Chapter 7

Pain pulsed behind Sespian’s eyes. The words on the page blurred and danced. The medical journal from the Kyatt Islands was written in a language he wasn’t fluent in, but Kyattese used the same alphabet as Turgonian, and he had a language dictionary to reference. The translating should not be so hard.

Sespian slammed his pen down and grabbed his hair. What was wrong with him?

“Problem, Sire?” came a voice from the doorway.

Hollowcrest strolled into the library with a handful of papers. He stopped next to the table. Under his feet sprawled a massive floor medallion that depicted the muscled bulk of Agroth, the founder of Turgonia and the first emperor. From Sespian’s viewpoint, it looked like the ancient warrior’s sword tip was poking Hollowcrest in the ass—a rather pleasant notion.

“No,” Sespian said.

“Why are you reading that?” Hollowcrest frowned down at the book.

“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. When I woke up, the surgeon said nothing, but people my age aren’t supposed to collapse on the steps of their homes for no reason.” Now, if Hollowcrest pitched down some stairs, that’d be more understandable, but the lean old gargoyle would probably live forever.

“Yes, we should discuss that.” Hollowcrest slid into the chair across the table. “Surgeon Darrik was reluctant to speak his findings to you, but he confided in me.”

“Did he.” Sespian leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and eyed Hollowcrest.

“He was concerned you might not take his findings well and didn’t want to deliver them himself.”

A flutter vexed Sespian’s stomach. “What findings?”

Hollowcrest set down his papers, propped his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. “There is a possibility—we don’t know for certain, mind you—that you have a brain tumor.”

The utter silence in the library made it possible for Sespian to hear his breaths quicken. “No.” He stared at his notes without seeing them. “No, I don’t believe that. I’m not that sick. I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s just…”

What? He had no idea. That was the problem.

“We’re not certain, so there’s always hope it’ll be something less problematic.” An attempt at a sympathetic smile creased Hollowcrest’s weathered face. “It would explain your headaches, though, and your fainting episode.”

“I didn’t faint, I passed out in a manly way,” Sespian muttered. “I’m probably not getting enough exercise or the right kind of food. Or something. I’m sure it’s not a tumor. The whole idea is just ludicrous. I’m too young. I haven’t done anything I wanted to do yet. I…” He barely heard his own words. He couldn’t believe this.

“There is, perhaps, still time to leave a legacy.” Hollowcrest pushed the sheets of paper across the table.

“What’s this?” Sespian grabbed them and looked at the top page. His hands were trembling. “A picture of a woman? What is this supposed to—”

“A suitable prospect for marriage,” Hollowcrest said. “There are several ladies there, all of flawless warrior caste bloodlines, all of child-bearing age.”

Sespian stared at the old man. “You just told me I’m going to die soon, and now you want me to get married?”

“As you’ve said, Sire, you’ve had little time to fulfill your desires as emperor. Do you not, before you die, want to at least produce an heir to carry on your blood and one day rule the empire?”

Sespian started to respond but stopped. Something was very wrong here. He needed to think before he spoke. Why were his thoughts so fuzzy? It seemed like a child’s puzzle was before him, but someone had blown out the lamps, and he had to assemble it in the dark.

He took the papers, stood, and walked to a window overlooking the snowy banks piled against the courtyard walls. If he died, leaving a babe behind, Hollowcrest could end up as regent for the next eighteen years. Theoretically, Sespian could name another regent, but would anyone listen to his mandates? As Sespian had so recently seen, Hollowcrest had the full support of the guards. Everyone else snapped to obey his orders as well.

I’m just a figurehead. It was so obvious; why had it eluded him all year? He kept trying to insinuate his ideas, but he crashed against walls everywhere he turned. It was as if Hollowcrest had never really stepped down as regent.

How had Sespian let it all come to pass?

He could feel Hollowcrest’s eyes boring into his back, so he pretended to peruse the papers. It was time to do some snooping and figure out exactly what Hollowcrest was doing.

“Take your time, Sire.” A chair scraped as Hollowcrest stood. “Let me know if you wish to speak further, or please talk to the surgeon anytime if you have questions.”

“I will.” Sespian had no doubt the surgeon was ready with just the answers Hollowcrest wanted him to have.

Once he was alone, Sespian lowered the papers and returned to the table. The book and his notes were gone.

• • • • •

Dreams and reality meshed for Amaranthe, creating a fevered realm of fear and confusion. Nightmares of Hollowcrest, enforcers, and those dreadful bugs mingled in her head. Sometimes she saw a tiny room with wooden plank walls and metal beams on the ceiling. Perhaps those were her waking moments. During them, she was alone and afraid.

