The Emperor's Edge (a high fantasy adventure in an era of steam) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  THE EMPEROR’S EDGE

  by

  Lindsay Buroker

  • • • • •

  Copyright ©2010 by Lindsay Buroker

  Ebook creation by Dellaster Design

  Chapter 1

  Corporal Amaranthe Lokdon paced. Her short sword, night stick, and handcuffs bumped and clanked at her thighs with each impatient step. Enforcer Headquarters frowned down at her, an ominous gray cliff of a building that glowered at the neighborhood like a turkey vulture, except with less charisma.

  Amaranthe drew her pocket watch and checked the time. Where was her partner?

  At the soft squeak of boots on snow, she looked up. A narrow side street expelled a squat, burly man in enforcer grays. Morning light glinted against the large brass rank pins crowding his collar: four bars under two crossed swords, the mark of a district chief.

  Amaranthe fought back a grimace and straightened, heels clicking together. The chief’s dark gaze latched onto her from beneath shaggy gray eyebrows that crashed in the middle when he scowled. He was scowling now.

  She swallowed. “Good morning, Chief Gunarth.”

  “Lokdon,” he growled. “Does the city pay you to loiter in front of headquarters? Because if the capital city of the Turgonian Empire, the most powerful nation in the world, pays its enforcers to loiter uselessly in front of my headquarters building, I’d think somebody would have mentioned it to me.”

  Amaranthe opened her mouth to give him an obedient “yes, sir.” Or was it a “no, sir”? She had lost the question in his diatribe. “I’m waiting for my partner, sir.”

  “It’s five minutes into your shift. Where is he?”

  “He’s…” Hung over, still asleep, trying vainly to find a uniform that isn’t wrinkled…. “Investigating some suspicious activity at Curi’s Bakery.”

  The chief’s already-lowered eyebrows descended further. “Let me explain something to you, Lokdon.”

  “Sir?” Amaranthe tried to look attentive.

  “Your first loyalty is to the emperor.” He reached above his head, demonstrating a lofty plateau. “Your second is to the city, and your third is to everyone above you in the chain of command.” His hand descended in increments as he spoke until he finished with, “Way down there by your boot is your loyalty to your partner. Understood?”

  “Emperor, city, you, boot. Got it, sir.”

  “Is that a joke, Lokdon?” His tone made it clear it had better not be.

  She sighed. “No, sir.”

  “If you can’t remember where your loyalties lie, better you take up a shop like the rest of the women in Turgonia.”

  Amaranthe forced her face to stay neutral, ignoring the heat warming her cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, I ask you again, where is your partner?” The chief’s tone had grown soft, dangerous.

  She lifted her chin. “Investigating suspicious activity at Curi’s.”

  Furrows like canyons formed across the chief’s forehead as his scowl deepened. “I see. I’ll remember this when I’m filling out the extra duty roster.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Start your patrol without him. And when he catches up, tell him if he can’t arrive at work on time, you can both sleep here. In one of the cells.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Amaranthe trotted away before the chief could spout further threats. She crossed the wide boulevard in front of headquarters and jogged around a lumbering steam tractor obscuring ice with sheets of salt. Snow piles framed the ancient cobblestone alley she entered, its walls close enough to touch with outstretched arms. She almost bumped into a man and woman coming out of a temple that had been turned into a bookstore. Bundled in fur caps and parkas, they saw her uniform and stepped out of the way, joining a headless statue in one of the recessed nooks by the door. At the turn of the last century, Mad Emperor Motash had declared atheism the state religion and ordered all statues depicting deities beheaded. A hundred years later, the locals still called the seat of the empire, “Stumps.”

  Amaranthe smelled the scrumptious scents of Curi’s Bakery as she came onto the next boulevard, and she cast a longing gaze at the building. Paintings of apple pastries, glazed fruits, and spiced breads adorned the windows for those unable to read the sign. A gangly university student ambled out with a pastry stuffed in his mouth. Warm frosting dribbled down his chin.

  Someone tapped Amaranthe’s shoulder. “Buy one. The city won’t catch on fire if you indulge occasionally.”

  “Can’t.” She glanced at her partner, Corporal Wholt, as he fell into step beside her. She wanted to yell at him for being late again, but it would change little, and she had yet to meet the man who appreciated unsolicited criticism. “Enforcers are supposed to be fit. I’d have to run the whole lake trail tonight if I ate one of those pastries.”

  “You probably will anyway. To punish yourself for being tempted.”

  Amaranthe did not consider diet advice from Wholt worth much. Though he stood several inches taller than her five and a half feet, his slouch made the difference negligible. A fledgling pot belly slumped over the belt of his rumpled gray uniform. The double-bar rank pin on his left collar flap was skewed at a different angle than the pin on his right. She reached up, unfastened the backs, and adjusted the pins so both sides matched.

  “Thanks,” Wholt said dryly. “You know you’re the most grandmotherly twenty-five-year-old woman I’ve met, right?”

  “That’s because most of the women you know work at brothels.”

  “The best kind. Very amenable ladies.”

