The Emperor's Edge, no. 1 Read online

  The man bowed and walked out.

  When Sespian stood, his headache intensified. He winced. The pain came every day now, a constant and loathed companion.

  At least the tea seemed to help. It had been his mother’s favorite. More than a decade had passed since she died, but he still missed her. Father, the great warrior emperor, had been an obstacle to overcome—or avoid—but Mother had loved him and never failed to support him. Every night, when he drank the tea, he felt close to her, as if he were honoring her memory.

  Sespian picked up the cup. He inhaled deeply, the pleasant blend of herbs tickling his nose. Not so sweet as spiced cider, it warmed and soothed as it flowed down his throat.

  He soon finished the cup.

  The next evening, Amaranthe visited the Maze. From the outside, it looked like little more than a warehouse, but the long line she stepped into promised something more entertaining. The establishment had only been around for a few years, but it was already more popular than any other gambling venue in the city. It was more profitable, too, though the question of the place’s legality had come up in more than one enforcer report. This was not her district, though, so she had never visited.

  Dressed in parka, ankle-length skirt, leggings, and the fitted jacket of a businesswoman, she was a little out of place amongst the jostling folks wearing factory coveralls or labor uniforms under their coats. She hoped to meet with the owner, though, not mingle with the gamblers.

  When the bouncer let her in, a moment of claustrophobia swallowed her. Hundreds of cheering men and women pressed from all sides. Thick tobacco and warkus weed smoke did not quite obliterate the stench of stale sweat and alcohol-swathed bodies.

  Since the crowd kept Amaranthe from seeing the layout, she found a support pillar and climbed onto its concrete base. Rows of benches formed descending squares around a fifty-meter-wide pit filled with the ever-changing maze that gave the establishment its name. Even as she watched, a section of the wall detached and started moving. It slid along one of myriad tracks in the floor and clanked into a new slot on the far side of the pit. Two more walls began a different journey before the first finished. Within the maze, a stout fellow wearing a white tunic turned out of a dead-end and hunted for a new path. Four clackers, mechanical constructs with crab-like pinchers, rolled through the maze on treads. In the center of the labyrinth, a tiny alcove held a dais. A small chest rested on top, its lid open to display a pile of gold coins. Spectators cheered or booed for the lone player, depending on which way they had bet.

  Amaranthe dropped off her perch. She had not come to watch the game but to see the owner. She slipped through the crowd until she found the betting cage near the back wall. Several bouncers with the prerequisite prodigious muscles kept the gamblers peaceful. The backs of their hands sported brands, inelegant feline faces with pointed ears and fat whiskers. The marks showed allegiance with the Panthers, one of the larger gangs in the city.

  Amaranthe approached the closest bouncer, a man with a cleft chin and wavy black hair. Without the scowl, he might have been handsome.

  Before she could speak to him, he turned and yelled at a little man tugging on his sleeve. “I already told you, bets are final! You can’t change your mind in the middle. Go away!”

  The man scampered into the crowd. The bouncer turned on Amaranthe.

  “What?” he roared.

  She stifled the instinct to step back. Instead she met his eyes and asked, “Rough day?”

  “Huh?”

  She added a sympathetic smile. “It looks like you’re having a rough day.”

  The irritation bled away from the bouncer’s face. “Actually, yes.”

  “I’m Amaranthe. What’s your name?”

  “Ragos.”

  “It must be trying dealing with the same silly questions day in and day out,” she said.

  “That, I’m used to. But today, two of the bookmakers didn’t show up. The potatoes for our vendors’ potato cakes didn’t come. The furnace that powers the Maze decided to break down, and who do you think got to fix it?” Ragos pulled a wrench out of a back pocket and waved it.

  “I didn’t realize bouncers had so many responsibilities,” Amaranthe said.

  Another bouncer sidled up to Ragos and grinned. “Most don’t. Unless they’re the boss’s pet.”

  Ragos glowered at his comrade. “Your section is over there, isn’t it?”

  The man’s grin never left, but he returned to his post.