In one of her dreams, Sicarius appeared, accompanied by a pale-skinned man with tattoos and long braids of gray hair. They spoke in a foreign language. The stranger touched her forehead, chanting as he traced symbols on her skin with a gnarled finger. Confused and alarmed, she tried to pull away, but Sicarius held her down. The ritual had the feel of an ancient death ceremony done by a priest to send her spirit off to some hypothetical afterworld. Amaranthe struggled to retain consciousness, afraid every slip into blackness would be permanent, but it swallowed her again.

• • • • •

She woke alert and fever-free in the wooden room she had seen in her dream. Surprised, she struggled to prop herself up on her elbow. The effort made her heartbeat leap to double time.

A kerosene lantern squatting on a desk provided dim illumination. She was lying on a cot against a wall opposite a closed door. The only other pieces of furniture were a wooden chair and a stove burning next to a stocked coal bin.

A sickly odor permeated the air. Amaranthe lifted the scratchy wool blanket draping her and sniffed. Great. She was the source. Someone had removed her soiled clothing, but she badly needed a bath.

Abruptly, she laughed. Who cared if she reeked? She was alive!

But where was she?

On the nearest wall, a large rectangular panel of wood hung from hinges like some makeshift shutter. Curiosity won out over fatigue. She wrapped the blanket about herself and sloughed off the cot. Despite the heat radiating from the stove, the scuffed and dented wood floor wept coldness. She propped the panel open with a stick apparently there for the purpose. An optimist would have called the rectangular opening underneath a window. She decided “ragged hole sawed in the planks” was more accurate.

She looked out upon an enormous icehouse. One- to two-foot wide blocks formed a frozen mountain that stretched into the rafters. Her room was almost as high. A metal staircase to her right led down to the sawdust-strewn floor.

Motion drew her eye. Sicarius. He had pulled out a few blocks and was practicing kicks and punches from atop them. With agility that would have embarrassed a cat, he hopped from one slick perch to the next. Sometimes he spun and kicked midair, yet he never slipped when he landed. She expected him to look up and acknowledge her—without a doubt he had heard that panel creak up—but he continued his routine without pause.

Amaranthe dropped her forearms on the edge and watched him. Despite the chilly environs, he wore no shirt. Since his usual black shirts were fitted, the sculptors-would-pay-me-to-model physique wasn’t a surprise, but it was…eye-catching. The way his relaxed body flowed like water curling along its course before it contracted into steel for a strike was mesmerizing. He went into a series of open-handed blocks, each a demonstration in economy of motion, each followed by what she imagined were joint locks. With those shoulders, he would have no trouble twisting someone’s arm off.

After a long moment, she snapped herself out of her gawk with a shake of the head and a self-mocking snort. All right, girl, we are not going to be attracted to the amoral assassin.

Amaranthe moved away from the window and noticed a newspaper on the desk. The front-page headline gave her a start. Rogue Bear Kills Two More on Wharf Street.

“Bear?” she muttered. “Did a sober journalist write that?”

Paper in hand, she slumped down on the hard chair. Stumps was surrounded by hundreds of miles of farmlands and orchards. One rarely saw a raccoon in the city, and she couldn’t remember ever hearing of a bear sighting. A bear killing people sounded even more unlikely.

The Wharf Street part stood out for a different reason. She glanced toward the window and the frozen stacks beyond. All the ice houses in the city were near the docks, which meant this building was close to—maybe right on—Wharf Street. Something new to worry about. Wonderful.

Reading the story wasn’t enlightening, and she couldn’t help but think back to Hollowcrest’s admission that the papers didn’t always print the truth.

After finishing, she grimaced at the date. Assuming it was today’s paper, she had lost four days between the dungeon and the sickness. Only two and a half weeks remained until the emperor’s birthday celebration. What could she possibly do to stop Hollowcrest and Forge in so little time?

She had no money, no weapons, no idea who comprised Forge, nothing. She needed an ally, but now that she was on the less desirable side of the law, she could hardly go to her enforcer friends for help. The only one she could ask was someone already marked as a criminal….

Amaranthe laid the paper on the desk, edges lined up with the corner, and walked back to the window. Now Sicarius was sprinting through some sort of twisty footwork course he had constructed. If she didn’t say something, he’d be down there all day.

The next time he finished a lap, she cleared her throat nosily. Sicarius looked up at her.

“Just wondering why I’m alive,” Amaranthe called down. “And why we’re camped in an icehouse.”

