Chapter 11

Amaranthe woke several times during the night to pull her blankets tighter and throw more wood into the nearest fire barrel. Drafts like gusts off mountain glaciers whistled through the broken window panes, and what little heat the flames emitted floated to the rafters.

When she noticed someone else awake, she gave up sleep and rolled off the hard bunk. Sicarius sat at a counter, drawing by the light of a fire barrel. The roaring flames looked enticing.

Blanket wrapped about her, Amaranthe shuffled over and perched on the wobbly stool across from him. His hair was damp. Had he already been out running? No hint of dawn brightened the sky beyond the window, but daylight came late this time of year.

A twenty ranmya bill lay on the counter, the imperial army marching across the back. Sicarius’s pen moved with sure strokes, drawing a reverse version of the tableau.

Leaving him alone to work would be wise. Curiosity trumped wisdom, though, and she said, “You were gone a long time yesterday. Did you do anything interesting?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you had?”

Sicarius neither looked up nor answered. The pen continued to scrawl.

“I’m going to my old school today to start researching Forge,” she said. “I thought I’d take Books. Do you want to be in charge of getting the press running? We got a good portion of the rust off last night. I can leave Maldynado and Akstyr to help.”

Sicarius’s fingers moved with precision. “Books will doubtlessly know more about printing presses than I.”

“Yes, but we recruited him to be a research assistant.” Amaranthe raised her eyebrows. “Unless you want to help me shovel through piles of papers in dusty archive buildings?”

“I will go.”

Er. She had not expected him to accept the invitation. It was hard to imagine someone whose daily attire included a dozen knives wandering through shelves, delving into books and ledgers. But then, the same knife-clad man was sitting here, drawing her pictures with—she leaned closer for a good look—amazing accuracy.

“That’s unbelievable,” she said. “Where did you learn to draw?”

The pen left the completed soldiers to work on the numbers and borders.

“You know,” Amaranthe said after a moment of silence, “when someone asks you a question, the socially acceptable thing to do is answer.”

Another silent moment passed, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Burning boards shifted in the barrel, and a burst of sparks flew into the air.

Amaranthe tapped her finger on the counter. “If you answer my question, I’ll leave you alone.”

“For how long?” he promptly asked.

Her shoulders drooped beneath the blanket. She was annoying him.

“Never mind.” She slid off the stool and headed toward the food area.

“Lokdon.” Sicarius looked up.

She paused. “Yes?”

“I had cartography instruction as a boy.”

She bit her lip to hide a smile. A simple answer to a question shouldn’t mean so much. “Is that what you were hoping to do before you decided to take up your current, uhm, profession? Or—” a new idea struck her, “—was that a part of your training for your current profession? Like for spying? You could infiltrate an enemy stronghold and map the terrain and layout for your employer. You said you were just a boy though. You haven’t been training for this since you were a child, have you? It’s not like someone turns ten and decides they want to be an assassin. Do they?”

“I thought I only had to answer one question.”

“Oh. Right.” This time she did smile. The other questions lingered in her mind, but she probably was walking the line of being annoying, so she merely gave him a wave and left to prepare a meal.

By the time dawn slanted through the boarded windows, Sicarius had finished. He woke Akstyr and gave him the finished drawings. After some bleary eye rubbing, Akstyr took the pictures and the plates into a dark corner. He, apparently, did not need light for his work.

The replicas had looked accurate to her, but it was difficult to tell with them in reverse. She hoped Akstyr would succeed at his portion of the scheme and that they could test the press before the day’s end.

“Thank you,” Amaranthe told Sicarius.

He merely crossed his arms and waited for her to get ready. They had research to do.

• • • • •

A security guard loomed at the entrance to the Mildawn Business School for Women, a clean, three-story brick building with rows of pristine glass windows. In the eight years since Amaranthe’s last class, she had forgotten about the guard. As she and Sicarius approached, she groped for ways to get him—and his knife collection—through the door without starting an incident. Of course, if the guard had browsed the wanted posters lately, Sicarius’s weapons might be the least of her problems.

