Chapter 20
The basement had changed little since Amaranthe’s first visit. She had feared the remodeling project might be completed as she raced down flights of stairs, her men thundering behind. Thus she was relieved to see the mess: the freshly-dug pit, a tarp-draped pallet of bricks next to it, coils of rope, and, yes, the concrete mixer was still parked against the wall. The four-wheeled machine with its vertical boiler, cylindrical mixer, and driver’s cab looked to be operable—all she needed was time to start it up.
Amaranthe ran through the arena, lighting lanterns and barking orders. “Books, figure out a way to drop that pallet in the pit on command.”
Books gawked at the bricks. “They must weigh a ton. There’s no time.”
“You’ve got ten minutes. Akstyr and Basilard will help you. Maldynado, we need to get this engine started.”
She checked the level in the boiler, then added water from barrels standing by for that purpose. She threw open the grate to the engine’s firebox and shoveled coal in. The wood handle rubbed against her palm, which was raw from grabbing the burning brand, but she gritted her teeth against the pain.
“Uhm,” Maldynado said, “I think you need to start with kindling before—”
“Just jump into the cab and figure out how to drive this thing.”
Amaranthe lit a piece of cloth with her lamp, then shattered the kerosene oil cache on the coals. She dropped the burning cloth on top. Flames surged to life.
She bounced from foot to foot and watched the others while waiting for the fire to grow and produce enough heat to power the engine. Books and Akstyr took the tarp from the top of the stack of bricks and wrapped it around the side facing the pit. Basilard tied ropes from the corners to the overhead beam. Books found a jack and wedged it under the far side of the pallet after reinforcing the bottom with a sheet of metal. Laboriously, he cranked the lever up and down. Amaranthe ran over to help.
Despite the leverage the jack provided, sweat soon ran down both their faces. As one side of the pallet lifted higher than the other, the bricks shifted toward the pit. A few fell in, but the makeshift sling held the rest back. Basilard sat astride the beam, knife drawn, ready to cut the ropes restraining the bricks.
Amaranthe threw another rope up to him. “For Sicarius.”
Basilard tied one end around the beam and let the other dangle into the pit.
“I think it’s ready,” Maldynado called, voice vibrating along with the machine.
The mixer quivered under the pressure of pent up steam. Amaranthe called Books and Akstyr over to help. They lifted barrels containing dry aggregates and dumped them into the churning cylinder. A trough of water followed. With little construction experience, she could only guess at the ratio. There was no time to experiment.
With Amaranthe guiding him, Maldynado backed the concrete mixer to the pit opposite the bricks.
And then they waited.
The mixer rumbled, its cylinder spinning. Maldynado sat with his hand on the lever that would pour the wet concrete. Above, Basilard waited on the beam. The others stood on the far side of the pit, gazes transfixed on the stairs. Amaranthe chewed on her pinky nail—the only finger with more than a nub available.
“This is too obvious,” she said. “It’s not going to work.”
“The beast threw itself out a window,” Books said. “It’s not bright.”
“I’ve thrown myself out a window recently,” Amaranthe said, remembering her fall from Hollowcrest’s office.
“Oh.”
“It’s been more than fifteen minutes, hasn’t it?” she asked.
“I believe so, yes,” Books said.
“If he doesn’t make it, one of us will have to find the creature and try to lure it back,” she said.
Akstyr snorted. “If Sicarius can’t stay ahead of it, none of us can.”
Amaranthe was dwelling on that unpleasant reality when a familiar voice shouted, “Incoming!” from the top of the stairs.
Sicarius raced down the steps five at a time, the beast riding his heels. Without slowing, he took in the scenario, sprinted through the basement, and leapt for the rope dangling over the pit.
The soul construct jumped after him. Sicarius caught and scrambled up the rope.
The beast twisted in midair to rake a massive paw across his back. Claws glinted. Sicarius kicked it in the face. Gravity caught up with the creature, and it plummeted into the pit.
“Now!” Amaranthe shouted.
Basilard cut the rope, and the bricks crashed in.
In the cab, Maldynado yanked the lever. The concrete came slower, and Amaranthe held her breath as it oozed into the pit. Below, bricks shuddered and shifted. When the mixer had dumped its load, only half the pit was filled.