Sicarius acknowledged her with a twitch of his hand, but continued his exercises.

She returned to the cot. Just walking around the tiny room left her depressingly weak. And cold. She nudged the cot closer to the stove and pulled the blanket more tightly around her. It smelled of sawdust and more pungent sickbed odors.

A few minutes later, Sicarius entered, fully clothed again.

“The icehouse happened to be near where you collapsed on the trail,” Sicarius said. “There was a limit to how far I could carry you through the city without drawing attention. It is also fully stocked, so the workers have moved on to filling another warehouse down the block. Disturbances have been infrequent.”

“Thank you,” Amaranthe murmured. “How did you, ah…I wasn’t expecting… They told me the disease was always fatal.”

“Yes, unless healed by someone who understands the mental sciences. I recognized the symptoms of Hysintunga and found a shaman.”

The mental sciences? A strange synonym for magic.

“A shaman in the empire?” she asked. “In Stumps? You can be hanged for reading about magic. I can’t believe anyone would risk practicing it here.”

Or that it existed. Even when the surgeon had casually discussed magic in the dungeon, it had failed to penetrate her long-held beliefs. Or disbeliefs rather. Amaranthe prodded her arm where the bug had bitten her. Nothing remained of the wound. Perhaps it was time to question those beliefs.

“Most people in the empire either do not believe in the mental sciences or would not recognize them being practiced regardless,” Sicarius said. “Though this is not an easy place for foreigners to live, sometimes it is safer than what they leave behind, especially if they are hunted by fellow practitioners.”

Fugitive magic users? In her city? Amaranthe rubbed her face.

“He must not have been too bad of a fellow if he was willing to help me,” she reasoned.

“He was paid well.”

“Oh.” Amaranthe swallowed. She had only meant to seek Sicarius in order to relay information to him. She had not thought he would be able to save her, or that he would bother even if he could. “Thank you,” she said again, the words inadequate. “I owe you—”

“An explanation.” Sicarius regarded her intently. “Clarify the situation with the emperor. I could not understand the incoherent jumble you spit out before falling unconscious.”

So, he had helped her because he wanted her information, not out of kindness. That was not surprising, but it reminded her how much talking she was going to have to do to convince him to become her ally.

Amaranthe gave a detailed description of the conversations she had shared with Hollowcrest. She recited the words on the letter verbatim. Those experiences, when she had thought she was dying, were indelibly imprinted in her mind.

Sicarius’s face remained unreadable throughout her narrative. At the end, he gave her that cool stare he did so well.

“Hollowcrest gave his reasons for wanting you killed, described the tea he’s using to drug Sespian, and explained why he feels the need to manipulate the emperor in the first place.” He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “To you.”

His tone didn’t change to suggest it was a question, and it wasn’t until he tacked on the last two words that Amaranthe realized it was a statement of disbelief.

It hadn’t occurred to her that he might think she was lying. Before, when she had been lying to him, he had sensed it. She stared back at him and willed him to sense she was telling the truth now.

“Yes, he did,” she said.

“Hollowcrest had no reason to tell you anything, and he doesn’t explain himself, or justify his actions, before killing people.”

“Honestly, I was surprised myself, especially when he came to chat in the dungeon,” Amaranthe said. “Do you suppose… Could he have thought I’d escape—or that you’d come get me and help me—and that this was a message meant for you?” She looked up at him, again trying to read his face, but it was still expressionless. “You’re obviously connected with him somehow. Based on the fact that Hollowcrest and Sespian both recognize your dagger, I’m guessing you were the court assassin or something of that nature, although assassination isn’t supposed to be the Turgonian way. Still, I think Hollowcrest is a sneaky old sod, and he wouldn’t have minded having someone like you around. From what I remember of Emperor Raumesys, they were similar types. Your enforcer record—your list of public assassinations—started up, what, five years ago? That was the same time as Raumesys died. Maybe Sespian, being a rather good human being, didn’t want an assassin on the payroll, and gave you the boot, so you had to go out and find other work. Of course, that doesn’t explain why…”

A warning instinct lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She had been looking at Sicarius while she spoke but, in her musings, had stopped seeing him. Now, her focus sharpened.

His expression had not changed, but he was very, very still, and his dark eyes were colder than ice shards. Amaranthe chomped down on her flapping lip and dropped her gaze to the floorboards. He hadn’t said a word, but she could feel the threat hanging between them. She might need his help, but with her information delivered, he didn’t need anything else from her. Probing into his past was not a good idea.

“No,” Sicarius said after a long, uncomfortable silence. “Hollowcrest would not send me a message.”