“Hold.” The guard held his mittened hand out as they climbed the steps. “Only parents and students are allowed inside.”

“Yes, of course,” Amaranthe said. “We’re thinking of enrolling our daughter. Does Headmistress Dona still give tours to parents of prospective students?”

“On the last day of the month, which is not today.”

“I understand, but we’re heading to the gulf on a purchasing trip, and we’ll be gone for weeks. I so wanted to get an application in before we left, but my husband—” she patted Sicarius’s arm, not quite daring to check his face for a reaction, “—doesn’t think we should force little Jaeleka into business. I, of course, told him that an education at Mildawn would be excellent preparation for any career. I attended classes here myself, back when Oskar worked door security.”

“Oh! Oskar is my uncle.”

A fond expression accompanied the guard’s words, so she decided to focus on that instead of her hastily created cover story.

“Is he?” she asked. “He was a fabulous man, always said hello to everyone. Did he retire?”

“Yup, moved down south to escape the winters.”

“Understandable.” Amaranthe nodded to the inches of fresh snow balanced on the stair railing. “Did he get you this job?”

“Yes, I was a soldier before, and that’s a mite more glamorous, but I don’t miss those months in the field.”

“I’d imagine not. You know, Oskar occasionally broke the rules. He let us keep a stray cat in the basement one winter. He even helped us find fish to feed it.”

The guard chuckled. “That was your class? My uncle told me that story. Something about Ms. Maple stomping around the building all winter, wondering what was eating her ferns.”

“Little Raggles had a fondness for greens.”

Sicarius flicked a glance at Amaranthe, probably wondering why he had to endure story hour.

“Could you possibly make an exception for us?” she asked the guard, who was still smirking.

“I guess you can go up and talk to the headmistress.” He waved her through, then frowned at Sicarius. “You’re going to have to leave your weapons at my desk inside. When your daughter is enrolled, it’ll be different, but we can’t let strangers wander the halls armed. You can pick them up on your way out.”

For the first time, Amaranthe looked Sicarius in the eye, silently willing him to follow the school policy. After a long stare her direction, he unstrapped and unsheathed.

“Those are beauties.” The guard reached for one of the throwing knives.

Sicarius caught the man’s wrist. “Touch nothing.”

“No, sir, of course, not.”

“Now, now, dear. Let’s be cordial.” Amaranthe pulled Sicarius’s arm back. “We want to make a good impression. This is a prestigious institution, and we don’t want to ruin Jaeleka’s chances of acceptance.”

When Sicarius released his wrist, the guard gave her a relieved nod.

“Jaeleka?” Sicarius murmured, when they passed into the halls. His soft boots made not a whisper on the polished hardwood floors.

“You don’t approve?” she asked.

“It wouldn’t be my first choice.”

“Perhaps you could make a list of acceptable baby names for next time.”

Since classes were in session, the halls were still, except for an occasional student ambling to the water closet. Familiar names on doors and the sweet scent of freshly applied beeswax floor polish stirred nostalgic twinges. Was Lady Arranton still a bigger gossip than any of her students? Was Lord Colonel Maxcrest still the only male teacher—and still the hero in all the girls’ soldier fantasies? Were students still stealing Widow Tern’s hardboiled eggs and hiding them in various places around the school?

When they entered an empty staircase, Amaranthe asked, “How was my lying back there? Is it getting any better?” She was still wondering how Sicarius had seen through her prevarications the first time they met.

“I wasn’t watching your eyes.”

“My eyes?” she asked. “Is that how you can tell?”

“You look up and to the left when you’re getting creative.”

“Really? Does everyone?”

“It’s not a science,” he said, “but many right-handed people look right when they’re accessing actual memories and left for imagined.”

“Huh. And the opposite for lefties?” Amaranthe led him into the third-floor hallway and headed for the administration offices at the end.

“Yes.”

She would have to conduct some experiments; that information might help her someday. They passed the headmistress’s domain and tapped on a door labeled Scholarship Office.

“Come!”

Inside, a gray-haired lady peered at them through spectacles with lenses the size of magnifying glasses. A closed door behind her read, “Files.” She sat at a simple desk adorned with a potted fern. Amaranthe stifled a delighted snort when she spotted a hardboiled egg nestled beneath the fronds.