The moist pile trembled. The creature was still alive...and trying to escape.
“Back the truck in too!” Amaranthe shouted.
Maldynado jammed it into reverse and jumped out of the cab. Rear first, the mixer crashed onto the top of the pile, sinking partway into the soft concrete.
Amaranthe held her breath as she watched the pit for movement. Her heartbeats felt thunderous in the sudden silence. Nothing moved.
Finally, Sicarius swung from the rope and landed in a crouch beside her, fingers pressed against the floor. Blood saturated his ravaged shirt. Three slashes across his lower back laid open the material, along with the skin and muscle beneath it.
“Watch the pit,” Amaranthe told Akstyr.
She knelt by Sicarius. “Are you...?”
“Fine.”
Despite the declaration, he did not rush to stand up. His breathing had already returned to normal, but sweat bathed his skin and drenched his hair and clothing. Blood dripped onto the floor.
“Take off your shirt,” Amaranthe told him.
“How come you never say that to me?” Maldynado asked.
“Because seeing you topless would confirm our suspicions that you’re related to yetis,” Books said.
“Actually,” Amaranthe said, as Sicarius pulled off his shirt and handed it to her, “I’ll watch the pit. Why don’t you gentlemen go look for Larocka?” She wadded up the shirt and pressed it to the wounds to stop the blood flow.
“She was standing in the doorway when we killed the wizard,” Akstyr said.
Her breath caught, and Amaranthe stared at him for a stunned moment before speaking. “How much did she see?”
“I don’t know. She ran away when I looked at her.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Sicarius was doing his big showdown with Hollowcrest.” Akstyr shrugged. “I got distracted.”
“Just go find her,” Amaranthe said.
The men trooped off, and silence returned to the basement.
“I’m sorry,” she told Sicarius.
“For what?” he asked.
“Getting you mauled.”
“This is a far better outcome than I would have guessed possible a few minutes ago.” Sicarius turned his head to regard her, a faint frown tugging at his lips. Perhaps his injuries were too distracting for him to maintain the usual façade.
“What?” she asked.
“Barring tonight, I’ve lived as long as I have because I’ve never underestimated my enemies. You keep...exceeding my expectations.”
“Thank you,” she said, more pleased than she would admit, “but not everyone is your enemy.”
“Whether realized or not,” he said, “everyone you talk to is trying to use you to further his own interests. You must always be ready to protect yourself.”
“There are such things as friends,” Amaranthe said.
“That does not negate my statement. Friendship is as selfish as any other relationship, perhaps more so because it masquerades as something noble. I am more comfortable with those who approach me with blades drawn.”
“I suppose this will disappoint you,” Amaranthe said, “but I’d rather be your friend than your enemy. I’ll try not to make
you suffer too much from the association.”
He looked away. “I am not...disappointed.”
She put her free hand on his shoulder. “You’ve exceeded my expectations too.”
Amaranthe lightened her pressure on the wounds and peeled back a corner of the shirt. Most of the bleeding had stopped, but the gashes needed to be stitched.
“Sit down on the bleachers,” she said. “I’ll hunt for suturing supplies.”
Given the nature of the entertainment here, well-stocked medical kits seemed likely.
“Sicarius?” Amaranthe asked as she poked through desk drawers in the bettors’ cage. “You don’t owe me any answers or explanations, but there’s one thing I’ve been wondering since the day we met—well, since the day you didn’t kill me when you should have. Why do you care about the emperor? What are you to him?”
“An enemy.”
She frowned, considered her words, and rearranged them. “What is the emperor to you?”
Those lips stayed shut. At least he wasn’t glaring threateningly at her as he had the last time she pried into his past.
As she checked cabinets, Amaranthe mulled over Hollowcrest’s words in the parlor. Almost until the end, he had believed Sicarius would return to his side. Like a father speaking to a son he thought he knew—or perhaps an old general addressing a soldier he had supervised from the earliest days. Just how long had Sicarius worked for Hollowcrest? How long had he had access to the Imperial Barracks? Maybe Sicarius had been around when Sespian was growing up. Maybe Sicarius had developed an affection for him. Only one problem. Sicarius was about as affectionate as a freshly blooded dagger. As practical as he was, she could not imagine him forming an emotional attachment to someone just because they had passed in the halls for a few years. Look at what he had done to Hollowcrest. There had to be a greater bond.