  “The boss? Is that the owner?” Amaranthe asked. “I came to see her about some business.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but she knows me. We went to school together.”

  “Is that the school that makes her sound like she’s swallowing spikes when she talks about it?” Ragos asked.

  “I believe so. She didn’t get along well with the teachers. Or the students.”

  “I’m sure she’ll love to see you then.”

  “Probably not,” Amaranthe admitted.

  Ragos smiled mischievously. “In that case, I’ll show you right up.”

  He unlocked a door behind the betting cage, and they climbed a metal staircase to a catwalk that passed over the Maze. They stopped before an office built against the rafters. A name plaque on the door read: The Boss. Ragos raised a finger for Amaranthe to wait before ambling inside.

  “No!” came a woman’s voice almost immediately.

  Ragos ambled back out and winked. “Go right in.”

  “Thank you, Ragos.”

  Amaranthe waited until he descended the stairs. She was tempted to leave as well, but she had already asked every pawnbroker, bar keeper, weapons smith, and loan shark in the city how to get a message to Sicarius, all with no luck. Either they did not know, or they were not willing to risk the infamous criminal’s ire by bothering him.

  She knocked.

  “Oh, come in already,” the woman growled.

  Amaranthe stepped inside. The magnificent, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Maze was not quite enough to distract her from the old clutter, new clutter, and nascent clutter swamping the office. At first, the mess overshadowed the woman lounging behind a desk overflowing with boxes, ledger books, and discarded men’s clothing. She wore tight-fitting leather that emphasized lush curves. Maybe Hollowcrest should have hired her to seduce Sicarius.

  “Amaranthe Lokdon?” the woman said. “I never expected you to show up here. And look. You’re still wearing your hair in that unimaginative bun.”

  “Mitsy Masters.” Amaranthe forced a smile. Be friendly. If anyone has the right contacts to get in touch with Sicarius, it’s her. “I like to keep my hair neat, out of the way.”

  “Yes, I remember your neatness, my dear. The way teachers gloated over your pretty penmanship and ingratiatingly perfect papers.”

  “That didn’t keep you from copying them, as I recall.” Easy, Amaranthe. Remember you’re being nice.

  “I never believed in wasting time doing something you could get someone else to do for you. That’s what business is all about, isn’t it?”

  Mitsy yawned, took out a file, and began working on her fingernails. A gang mark identical to the bouncers’ branded the back of one of her hands. As of the latest enforcer reports, Mitsy was the Panthers’ leader.

  “I’m not sure that’s quite the philosophy our teachers tried to instill,” Amaranthe said. “Though your tactics must be working. It looks like you’ve done well since, ah...”

  “Being kicked out of school? Yes. You? I assume you went on to become a model entrepreneur, though I admit I haven’t heard anything of you.”

  Good. Since female enforcers were rare, Amaranthe had feared Mitsy would have heard about her career. “You wouldn’t. I’ve been...discreet. I have an...export business.”

  Mitsy leaned forward, eyes narrowed, interest kindling for the first time. “Oh ho, what illegal commodities are you sending out of the empire?”

  “Parts,” Amaranthe said, in
tentionally vague. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Dear Amaranthe, do you mayhap need a favor?” Calculation glittered in Mitsy’s eyes.

  “Nothing that would require much effort on your part, I assure you. I have a shipment that I need to get from my warehouse in Itansa across the border to Kendor. I need someone reliable to accompany it, to make sure it reaches its destination. Someone who can handle any imperial soldiers or Kendorian shamans who might snoop too closely.”

  “I must say, Amaranthe dear, I’m impressed by these nefarious allusions. You always acted so insufferably noble. If I’d known devious streaks lay beneath that façade, I would have teased you and your prissy cohorts less frequently in school.”

  “Only three times a week instead of five?”

  Mitsy flashed a lupine grin. “Precisely.”

  “Sicarius,” Amaranthe said, anxious to end the meeting and leave. “I’ve heard he’s in town. I’ve heard he’s good. Do you know of him?”

  “Certainly, he’s the best.”