“Amaranthe Lokdon!” Despite a diminutive stature, and a fondness for calling everyone “dear,” the woman had the assertiveness of a drill sergeant.

“Yes, Ms. Maple, I’m flattered you remember me.”

“Of course, dear. And who’s this?” When she stood up, she almost reached Sicarius’s chest.

“My husband,” Amaranthe said.

“Really! I would have guessed bodyguard.”

Yes, even without visible weapons, he had that aura.

“No, no, we’re going to launch a business together. I remember you talking to our class about grants for students needing startup funds.” She hoped Ms. Maple wouldn’t remember that Amaranthe hadn’t actually graduated.

“Yes, there are many, depending on the type of business you’re looking to start.”

Amaranthe took a breath. Time to make a guess she hoped proved right. “A lady I met at the library said an outfit named Forge offers nice grants.”

Ms. Maple frowned. “Nice, yes…but really dear, you’re not thinking of getting into gambling and gaming, are you?”

So relieved that her guess had been right, Amaranthe almost missed the rest of the question. “Er, no, well.” She needed whatever Forge information Maple had on file, so she thought fast, rearranging her story. “You see, your guess was actually correct. Hansor, here, isn’t my bodyguard, but he does have professional experience in the field, and we’re going to start a business training bouncers and bodyguards. It seems like gambling and gaming establishments would want to hire our students, so, ah…” She was botching it. Her eyes were probably shooting sideways in her head.

“That’s not exactly the type of business I imagined you starting, dear.” Ms. Maple glowered up at Sicarius, as if suspecting him of being a bad influence. She was the first person Amaranthe had met who showed him no fear.

“It’s not finalized,” Amaranthe said, assuring herself Sicarius would not maul an old schoolteacher just to prove how dangerous he was. “If we could see some of the Forge grant offerings, and any other ones you think might be applicable, we’d be grateful.”

“Very well, dear.”

Ms. Maple grabbed a lamp and disappeared into the file room behind her desk.

Sicarius leaned against the wall, positioned so he could see both doors, and folded his arms over his chest. “Hansor?”

“Not your first pick?” she asked.

“No.”

“You’re a tad finicky, aren’t you?”

A hint of eyebrow movement was his only response.

“At the least, we’ll get an address associated with Forge,” Amaranthe said. “The applications have to be turned in somewhere.”

“Indeed. How did you know about the grants?”

“It was a guess. If the Forge people are vying for more power in the government, then it makes sense for them to fund more startups. Then they can place people out there in the business world who will grow in power and wealth and later be loyal to the ones who granted them their opportunity.”

“Huh.”

Ms. Maple returned to the room. “Here are a few you can apply for, dear. Larocka brought that top one by personally just a couple weeks ago.”

Amaranthe accepted the small stack. “Larocka?”

“Larocka Myll, yes. The founder and chairwoman of Forge. I assumed you knew.”

Amaranthe couldn’t stop herself from throwing a wide-eyed significant look at Sicarius, who—standing statue still—looked right back at her with equal understanding.

“I only knew of the organization,” Amaranthe said, painting a neutral expression on her face before Ms. Maple could think her odd, “not the leader. I don’t imagine she handles the grant awards personally, though, so it probably doesn’t matter.”

“No, I understand she’s very busy.”

Threatening to kill the emperor, yes. Amaranthe barely kept the edge out of her smile as she thanked Ms. Maple for her help.

• • • • •

The Imperial Real Estate Library was located in a bland concrete building. Above the double doors, an engraved timeline marked the significant dates in the seven hundred years of imperial expansion. What more could one need in the way of adornment?

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back and send Books out here?” Amaranthe asked at the base of the stairs. “The next step is to find out where this Larocka Myll lives. This will involve long, tedious research.” As soon as she said it, she winced. That sounded condescending. As if she didn’t think he was capable of doing it. “I’m sure you’d have no problem with it, but I don’t want to bore you.” Was that any better? Maybe she ought to just stop talking.