She found bandages, suturing thread, and scissors, and returned to the bleachers. A new thought came to her, and she hesitated.
“Are you related?”
There was not an obvious resemblance, but they did have the same dark eyes. Sicarius could even draw, if dispassionately compared to the emperor.
“Brothers?” she went on. “One trained to rule the empire, one to defend it?”
Sicarius snorted.
“No,” Amaranthe said. “If that were true, you would have been the heir. You’re at least ten years older.” She studied his face. It was unlined and he had the speed and strength of youth, but he was too experienced at too many things to be mistaken for a young man. “Maybe fifteen or more,” she said slowly, her mind edging toward an idea that was nothing short of blasphemous. She tried to squash it and look for other—less seditious—possibilities, but once acknowledged, the thought grew like a plant steeped in sun and fertilizer.
Sicarius, watching her face even as she watched his, sighed and looked away. When did we get to know each other so well that he can see my thoughts?
“Sespian is your son,” Amaranthe said.
For the first time, his silence was readable. Yes.
Amaranthe stared at the floor, almost wishing she hadn’t asked. This meant Raumesys had left no true heir. Sespian’s claim to rule was only through his mother and therefore no better than a dozen others. If anyone found out, nothing short of civil war would follow. Bloody years of infighting in which the empire’s copious enemies could strike while the soldiers were distracted choosing sides and fighting each other. In the end, some jaded old general, some vague relation of Raumesys’s, would end up in power. Little chance of the next emperor having any of Sespian’s tolerance or progressive passion. She imagined some contemporary of Hollowcrest’s on the throne and felt sick. Though it might make her a traitor to the empire, she would take this secret to her funeral pyre.
She turned her attention to Sicarius, feeling a guilty twinge that her first thoughts had been political. “Hollowcrest obviously didn’t know. Sespian doesn’t either, does he?”
A minute shake of the head confirmed this.
“If you told him, he’d probably abdicate the throne,” Amaranthe said, sure the emperor’s conscience would trouble him into that route. “But perhaps you two would have a chance for...something, a relationship. From my brief meetings with him, I got the feeling Sespian has led a lonely life.”
“He has. Thrusting this knowledge into it would not improve matters. He has read my records. He knows everyone I tortured and killed for Raumesys and Hollowcrest. And since. He’s the one who put the bounty on my head. I am likely the only person in the world he truly wants dead.”
“You might...”
Might what, Amaranthe? What are you going to suggest he do? Change? Repent his cold-hearted assassin ways? Mourn for those he’s killed? Become someone Sespian might admire? Be a good person? Sicarius might not scoff out loud, but surely that would be his mental reaction. He was too pragmatic to give up his system, however callous, for something less effective. That he cared for his son did not mean he felt any concern for people in general. Asking him to change would accomplish nothing.
“You might find it easier to protect Sespian if you were at his side,” was all she said.
“That was my plan once. But I underestimated his...idealism. He would not employ a killer, even to his benefit. I should have foreseen that.”
Amaranthe smiled gently. “It is difficult to understand those who are least like ourselves.”
Sicarius twitched an eyebrow. “You understand me.”
“Hm.”
She laid out the medical supplies on the bench, filled a bucket with clean water, and sat behind him. The wounds must have stung, but Sicarius did not flinch when she washed them. She picked up the needle and considered the task before her. It would be better to find a surgeon to sew up the gashes, but she did not know where to look in this neighborhood at this time of night. Anyway, a part of her liked the idea of being the one to help him. He had saved her life a number of times over the last two weeks, and now she could do something for him.
She slid her hand across his back. Surprisingly, no other scars marred his flesh. Even relaxed, his muscles were like steel, each distinct and delineated beneath warm skin. Sicarius looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. She blushed and bent to thread the needle. Medics probably weren’t supposed to ogle their patients.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have some wicked scars,” Amaranthe said.
“I’ll survive,” he said.
“A little soon to say that. You haven’t felt the prod of my inexperienced needle yet.”
