Birds chirped overhead. The smell of cooking eggs wafted from a vendor’s nearby tent. Early morning sun slanted through the oak’s lower branches and warmed the back of her neck. It was not a sound but the disappearance of that warmth that alerted Amaranthe to someone behind her.
She turned to find Sicarius, hands clasped behind his back, the sunlight limning his short blond hair. No sweat dampened that hair and no dust smudged his black clothes. He certainly did not look like a man who had been on the run.
“What’re you doing?” She glanced at the enforcers.
He had placed himself so a tree hid him from their view, but the sunlight and the people walking all about made Amaranthe feel exposed and vulnerable.
“Standing,” Sicarius said.
“Where have you been? Why did you let the enforcers see you?”
“I did not.”
“You find him?” someone called near the vehicles.
Amaranthe grabbed Sicarius’s arm. “We have to get out of here. You can explain later.”
They jogged toward a swath of trees separating the stadium and grounds from the main railway tracks that ran alongside the lake and through the city’s waterfront. Amaranthe intended to push straight through and follow the rails to their hideout, but Sicarius veered north as soon as they were under cover.
“This way.” He slipped down a narrow path clogged with shrubs and brambles.
Amaranthe winced as enthusiastic thorns snagged at her togs and attempted to tug her stolen satchel from her shoulder. “I hope you’re leading me to a place where answers will present themselves.”
Not only did Sicarius not respond, he maneuvered through the grasping foliage more deftly than she and soon disappeared.
Amaranthe ducked a branch at poke-her-in-the-eye height and, figuring Sicarius was out of earshot, added, “This might be worth it if you were taking me to a secluded nook where a picnic basket, blanket, and jug of fresh juice awaited.”
Black clothing appeared through the leaves ahead. Amaranthe pushed past a rhododendron and stepped into a claustrophobic clearing only a few feet wide. At first, she could see nothing beyond Sicarius’s back. When she realized he was pointing at the ground, she eased around him, almost stepping on a man’s hand.
“So...” she said, “no picnic basket.”
As usual, Sicarius ignored her non-work-related comments. “While you were inside,” he said, “this man ran out of the trees near the stadium, and someone shouted ‘That’s Sicarius.’ The enforcers took off after him. He raced through a crowded area where a sergeant with a crossbow shot him in the back. He evaded his pursuers and crashed through here, but then collapsed.” Sicarius pointed at a crossbow quarrel protruding from the man’s back. “It pierced a lung.”
Amaranthe crouched, all thoughts of picnics gone. The dead man wore black, had short blond hair, and wore a bandana over his face. She touched a tuft of hair still damp with sweat. “This looks dyed.”
“My color, yes.”
“So, someone’s impersonating you. Someone who couldn’t have known we’d be here at the same time. Is someone trying to blame you for a crime? These kidnappings perhaps?”
“Unknown.”
She stood and frowned at Sicarius. “When I recruited you for my team, I didn’t fully realize how many people there were scheming up plots that involved you.”
“Regrets?” he asked.
Amaranthe almost said something flippant—how often did he set himself up so nicely for teasing?—but a faint variance to his usual monotone made her think the answer might matter. It seemed impossible. She always figured she needed him on her team far more than he needed her. Ancestors knew he had saved her life more times than she could count. But maybe he had come to care about what she thought of him.
She sighed and patted him on the arm. “Nah, you know I like a challenge. Let’s get back to the hideout and see if we can hunt down the others. I seem to have granted a vacation prematurely. I think we’re going to need everyone in on this.”
“Agreed,” Sicarius said.
* * * * *
Morning sun burned into the rusted hulls of decommissioned rail cars that filled the vast boneyard. Heat radiated from them, some as yet unscathed by the years and others so rusted each wall was a see-through latticework. The occasional shiny bits glinted, throwing rays into Amaranthe’s eyes as she passed. Weeds rose from cracks between faded and broken bricks that lined the ground, suggesting the area had once had a nobler purpose.
Sicarius had disappeared as soon as they neared the boneyard, and Amaranthe weaved through the aisles toward their hideout alone. Unfamiliar coughs and voices echoed from different parts of the field, a reminder that more groups than hers called this place a home, however temporarily. Cigar stubs, some filled with tobacco and some with more potent leaves, littered the bricks. Bloodstains were nearly as frequent. The boneyard had the benefit of not being visited often by enforcers, but that also made it a place Amaranthe would not have chosen to visit alone at night.
She turned down a dead end and stumbled. Maldynado lounged in a chair he had scavenged from one of the passenger cars. His face was tilted toward the sun, his eyes were closed, his hands were clasped behind his head, and he was…naked.