“You’d rather bore Books?” Sicarius asked.

“He used to grade papers for a living. He’s probably used to it.”

“I can do tedious research. Let’s go.”

He must want Larocka’s address badly. Maybe he thought he could get it by this evening and stick a dagger in her back that night.

“As you wish,” Amaranthe said.

She led Sicarius past a young desk clerk who did not look up from his book when they passed. The cavernous interior had one main floor, surrounded by four tiers of balconies. Tall rolling ladders allowed access to the wall-to-wall shelves, which rose from floor to eighty-foot ceiling. They were crammed with books on property taxes, real estate law, underwriting, and other scintillating topics. Tall windows let in light, and gas lamps shed bubbles of illumination, but even in the afternoon it felt like twilight inside the building.

“The residential plat maps are in the back.” Amaranthe weaved through a maze of standing bookcases, filing cabinets, and dusty tables. They only passed one other person, who was on the way out. “Industrial and business are in the basement.” She pointed to a couple places where narrow stairs led down.

“With Larocka’s name, we can look up where she lives?” Sicarius asked.

His eyes probed the shadows, out of habit, she supposed. Somehow she doubted many bounty hunters lurked at the Real Estate Library.

“Unfortunately, it’s not that easy,” she said. “If you know an address, or lot number, it’s a simple matter to find out who owns the property, what they paid for it and when, who owned it before, and all sorts of semi-interesting stuff. But, you can’t just look up names and find people’s addresses.”

“We have to look at maps of all the houses in the city and hope to find her name? Lokdon, there are a million people in Stumps.”

“Regretting your quickness to volunteer for this?” She slid him a smile over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. First off, only about ten percent of the people in the city own property. Second, the new rich gravitate toward the Ridge, where the houses—and the parcels—are big, so it’ll be easy to skim through the names on the plat map. I’d bet two weeks of pay she lives up there. Well, I would if anyone was paying me anymore.”

They spent the afternoon hunkered over maps in the back corner of the building. The daylight filtering through the windows waned, and the property lines grew squiggly before Amaranthe’s eyes. It was a good thing Sicarius had not taken her up on that bet.

“That’s it. We’ve looked at every house on the Ridge.” Yawning, she leaned back, tipping the front two legs of her chair off the ground. Maps scattered the table with books keeping the edges from rolling up. “I was sure she’d live there. It’s a status symbol. Every business man or woman who makes it buys a house up there.”

“She could be married with the house in her husband’s name,” Sicarius said.

“Not unless she bought it more than twenty years ago. Today’s law says both names go on the property. I suppose she could be that old, but…”

“Can a house be purchased under a business name?”

Amaranthe’s chair slammed down. “Of course! Sicarius, you’re brilliant. I should have thought of that.” She shoved the chair back and bounced to her feet. “I can look up all her businesses with just her name. In fact, the building is just down the street. Oh, but it’ll close soon. I’ve got to hurry. Be back in a half hour. Why don’t you…” She looked around. There wasn’t anything for him to do until she had the information. “Why don’t you go back and make sure our team isn’t burning down the cannery? You’ve been a lot of help already. I can finish here.”

Before he could answer, she skipped into the nearest aisle and raced to the front of the building.

It took forty-five minutes, and some negotiating with the clerk to stay past closing, but she came out with a list of businesses. Larocka was involved in everything from smelters and canning to tourism and gambling.

When Amaranthe returned to the Real Estate Library, the clerk had disappeared. She glanced at the hours posted on the desk. Though darkness had descended outside, the building was supposed to be open another two hours. She hoped Sicarius hadn’t had some altercation with the man that required…removing him.

Telling herself it was unlikely, she headed for the back corner.

Sicarius was gone. Even though she had told him to go, she found herself wishing he had stayed. He was a quick study, and she doubted Books could have done anything Sicarius hadn’t.

The plat maps still sprawled across the table. Looking now for companies on the list instead of Larocka’s name, Amaranthe leaned down, prepared to go over them again.

Almost immediately, an uneasy feeling made her straighten. Had she heard something? She wasn’t sure.