“Good,” Amaranthe said, trying for a bright tone and not quite achieving it. “Glad we’ve eliminated that possibility. Maybe he’s just getting old and feeling guilty over some of the choices he’s made of late. Or maybe he’s tired of his usual flunkies and wanted someone new to talk to. Or maybe,” she said with a self-deprecating eye roll, “it’s my friendly personality that got him chatting.”

“Huh,” he said. It was ambiguous, but at least his tone was a little lighter. Less dangerous.

Still, it wasn’t until he clasped his hands behind his back and turned toward the window that she dared look at him again. Despite his recent workout, his black shirt was tucked in, his pants free of wrinkles, and his low boots brushed clean of dust. No hint of beard stubble softened the hard angles of his jaw. Even his fingernails were trimmed and free of dirt. Only that uncontrolled nest of blond hair did not match his fastidious appearance. At the moment, she could hardly judge cleanliness, though, not when she could smell the stale sickness clinging to her body.

She needed a bath and a change of clothing. But she still had to win him to her side. Delving into his history was apparently not the way to do it. She decided to go back to what had inveigled his assistance before.

“I mean to save the emperor,” Amaranthe said. “Not just that. I want to stop Hollowcrest from drugging him and protect him from Forge’s assassins. I can’t do it alone.”

“A monumental task.” At least he didn’t say, “What makes you think you can do it at all?”

“With my plan, we can do it.”

Sicarius faced her again. “What plan?”

If this was to be played at all, it had to be played fearlessly. She took a deep breath. “One that requires me not smelling like a ten-day-old corpse. If you can get me a bath and a couple of changes of clothing, I’ll tell you everything.”

His dark eyes narrowed, and once again Amaranthe remembered his knack for sensing deception. A long moment passed before he spoke, and it was only to say, “Agreed,” before he left the room.

She sagged against the wall with relief. That conversation had drained her more than running the whole lake once had. She wondered how long it would take him to arrange a bath. Or more precisely, she wondered how long she had to come up with a plan. She laid on her back, intending to think of something brilliant. Instead, she fell asleep.

A clank woke her. Amaranthe sat up, cursing the disease that left her so weak. Sicarius had produced a metal laundry bin. Inside, water shimmered yellow with the reflection of lamplight. He had even scrounged a towel and a bar of soap. She beamed with heartfelt pleasure for the first time in days. Sicarius dropped a nondescript set of utility clothing on her cot.

Still clutching the blanket around herself, Amaranthe shuffled over to the tub and dipped a toe in. She withdrew it with a startled squawk. “This is ice water!”

“Naturally.” Sicarius tilted his head toward the wall dividing the room from thousands of tons of ice.

Amaranthe bent over the tub and picked out the remains of a block that had not melted completely. Her shoulders slumped. It was not that she had never taken a cold bath—the single room she had shared with her father as a girl had not had plumbing much less hot water. It was just that… She sighed. It had been a rough week, and she wanted a relaxing soak.

She forced herself to thank Sicarius since he had, after all, dragged blocks of ice up there and melted them. Her expression of gratitude was somewhat muffled by the noise she made shoving the tub across the room until it was so close to the stove she would be hard-pressed to get in without searing something important.

“Are you going to watch?” Amaranthe asked when Sicarius did not leave.

“Your plan,” Sicarius said, implying he was waiting to hear it.

You too, huh?

“Well, I need to be clean before I can discuss anything of this magnitude.”

His flat stare said he knew she was stalling. He probably knew she had nothing. Nonetheless, he was still waiting. Maybe he had faith she could come up with something. Or maybe he could not think of a plan either and was desperate enough to listen to a foolish woman who had almost gotten herself killed twice in the same week.

“Fine,” Amaranthe said. “Stay and watch if you want.”

She shucked the blanket and grabbed the soap. After stepping in, she scrubbed—and thought—furiously. The emperor was threatened from two fronts: Hollowcrest, and all those who were loyal to him, and Forge, who was nameless and faceless for the time. The organization had to consist of business people and was an entity large enough to present a threat to the emperor. That implied wealth and power. Both her adversaries had power. She had none. She had…desperation. And maybe the help of a trained assassin, if she could woo him with her plan.

She shook her head. She needed to adjust her thinking. No general ever won a victory by pitting his weaknesses against the enemy’s strengths. It had to be the other way around. What were her strengths? Since she would soon be labeled a criminal, she supposed there was no need to be constrained by the law. She found that thought unsettling, but it inspired creativity. Criminals did all sorts of unorthodox things to get what they wanted from each other. What could she do? Use force? Steal? Blackmail?

