn’t want to explain it.”

  “Maybe I should come with you.”

  “No, no. We don’t need you. Why don’t you make dinner? It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Akstyr dragged Maldynado outside.

  “Telling someone not to worry three times is not the way to ensure it doesn’t happen,” she muttered.

  Through a window, she watched the two men trot up the hill. She lifted her index finger to her lips, found the nail already chewed to the quick, and started in on her thumb.

  After chewing and pacing for a while, she decided to follow Akstyr’s suggestion. A master chef she was not, but they were working for her—for free—so she could certainly prepare some food.

  Before dusk settled, she dragged in metal barrels from a neighboring dock and started a couple fires for light and warmth. For dinner, she laid out ham slices, flat bread, carrots, and dried apples on ‘plates’ pilfered from the building’s siding. Just as she set out a jug of cider, shouts came from outside.

  Amaranthe ran out the back of the cannery, skidding on the snowy dock. After Akstyr’s admonitions, she expected the worst. She slid around the edge of the building in time to see a large makeshift sled barreling down the snowy hill. A bulky canvas-wrapped object rode on it. The press?

  Maldynado perched atop it like a lizard rider from the desert. He leaned left and right in a semblance of steering. Shouting with glee, or maybe terror, he weaved and wobbled down the slick street with Books and Akstyr pounding after him. Runners scraped on sand and ice. The press slid from side to side, barely restrained by the flimsy rope tying it to the sled.

  Amaranthe glanced up and down the waterfront, afraid someone would see the strange scene. Counterfeiters were supposed to be inconspicuous. Maldynado whooped, voice ringing from the buildings. Amaranthe shook her head. This was not inconspicuous. Fortunately, twilight had brought the end of the work day, and no one remained on the streets to witness this un-clandestine delivery method.

  Through some feat of agility or raw strength, Maldynado and his cargo stopped in front of the cannery instead of skidding out onto the lake. Books and Akstyr came slipping after, shouting and laughing at their success.

  “That was fun,” Maldynado said, eyes bright, lips peeled back in a toothy grin.

  “I want a turn,” Akstyr said.

  Only Books had the sense to peer uncertainly at Amaranthe.

  “Whose idea was this?” She struggled to keep her voice even.

  Akstyr and Maldynado pointed at Books in unison.

  “We found it in the back room of a bookseller who’s closing her business,” Books said. “She was willing to sell it cheaply. It’s an archaic model, maybe the first one ever made if the rust is any indication, but I’m certain I can get it working. As for our arrival...” He cleared his throat. “It occurred to me that the bookshop, though many blocks away, is almost in a straight line from our current location and, uhm, at a rather higher elevation.”

  “I see. Well, this was...” Something that could have attracted attention. Something that could have gotten one of them injured or killed. An insane idea that could have seen the printing press go careening onto the lake, through the ice, and straight to the bottom. “Inspired. Very clever of you, Books. I’m glad it worked. Thank you all.” So, this is command. If Hollowcrest doesn’t kill me, these men surely will. “Let’s get it inside.”

  It took the group longer to manhandle the press into the cannery than it had to move it several blocks. Amaranthe chose the corner farthest from the street to set up. Through it all, Maldynado sported a grin he would probably wear to bed.

  “There’s more to be done,” Amaranthe said, “but relax and have some dinner first.”

  The men mauled the neatly spread table like bears crushing a hive to extract honey. She salvaged a hunk of ham and some apple slices for herself. While munching, she examined the press.

  Dents gouged the wooden frame, and rust coated the screw and most of the metal joints. She doubted the press was functional at the moment. Remembering some oil and wire dish cloths from the supply closet, she retrieved the implements and set to work on the rust.

  Books came over to help. “Have you figured out how to make the plates yet?”

  “Yes.” She squirted oil between grooves on the giant screw and scrubbed with the wire mesh.

  “We better board the windows. You do realize this is treason and death for all of us if we’re caught?”

  “We’re not going to be caught.”

  “Counterfeiters are always caught eventually,” Books said. “Debasing the currency is too much of a threat for the government to be anything less than hyper
-vigilant.”

  “People get caught because they try to pass the money. That’s not our plan.” She wiped a rag over the loosened rust and met Books’s eyes. “If we’re discovered, I’ll do everything I can to make time for you and the others to escape.”

  “Sicarius too?” he asked with a hint of amusement.

  “If Sicarius is discovered, I’ll have to try and make time for the enforcers to escape.”

  Books snorted but did not disagree.

  Sicarius returned late that night. He walked directly to Amaranthe and handed her a folded poster. She opened it and found herself staring at her own likeness. She had expected it. The details, however, surprised her.

  Amaranthe Lokdon wanted for attempted sedition and illegal magic use. Do not attempt to apprehend. Kill on sight. By order of Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest.

  “Magic use?” she asked. “I didn’t even know the stuff existed until last week.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sicarius said. “Hollowcrest has learned of your survival and fears what you know. You must move around the city with caution.”

  “Kill on sight,” she said.

  “You get used to it.”

  Amaranthe searched his face for humor. There was none.