She peered down the aisles of bookshelves behind her. The lamps on the outside walls barely illuminated the rows, but nothing moved amongst the deep shadows. None of the tables within sight were occupied, nor had she seen or heard anyone else since entering. Still, she sensed eyes upon her.

Slowly, Amaranthe tilted her head back.

A man stood on the balcony above, his arms draped across the railing. It was not Sicarius.

Dressed all in brown, including a long leather jacket, he wore a pistol and almost as many daggers as Sicarius. Thick shadows played across his bald head, scarred face, and beard stubble. He folded a piece of paper and slipped it into a pocket.

“You’re not what I was expecting.” His dark eyes ran up and down her body, lingering on her breasts.

She touched a bulge in her parka, reassuring herself she had her knife.

In one liquid motion, the man vaulted over the rail, dropped fifteen feet and landed on the table in an easy crouch. She skittered back, bumping against the end of a bookcase. His soft boots hadn’t even rustled the papers.

Fear shot through Amaranthe’s limbs. This was not some random molester. That paper he’d pocketed—it must have been one of her wanted posters.

“Can I assist you? What are you looking for?”

The man—bounty hunter?—fingered the paper she had set down, the list of Larocka Myll’s business entities. “Indeed you can. You can assist me all night long.” His leer had none of the charm of one of Maldynado’s. “As much trouble as you’ve given Hollowcrest, I figured you’d be some giant beefy woman with arms like cannon barrels. Not a perky little kitten. Yes, you’ll have to assist me quite a bit before I hack off your head for Hollowcrest.”

“You’ve been following me for him?” She eased to the side so the bookcase did not block retreat, though she doubted she could outrun him. Who would she run to anyway? Night had fallen, and the streets were empty. The image of the vacant clerk desk flashed through her mind. Was there even now a body stuffed behind it, out of sight?

He only smiled, his eyes chilling and invasive. “Not at all. This was the purest stroke of luck. Hollowcrest has me researching Myll, too, you see. Maybe you can share your findings with me before…”

“I’ll have more information if you leave me alone to work a while.” She backed into the aisle. Nothing but books stood within reach; she doubted throwing a book at someone who moved like Sicarius would help. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so.” He leaped off the table.

Amaranthe whirled, using the movement to hide the drawing of her knife. She sprinted down the aisle. At the end of the row, she darted behind the bookcase and dropped into a crouch. With luck, he would expect a standing target when he lunged around the corner. She might have a fraction of a heartbeat to surprise him.

But many heartbeats skipped by, and he didn’t round the corner. She dared a glance down the aisle. It was empty. She looked down the one on the other side of the bookcase. Empty too.

He’s toying with me.

She looked up. Too late.

The dark form dropped from the top of the bookcase. She leaped to the side, slashing at the inside of his ankle.

Too fast to see, he kicked the blade from her hand. By the time it thudded onto the carpet, he was on her, his hand around her neck. He tore her parka from her shoulders.

She tried to jerk her knee into his groin, but he blocked and pressed her into the end of the bookcase.

He loomed broader and a foot taller than her. He pinned her with his body, trapping her arms. A sewer odor rolled off him and assaulted her nose. He shoved his hand into her blouse and mashed her breast.

She’d escaped from groping men before, but he was too big, too strong, and he didn’t give her any space to gather any leverage.

If she could get his pistol, or one of his knives…

She needed to free her hand first. She twisted, and her knuckle bumped against a knife hilt.

His hand tightened on her neck, a vise on her windpipe.

“More fun if you’re alive,” he rasped, hot breath flooding over her, “but not a requirement.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She wasn’t going to be able to get away from him. “Thought you…wanted…information.”

His fingers denied her air, but she couldn’t give up. She dropped her chin, thinking she might bite his wrist, but he knew what he was doing.

“Later,” he panted.

He yanked her skirt down and his maw lunged in close. She bit his lip. She tasted blood, but he laughed. He drew back his arm to punch her. The movement gave her just enough space to grab for the knife. The angle was awkward, but she yanked it out, twisted her wrist, and jabbed it into his chest…

…only to have the blade deflected by his ribs. Cursed ancestors! He’d kill her for sure now.