“Surely as an enforcer, you’ve had combat medic training.”
“Training, yes. Real-world experience, no. Unless you count the times I did this on dolls.”
“Dolls?”
“Memela, the woman who watched me while my father worked, gave me the dolls her children had played with growing up. They were a little battered from use, so I frequently had to put the stuffing back in and sew the rips.”
“It’s the same principle,” Sicarius said.
He looked over his shoulder again.
“What?” she asked.
“Dolls.” His eyes crinkled.
Amused, was he?
“What’s wrong with dolls? I am a girl, you know.”
Sicarius turned his head back forward. Amaranthe was about to start on the first wound when he spoke again.
“I’ll wager you lined them up and ordered them around like a general commanding his troops.”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
She had finished stitching Sicarius’s back when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Amaranthe expected one of her men, but it was a servant in the crimson house uniform. Sicarius stood. The servant approached them slowly, eyeing the bare-chested Sicarius. He looked even more intimating without a shirt on.
“I mean you no trouble. Please don’t hurt me.” The servant’s voice squeaked. He fingered a sealed envelope. “My mistress bade me deliver this message to you.” He crept toward Sicarius, the
hand with the envelope trembling.
“Your mistress is Larocka?” Amaranthe asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is she in the house?”
“I really can’t say, ma’am.”
As soon as Sicarius took the envelope, the servant darted away. Amaranthe worried Sicarius would follow, perhaps torture the man for information, but the message arrested his attention. He broke the seal on the envelope, slid out a folded sheet of stationery, and read.
Only one line marked the paper. Nonetheless, Sicarius stared at the words for a long moment.
“What does it say?” she finally asked.
Stiffly, Sicarius handed the note to her.
You killed my love. Before dawn, I shall burn your son alive.
“Son,” Amaranthe croaked. “How could she know? How many people have you told?”
“Just you.”
“That means...she was listening.”
Sicarius’s head jerked up, and his eyes scanned the ceiling, walls, and shadows. But there was no one else in the basement. With Arbitan dead, Larocka could not have access to the mental sciences, could she?
Sicarius grabbed a fallen brick and ran to the wall nearest the bleachers where they had been talking. He tapped the stone as he moved along it. Clanks echoed through the basement.
A more mundane possibility, Amaranthe realized. She grabbed a brick too. Soon the clanks turned to hollow thuds.
“There,” she said.
She and Sicarius dropped the bricks and slid their hands along the cool stone. Rough and porous, it would conceal secret entrances well. Amaranthe almost missed the hairline crack running vertically up the wall.
“Over here,” she said.
Sicarius shifted to her side, and he was the one to find the button. With a click, a portion of the wall swung backward. Inside was a chair, shelves, a tall cabinet, and a writing desk. On the back wall, a ladder rose into the upper levels of the house.
Amaranthe walked into the room. “How many secret passages does this place have?”
Standing mute at the entrance, Sicarius seemed stunned—or horrified.
Amaranthe touched the wooden seat in front of the desk. “She must have heard everything.”
Sicarius slammed his fist into the cabinet. Amaranthe jumped. Wood splintered and gave, and his hand went straight through. Jaw clenched, he yanked his arm free. Blood ran down his fingers and dripped onto the stone floor.
Amaranthe stared, open-mouthed. His back was to her, and both hands curled into white-knuckled fists. She had never seen him lose his composure.
She licked her lips. “It’s not too late, Sicarius. We can save him. We just have to figure out where she’d go to—”
Sicarius stalked out the door.
“Wait, please.” Amaranthe followed him. “I’m sorry, but if you’d just listen to me—”
Sicarius spun on her, eyes raging. She skittered back and bumped into the wall.
“Listen to you?” he snarled. “This is your fault. All your questions. Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Hollowcrest and Arbitan are dead. Everything would be fine now. But you had to pry. And, fool I am, I let you.” Anguish warped his face. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”
Without waiting for an answer, he whirled and raced out of the basement. Shocked by his outburst, Amaranthe could not answer right away. Tears stung her eyes. Long after he disappeared up the stairs, she whispered, “Because I care.”
The Emperor's Edge (a high fantasy mystery in an era of steam) Page 46