Amaranthe realized she had been lathering the same shoulder with the bar of soap for some time. She switched to a leg.

Force was out. If she couldn’t bring herself to assassinate a murdering assassin, she doubted she could kill anybody else in cold blood either. Nor would stealing get her anywhere. Blackmail? What could she hold over both parties? Economic trouble? That would be a disaster for government and business alike, but she could hardly start a recession by willing one into existence. Not unless she could magically decrease the value of money. She supposed printing counterfeits would achieve that. The addition of fake paper money that was not backed by the gold in the Imperial Treasury could devalue all the real money out there, plus it would undermine people’s confidence in the ranmya. The threat alone might be enough to coerce Hollowcrest and Forge into dealing.

Amaranthe let the soap fall from her fingers and leaned on the edge of the tub. You’re not actually considering this, are you?

Deliberately sabotaging the economy. Her mind shied away from the potential for widespread devastation, the utter vileness of the idea. Of course, she would be operating on a bluff, with no intention of actually circulating the money. Forge and Hollowcrest would not know that. It would represent a tangible threat to them. In a period of hyperinflation, Forge’s fortunes would become meaningless. Hollowcrest would have to deal with the repercussions of millions of citizens terrified their savings would evaporate. Yes, she decided, it might just worry both parties enough to negotiate with her.

She looked at Sicarius. He seemed lost in thought again and was not facing her direction. She experienced a surge of indignity that he did not find her interesting enough to peep at in the bath but forced herself back to more important issues.

“I have finalized the details of my plan,” she announced.

“Really,” he said dryly.

“We’re going to produce counterfeit money.” She went on to explain her reasoning and emphasized several times her intent to bluff rather than unleash the fake bills. “We’ll have to make enough, however, to lend a sense of verisimilitude to our operation.”

Sicarius did not speak for a time after she finished. Amaranthe waited apprehensively, afraid he would reject her plan, point out a dozen reasons it was ludicrous, or simply walk out without saying anything.

“I would not have expected such an idea from an enforcer,” he said.

“But do you think it could work?”

Sicarius made a noncommittal gesture with his hand. “Theoretically, it’s possible. To set everything up in two weeks is improbable.”

“I could get some more men to help,” she said.

“You have underworld connections? Money to pay people?”

“No, but anyone can run a printing press once it’s set up. I’m sure I can explain the situation to a couple of folks and enlist their help.” Of course, she would have to get a press and find someone to engrave ranmya plates, but she would worry about that later.

Sicarius’s blond eyebrows twitched upward. From him, it seemed a riot of emotion. Unfortunately, the emotion was skepticism.

“If I can get a couple men to help with printing, and maybe someone who could assist with researching Forge, would you agree to stick with me for the duration? If Sespian’s birthday approaches, and it’s obvious this won’t work, I won’t begrudge you for leaving. If you have a better idea, right now, I won’t begrudge you for leaving. I suppose you could assassinate Hollowcrest and the Forge people, if you can figure out who they are, and then you wouldn’t need me and my crazy plan. As much as I’d love to clear my name by being the one to rescue the emperor, what really matters is saving him, period.”

“I’ve never heard of Forge before,” Sicarius admitted. “With time, I could identify the leaders, but someone who could more easily move about the business world might make a less obtrusive and more efficient researcher.”

Amaranthe bit back a smile. In other words he needed a girl, ideally one who had gone to business school before becoming an enforcer. At last she had something to offer him as an ally.

“I’m sure someone from my old school could suggest a starting point,” was all she said.

“I know someone who could be a feasible research assistant.”

“Oh? A friend of yours?” Amaranthe tried not to grimace. One assassin was all she could imagine working with at a time.

“No.”

“But he’d help us?”

“I’d have to threaten him to get him to work for me,” Sicarius said. “Perhaps you can recruit him by other means.”

“I can. It won’t be a problem.” She was overselling herself, but for some strange reason she felt more exhilarated than terrified.

“If you can get a team together, I’ll work with you.”

Amaranthe just managed to curtail a triumphant fist pump. “That’ll be acceptable. Any other concerns? Any questions?”

“One,” he said. “During what phase of this plan will you start wearing clothes?”

She looked down. It wasn’t exactly that she had forgotten she was standing in icy water, stark naked; she’d just forgotten to care. Reminded of her state, she blushed and grabbed the towel.

“Truly, Sicarius, if it weren’t for your sinister reputation, I’d suspect you of a sense of humor.”

“Huh,” was all he said as he walked out the door.