But a spasm jerked through him, and his eyes bulged wide.

Quick to take advantage, Amaranthe shoved him, preparing for another stab. But he stumbled away. Shock plastered his face as he grabbed at his back and staggered around.

A knife hilt protruded from between his shoulder blades. He wobbled, pitched forward, and collapsed on the carpet.

Twenty feet away, Sicarius stood, rolled plat maps in one hand and a second throwing knife ready in the other.

“Thank the emperor.” Amaranthe sucked in deep breaths, dropping her hands to her knees for support.

“You should have screamed,” Sicarius said blandly. “I was in the basement.”

“I thought you’d left.”

“Work’s not done.”

She tried to pull her clothes into a semblance of order, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and the buttons thwarted her. She grabbed her parka, slid down the bookcase, and pulled her knees up to her chin. Feeling vulnerable, she watched Sicarius with more wariness than he deserved.

After scanning the shadows and listening for a moment, he searched the dead man’s clothing. An inner pocket offered up a wad of money and a small notepad. He flipped through the latter, then held it and the cash out, silently asking if Amaranthe wanted them.

She did not yet trust her hands. “Yes. Just…in a minute. You can…” Go? Stay? She wasn’t sure what she wanted.

For a moment, he simply stood, gazing down at her, and Amaranthe felt a stab of bleak amusement. He doesn’t know what to do.

She was about to tell him to get started on the business names and that she’d be fine—he’d arrived in time, after all—but he stepped around the body, and sat beside her, not quite touching.

Sitting in the shadows, with a killer, in an empty building, gazing at the corpse of another killer. When had her life grown so strange?

“Anyone you know?” Chin on her knees, she pointed her nose toward the body.

“An assassin. I’ve met him before.”

“Then I appreciate your willingness to stab an acquaintance in the back on my behalf.” Talking felt inane, but she did not want to dwell on what had almost been.

“Any assassin who allows himself to be distracted by his work deserves a knife in the back. It’s not professional.”

Amaranthe almost laughed, imagining some handout in Assassinry 101, where rules of etiquette were passed out with Sicarius’s wisdom at the top of the page. She doubted he had intended the statement to do so, but it lightened her mood. “I guess I’m lucky to have recruited a professional assassin.”

“Yes.”

Modest, he wasn’t, but compared to the dead man on the floor, he was a gentleman. Remembering the way he had not looked at her while she bathed, she wondered if his apparent lack of interest was an actual lack or self-imposed detachment. Might it be a “professional” choice to define her as “work” and stay focused on his goals? It was probably better not to ask. If he just wasn’t interested, did she really want to know? And if he were, what would she do with the knowledge anyway? Ask him out on a date in between the blackmailing, counterfeiting, and assassination attempts? Still, curiosity got the best of her tongue.

“Am I work?”

The sideways look he gave her was the closest thing to humor she had seen from him. “You’re a lot of work.”

“I meant, uhm, never mind.”

His eyes glinted, and he held out the notepad, already open to a specific page.

“Right.” Amaranthe accepted it this time and gawked when she read it. “Larocka’s address!”

“If his notes are correct, yes.”

“This is all we need, then. We can—wait.” She tapped the notepad on her knee a couple times. “He was here looking for more information on Larocka for Hollowcrest. I assume that means Hollow wants the Forge leader assassinated—he wouldn’t want someone killing the emperor he’s drugging into submission, now would he? But the home address wasn’t enough for some reason. Why wouldn’t an assassin be able to get in and kill her at home?”

“Wards?”

“What?”

“Barriers or alarms made using the mental sciences,” Sicarius said.

“A Turgonian businesswoman who knows magic?” she asked skeptically.

Sicarius held up the thick rolls of paper. “These are the plat maps for the industrial and business sections. If you have the name of her business—”

“Businesses. She owns more than a dozen in her name, and there are numerous partnerships as well.”

“Let’s find all her properties then,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe nodded. “I bet that’s what Hollowcrest’s assassin was looking for. If you can’t kill them at home, kill ‘em at work.”

“A valid strategy.”