  “You missed a spot shaving.” Amaranthe’s hand dropped to her utility knife. “Want me to…?”

  “No!” Wholt sidled away. “Don’t you ever grow weary of being the ideal enforcer? Perfectly pressed uniform, gleaming weapons, not a single hair out of place in that unflattering brown bun.”

  Frowning, Amaranthe touched her hair. It was neat and out of the way. That counted more than beauty.

  “You come to work early,” Wholt continued, “stay late, precisely follow every regulation, and where’s it gotten you? You’re still a corporal after six years.”

  “You’re still a corporal after six years too,” she said.

  “Actually,” he said, tone growing calm, and a smile coming to his lips, “I came up on the list for promotion. It’ll be sergeant next month.”

  “You? You’re going to make sergeant? You don’t know half the regulations and you’re late for work every other day.”

  Wholt looked away. “You’re my partner, Amaranthe. I figured you’d be happy for me.”

  She stared at the snow edging the cracks in the sidewalk. He was right. She should be happy for him, but it was all too unfair. “Congratulations,” she managed, though she doubted it sounded sincere.

  “I’m sure it’ll be your turn next month,” Wholt said.

  Amaranthe was sure it would not, even if the chief forgot to mark her file w
ith a demerit for that morning’s lie. She knew of no female sergeants in the Stumps force. The empire did not permit women to join its armies, and it was only in the last generation that it had begun allowing them to join the city law enforcers—grudgingly.

  “Wholt.” Amaranthe looked him in the eyes and touched his arm. “Try to…be a good sergeant. You represent the empire when you wear that uniform. And you represent yourself. That should matter.”

  He actually stood taller. “I will. I know. It does.”

  “Good.”

  His attention shifted over her shoulder. “Is that smoke?” He pointed toward the blocky buildings crouched alongside the lake. “Or just factory haze?”

  Down the hill, dozens of men and machines toiled on the frozen water, hacking out blocks of ice that would be stored for summer use, but smoke blurred the scene. Amaranthe pinpointed the source.

  “There’s not a factory there.” She grabbed Wholt’s arm and tugged him forward. “Fire!”

  They took a trolley toward the waterfront and hopped off at the nearest stop. Smoke thickened the air, and they slipped and skidded as they negotiated the slick sidewalks. They ran around a corner, almost crashing into the back ranks of a gathering crowd.

  In a residential district, where wooden structures were more common, people might have raced back and forth with buckets to help, but this dilapidated wooden building was an island surrounded by brick, stone, and cement. The onlookers appeared more fascinated than concerned about the flames spreading, and the Imperial Fire Brigade had already arrived with one of the city’s self-propelled fire pumps. Black smoke poured from the stack, mingling with the plumes rising from the building. A thick hose was attached to the pump and to a fireplug up the street. Water streamed onto the flames flickering through the broken windows of the old building. Only one corner, which was dominated by a multistory brick kiln, was not burning.

  “You mentioned something about the city not catching on fire today?” Amaranthe asked as she and Wholt pushed their way through the onlookers.

  “Did I say that?”

  Heat flooded over them, dry and powerful. Charred flakes of wood and paper floated through the air.

  “We better help with crowd control,” Amaranthe said, but as they advanced, she glimpsed a merchant standing at her counter in a tea-and-coffee import store. Other shop owners had joined the gawking crowd. Two men loomed in front of this woman. Customers? Given the proximity of the fire, shopping seemed unlikely. “Or we could help this lady who I believe is being robbed.”

  “Huh?” Wholt turned his head. “Oh. It wouldn’t hurt these businesses to be looted once in a while. Merchants are practically running things around here anyway.” But he drew his sword.

  “I’ll go in the front,” Amaranthe said. “You go around back.”

  “Be careful.” Wholt trotted down the street toward an alley where he could cut over.

  Amaranthe strode through the front door. Barrels and canisters cluttered the aisles, and stuffed shelves rose from floor to ceiling on each wall. The scent of tea leaves and coffee beans from distant parts of the world soared above the pervading smell of smoke. Her strongbox open, the merchant was clutching a stack of bills. Her eyes brightened when she saw Amaranthe’s uniform.

  Amaranthe focused on the two men towering over the shopkeeper. The huge brutes were only a couple feet shorter than the floor-to-ceiling stack of coffee tins fronting the aisle behind them.

  “Well, well,” one man said, nudging his cohort, “it looks like a girl enforcer. We’re very concerned.”

  His comrade snickered. Scars lined the faces of both men. Swords hung in belt scabbards, the hilts’ sweat-stained leather wrappings evidence of frequent use. One thug shifted to reveal a flintlock pistol aimed at the merchant. Apparently, he did not consider Amaranthe enough of a threat to warrant switching his target. Indignation flared and her hand twitched toward her sword. She caught herself before she acted foolishly. After all, it was better not to have a weapon pointed at her chest.

  “Gentlemen,” Amaranthe said, “this robbery is over. If you put down your weapons and submit to being detained, perhaps I can speak to the magistrate on your behalf. Your possession of firearms, which, according to Imperial City Code seven-four-three dash A, are for military use only, will elevate your crime from simple theft to aggressive larceny.”