  “Do you know what he charges?” Amaranthe asked, trying to add a hint of verisimilitude. She was supposed to be a businesswoman after all.

  “Whatever it is, he’s worth it.”

  “Oh? Have you met him?”

  Anything more Amaranthe could learn about the assassin would be invaluable. Before running the lake trail that morning, she had sneaked into Enforcer Headquarters to retrieve Sicarius’s record, but it contained no personal information, and the arm-long list of kills had done little to bolster her confidence.

  “Not personally, no,” Mitsy said. “They say he never fails an assignment though. They also say...” She shrugged, deliberately mysterious. “Let’s just say you’d do best to take care with him.”

  “Temper?”

  “No, he’s a cold one by all accounts. I know a fellow in Iskland—or rather I knew a fellow—who hired Sicarius for a retrieval operation, then decided he didn’t want to pay the agreed upon price.”

  “I assume Sicarius got the money from him,” Amaranthe said.

  “Cut his throat, actually. Left the money.”

  “I see.”

  “And then there’s that merchant in Komar who paid Sicarius but thought he would recoup his losses by tipping the local garrison to the assassin’s whereabouts. Sicarius killed the merchant and the soldiers who came after him.”

  Mitsy smiled as she spoke, intentionally trying to rattle her guest, Amaranthe suspected.

  “As much as I’m appreciating story hour,” she said, “I really just need to know how to get in touch with him. Can you get word to him for me? I’ve heard you have a vast network of contacts in the city.”

  “I can get it out to my people. Whether it’ll reach his ears or not...” Mitsy shrugged.

  “Good enough. Have them tell him the job won’t take long, but I’ll pay well. If he’s interested, he should meet me tomorrow at midnight in Pyramid Park.”

  “Got it.”

  Amaranthe thought about insisting Mitsy write it down but changed her mind after a brief survey of the clutter—Amaranthe could swear some of it was oozing toward her like a lava flow.

  “What do I owe you?” she asked instead.

  She reached into her purse and thumbed the bills Hollowcrest had given her. There were not a lot. If Sicarius demanded partial payment up front, she would have to sneak back to her flat and delve into her savings.

  “Nothing, my dear,” Mitsy said. “I’ll do this favor for you, and someday mayhap, you’ll be in a position to do a favor for me.”

  Amaranthe winced. She would rather have paid.

  The gargantuan stone structure that gave Pyramid Park its name hogged four city blocks in the middle of the business district. Thousands of years old, the pyramid had been confounding city planners throughout imperial history. Various administrations had attempted everything from dismantling it to selling storage space inside. It had taken a graduate from Amaranthe’s school to make the structure profitable. The woman had bought the land and turned the old pyramid, with its labyrinthine tunnels and burial chambers, into a tourist destination replete with guides, food stands, and shops hawking tacky replicas. That was in the summer. In the winter, the pyramid stood silent and abandoned, locked steel grates barring the interior from the curious.

  Amaranthe arrived at the park an hour before midnight. On the chance Sicarius was the type to likewise arrive early, she wanted to out-early him. More, she wanted to see him coming, and the top of the pyramid was the one place in Stumps that assured that opportunity. Thanks to previous vandalism problems, it was also well lit, with gas lamps lining the walkways and even the steps of the looming structure.

  Though she had debated on a public meeting spot, she doubted a room full of people would keep Sicarius from killing her if things went badly. No, she would meet him alone, without distractions. The better to analyze him.

  Nodding to herself, she strode toward the base of the pyramid. Stairs on the west side, slick from snow that had melted during the day and refrozen, led to the top. The steps were high but shallow, as if their makers had possessed tiny feet and abnormally long strides. The steepness and the lack of a railing made Amaranthe’s ascent cautious.

  A single gas lamp burned at the top. She could cross the platform in five strides and see the lights of the city sprawled out in all three directions. Only to the west, where the frozen lake stretched, lay darkness. Four columns supported a flat stone roof adorned with a foot of snow. In the center of the platform, an altar held a headless statue. Two wings, clawed feet, and the suggestion of a furry chest remained. People had worshipped some odd things in those days.