“Maldynado,” Amaranthe groaned.
“Oh, hullo, boss.” He neither rose nor adjusted his position to hide anything; he simply sprawled there, like a cat in a sunbeam.
“What are you doing?”
“Vacationing.”
Amaranthe pulled a towel out of her satchel and draped it across his waist as she walked past. “I see you’ve set yourself an ambitious itinerary.”
“You said to relax. I’m relaxing.” He scratched an armpit. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Profound and philosophical thoughts?”
“Naturally,” Maldynado said. “For instance, I figure we should have a team uniform.”
“A uniform?”
“Clothes that make us look like a stylish and cohesive unit of elite combat professionals.”
“Something like what Sicarius wears?” Amaranthe asked.
“He’s far too monochromatic and plain to be considered stylish.”
“I see. Well, let me know what you come up with.” She peered into the cars she and her team had claimed, a set of three that were less rusted than most. They framed a dead end and created a private camp spot. “Anyone else about?”
“Akstyr’s off somewhere being secretive and magicky, and Books left at dawn, excited about spending a day at the library—that is pathetic, by the way.”
“Basilard’s not around?”
“Haven’t seen him since last night.”
“I hope he shows up today. I want to take everybody in and investigate Barlovoc Stadium. Something’s going on, maybe something important.”
“Important enough to interrupt our vacation?”
“Absolutely,” Amaranthe said. “This has the potential to attract attention high up. This could be the one.”
“Uh huh, when you’re done rubbing your hands together and plotting gleefully, think about what you’re going to wear for your date tonight.”
“My what?”
Sicarius chose that moment to finish scouting and walk into camp.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Maldynado said. “Lord Mancrest. I’ve been trying to get you to meet him for weeks, but you keep saying, ‘wait until we have some time off.’ Well, you gave us time off.”
“All right, but not tonight. This is more important than—”
“I already set it up,” Maldynado said.
Sicarius’s expression was cool as he drew near, but she did not know if it was due to the conversation topic or Maldynado’s lack of attire.
“I told him you were free and that you’d meet him tonight,” Maldynado said. “He said he’ll take you out to a nice dinner. His family has money, so you should mine that vein for all it’s worth. When was the last time you had something fancy? Get
the priciest cut of meat.”
“Maldynado...”
“He’s a gentlemen. Probably won’t even expect you to warm his sheets afterward. Unless you want to, of course. I don’t think you’ve blanket wrestled with anybody for as long as I’ve known you, so you must have some urges that are aching to be sated.”
“Maldynado!” Amaranthe should not have blushed, but she was all too conscious of Sicarius standing a few paces away.
“Wear something nice,” Maldynado said. “He’s expecting you at The Gazette building at six.”
“I’m not... Did you say The Gazette?” Amaranthe wanted to object, since she’d already been planning a night of snooping, but the chance to go into the city’s largest newspaper office and chat up the boss was appealing. At the least, she could find out if the journalists had heard about anything fishy going on at Barlovoc Stadium. Developing a relationship with Mancrest could prove useful long-term as well. If she could convince him her team was working for the good of the empire, perhaps he would publish something nice—like the truth. “All right. I can send you fellows ahead and come to the grounds afterward. No self-respecting snoop sneaks in before midnight anyway.”
“Excellent.”
Sicarius said nothing, but his gaze was less friendly than his daggers. When she met his eyes, he jerked his chin toward the old rail car that served as the group’s parlor. She clambered inside after him.
The wide opening lacked the sliding door it would have had during its service days, and Sicarius walked to the far end, presumably wanting a private conversation. Crates, battered lanterns, and a couple of old strategy games with missing tiles comprised the furnishings. It would be silly to keep anything valuable inside since vagrants roamed the boneyard. Amaranthe missed the days of having a safe home to return to at night, one where she could keep treasured belongings...like books and dinnerware. When she had been an enforcer, she had never thought she would think of her simple, one-room flat as a luxury.
Sicarius leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest. Sun slanting through holes highlighted rusty rivets on the floor, her purloined broom and dustpan, and the utter lack of humor on his face.
“Problem?” Amaranthe wondered if he might be the teeniest bit jealous at the idea of Maldynado setting her up on a “date.” She, of course, had only professional interest in this man and would tell Sicarius that if he asked. She wished he would ask, since that would imply his admission about caring meant caring in a romantic way. Well, romantic might not be the exact word to use when describing Sicarius’s feelings, but something of that nature anyway.