  “Darn.” The thug waved a negligent hand at her, then leered at the merchant. “Give us the money, lady.”

  Amaranthe drew her sword. The thugs displayed less concern than men chattered at by irate chipmunks. Probably rightfully so. They outnumbered her, and they had the miens of ex-soldiers. While she had undergone weapons and unarmed combat training at the Enforcer Academy, that was mediocre compared to the constant drilling military men endured. And they knew it. One of the robbers assumed a bored ready stance, lips canted in a knowing smirk.

  A glance at the back of the building revealed no one charging in to help. What was keeping Wholt?

  The thug shifted his weight to advance.

  Amaranthe bent her legs, drew her shoulder back, and hurled her sword with all her strength. Reflexively, both men lifted their blades to block. As soon as they realized her weapon would not touch them, they burst into chortles.

  The men were not her targets.

  Her sword crashed into the ceiling-high collection of coffee tins behind them. The stack exploded, full canisters pummeling the robbers. Metal thudded against skin and bone, and the men cursed as they flailed, tripped, and inevitably toppled. One hit his head on the counter as he went down and did not move when he landed. The other fell, scrambled to rise, slipped on a canister, and cracked his chin on the tile floor.

  Amaranthe picked her way through the mess, stepped on one man’s back, and collected their weapons. She handed the pistol to the merchant who pointed the weapon gleefully at the prone robbers while Amaranthe cuffed one and found twine to tie the other.

  “Nicely done, Corporal,” a quiet voice said from the direction of the front door.

  “Thanks.” She started to look up to identify the speaker when Wholt burst in through the back. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “Did you get lost?”

  “There was a third one out back. I had to…uh…uhm…” Wholt’s mouth dropped open as he stared past Amaranthe. “Good morning, Sire,” he finally managed.

  Sire? Amaranthe slowly stood and turned. Crowded at the entrance, six tall broad men wearing black gold-trimmed uniforms—the color of the emperor’s elite bodyguard—framed a smaller man of eighteen or nineteen. He had pale brown hair, gentle dark brown eyes, and yes, his was the same face that adorned the currency in the merchant’s strongbox. Emperor Sespian Savarsin, in power this last year since reaching his majority.

  “Good morning,” the emperor answered.

  Amaranthe stammered a greeting. What’s the emperor doing down here? Shouldn’t he be somewhere safe, doing emperorly things? She ransacked her memory for the proper protocol and found…nothing. Emperors did not traditionally saunter through the waterfront shops. They certainly did not mingle with people of the labor class.

  The merchant, equally flustered, curtseyed deeply and said, “Sire, I must apologize for the state of disarray infecting my store.”

  The emperor arched his eyebrows. “I should be apologizing to you, madam. For allowing this—” he gestured toward the fallen thugs, “—in the city. Fortunately, our enforcers are quite competent.” He bounced a little at this and smiled at Amaranthe, more like a young man hungering for a friend than a leader over millions. Don’t be presumptuous, Amaranthe.

  “Yes, Sire,” she said. It felt like a safe answer.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “Both of your names?” He waved to include Wholt.

  “Corporal Lokdon,” Amaranthe said. “And this is soon-to-be Sergeant Wholt,” she added when Wholt did not manage to utter anything intelligible.

  A ponderous man with flapping jowls thundered through the doorway. Beads
of sweat gleamed on his face. The emperor sighed like a boy whose tutor had caught up with him.

  “Sire, there you are. They’ve got the fire under control. Do you want to finish the inspection now?”

  “Not really.” The emperor smiled wistfully.

  “Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest will be expecting our punctual return.”

  “I suppose.” The emperor cast a mournful gaze at Amaranthe as he trooped out the door flanked by his guards.

  When the entourage had departed, Wholt shuffled through the tins and elbowed Amaranthe. “I think he liked you.”

  She snorted. “Yes, I’m surely destined to be the next empress.”

  “That might be ambitious, but you could have asked him for a promotion.”

  For a moment, Wholt’s words enticed her. If the emperor told the chief someone should be promoted to sergeant, surely it would happen. And she deserved it, didn’t she? She worked harder than Wholt. But no…. “If I get promoted, it’ll be because I earned it, the same as everyone else. Not because I begged someone for a favor.”

  “You have earned it.”

  • • • • •

  The bodies were charred into anonymity and still smoldering. Eight, Amaranthe counted as she walked around the pile, sodden floorboards creaking ominously beneath her feet. It was a dangerous spot, since the fire had also charred the support posts and beams in the basement. Several boards had already given way and plunged below. A great hole in the floor marked the spot where a worktable had stood. Yet she stayed, breathing air thick with the stench of fire and death, seeking answers from the carnage.

  The corpses had been there, piled just like this, when the first firemen walked in. They had left the bodies untouched for the enforcers. The flames had seared facial features, clothing, skin and hair color into indistinguishable black lumps. Amaranthe could not even tell gender for certain.