  Amaranthe slipped a mitten-clad hand into her parka and withdrew the thin stiletto that had replaced her enforcer-issue knife and sword. She examined the blade without enthusiasm. It was a believable weapon for a businesswoman to carry, but it felt flimsy to her.

  “An infamous assassin is coming to meet me and I’m armed with a letter opener,” she muttered.

  Amaranthe hid the weapon. If she got into a fight with him, it meant she had already fouled up beyond redemption anyway. Comforting thought.

  She checked her pocket watch. Midnight.

  Not a single person walked the streets near the park. She made a fist and dropped her chin on it. What if he didn’t come? What if Mitsy had not believed Amaranthe’s story and hadn’t sent the message? What if Sicarius had received the message but had seen through it?

  She turned to check the view from the other side of the platform.

  He was there.

  Amaranthe jumped, dropping her watch. It clanked against the frozen stone and skidded into the base of the pedestal. Sicarius’s eyes never left her face. He was leaning against one of the back pillars, his arms folded across his chest.

  Unlucky fallen ancestors, she cursed silently. How had he gotten up here without using the stairs? How long had he been there? Had he seen her checking the knife?

  To give herself a moment to recover her composure, Amaranthe bent to pick up the watch. She wondered if her mittens hid how much her fingers shook as she grasped it.

  As she slowly stood, her gaze traveled up his black boots, fitted black trousers, tucked-in black shirt, an armory’s worth of daggers and throwing knives, and came to rest on his face. He was the person from the sketch, no doubt, but unlike the menacing image Hollowcrest had given her, this man’s face bore no emotion at all. By the flames of the lamp, his eyes appeared black, and they gave no indication of feeling—or humanity.

  He had the bronze skin of a Turgonian, but that pale blond hair was rare in the empire. It was short and damp around the edges. Whoever had cut it looked to have used hedge clippers instead of scissors.

  “Thank you for being prompt,” Amaranthe said, relieved her voice didn’t waver or crack.

  He said nothing. His eyes never left hers.

  It was unnerving, though she dared not show it. It was time to play the role she had designed for herself. If
he agreed to the job, they would travel together to Amaranthe’s fictitious warehouse in Itansa, which would involve a four-day locomotive ride. He would sleep sometime, and she would fulfill Hollowcrest’s mission then. Assassinate the assassin.

  She remembered a piece of advice from a marketing class. Start out asking potential customers questions they have to answer with yes. Consistency is your ally. People are more likely to say yes to a sale after a string of positive responses. Just don’t let them start out saying no.

  She cleared her throat. “I’m Amaranthe Lokdon. You are Sicarius, correct?”

  “You know who I am.”

  “Are you as good as they say?”

  “You asked for me by name. Frequently.”

  Amaranthe tried to decide if his words implied suspicion. His tone never fluctuated. Like his face, his voice betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” She smiled.

  “You have work to propose. Do so.”

  So much for the get-them-to-say-yes strategy.

  “Very well,” Amaranthe said. “I need to move some machinery across the border to buyers in Kendor. Since sharing technology with outsiders is illegal, I anticipate trouble from the soldiers who inspect the ports. I’ve tried bribes before with little luck. I need someone who can handle them, in whatever way deemed best, should they try to block the shipment. I’ve heard you’re not squeamish about such things.”

  Sicarius stared at her, eyes hard and unwavering. Amaranthe forced herself to meet his gaze, lest he suspect her of dishonesty.

  “I decline,” Sicarius said.

  “What? Why?”

  “You are lying,” he said and passed her, heading for the stairs.

  Desperation dawned—this was her only chance!—but she kept herself from reaching for the stiletto. There was no way someone with his experience would fail to anticipate a stab in the back at this moment.

  She noticed something that made her freeze: a small smudge of red dirt on the back of his boot. Not dirt, finely crushed brick, and there was only one place in Stumps where one might walk in that. She knew the stuff intimately because she wiped it off her shoes every morning after a run. Then she remembered his damp hair. By the time Sicarius reached the bottom and glided into the darkness, she had a new plan.