“Deret Mancrest wrote the story condemning us as Sespian’s kidnappers,” Sicarius said. “Prior to that, he wrote other articles about me and encouraged the emperor to siphon more forces into capturing me so the army could put me in front of a firing squad.”
“Oh.” Amaranthe sank down onto a crate. Not jealousy after all. Sicarius just hated the man for condemning him in writing. “So he’s the one who called you abhorrent and degenerate and me an accomplice.”
“You remember the adjectives used to describe me and not the author?”
“Well, I’m not warrior caste. All those ‘Crest’ names blend together in my mind.”
“It would be unwise to visit him,” Sicarius said.
“If he’s a friend of Maldynado’s he—”
“He may have requested the meeting to arrange a trap.”
“For you?” Amaranthe asked. “Wouldn’t he have asked you out to dinner if that were the case?”
The sun did nothing to warm Sicarius’s dark eyes. “You have a bounty on your head as well.”
“Yes, I know. But...” She stood and grabbed the broom. “He may actually be exactly what we need. If he has a years-long record of deriding you—in writing—and he could be...converted, he could become an asset to us.” She swept as she spoke, angling dust into a pile. “If we can convince him you weren’t behind Sespian’s kidnapping, and you’ve worked for the good of the empire on several occasions since then, his favorable opinion of you would carry a lot of weight. With a single story, he could make the entire city question all they’ve heard about you.” She held the dustpan aloft and smiled. Yes, that sounded like a good plan.
Sicarius stared, as unexpressive and unmoving as marble.
“You know...” Amaranthe dumped her dust pile outside and returned to face him. “It’s hard for me to maintain my vigor and enthusiasm for leading you when you do nothing but stand there and ooze disapproval at me.”
“Not at you,” he said.
“If your disapproval is aimed at Lord Mancrest, he’s not here to receive it. And if you’re irked at Maldynado... I think he’s only looking to receive a sunburn on his nether regions right now.”
“I will go with you tonight.”
“Er, to the eating house?” She imagined him wearing his black clothing and knife collection, looming over her shoulder while she tried to woo this Lord Mancrest over dinner and wine.
“To the newspaper building. To see if it’s a trap.”
“Ah.” She supposed she could send him to the stadium after they verified Mancrest was not up to anything duplicitous. “Very well. We’ll take Maldynado, too.”
Sicarius strode to the doorway, hopped down, and disappeared.
“No, no.” Amaranthe lifted a hand. “You needn’t let me know you think my idea has promise. It’s been nearly three months since the last time I almost got myself killed, so I’m brimming with self-confidence. I don’t need bolstering.”
Wind whistled through the boneyard, stirring dust and providing her only answer.
She finished tidying the rail car before climbing out to find Maldynado had left—to put on clothes, she hoped—and Basilard had returned. He sat in the vacated chair, arms draped over his knees, while he stared at the earth. The sun gleamed against his shaven head, highlighting the briar patch of scar tissue marring his scalp.
“Problem?” Amaranthe asked, thinking he appeared glummer than usual.
He flinched when she spoke, and she wondered what he had been thinking about. He only shook his head.
Amaranthe dragged a crate over so she could sit beside him. “I’m glad you’re here. You know that vacation I promised? We may need to work this week after all.”
He did not react, did not even twitch a shoulder.
“Do you mind going with Books and Akstyr to do some nocturnal investigating tonight?”
This time Basilard did shrug. If it had been Akstyr, who had just turned eighteen, she might have understood the moody response, but Basilard usually gave people more respect and showed interest when she discussed missions.
“I’ve heard that talking about problems makes one feel better. I can keep confidences if you want to divulge any dark secrets.” Amaranthe smiled, intending it as a joke, but Basilard studied her through narrowed eyes, as if he knew of the secrets in her life she had failed to keep. Or perhaps the ones she had kept and shouldn’t have. Could he have found out about Sicarius’s past in Mangdoria?
She shifted from foot to foot until she realized that made her look guilty. She forced herself to stop and clasped her hands behind her back.
You wouldn’t understand, Basilard signed.
She let out a slow breath. That did not sound like something that had to do with revenge or deep-set anger.
“Maybe not,” Amaranthe said, “but the nice thing about talking to other people is they don’t have to do anything for you to feel better. They might just nod and grunt a few times. The feeling better part comes from speaking of the burdens you’ve been holding inside, things that weigh upon your soul.” Hm, that sounded preachy. She decided she wasn’t old enough or wise enough to mother these men, so bowed her head and backed away, intending to leave Basilard alone.
He stopped her and lifted a hand, swiping two fingers toward his chest.
“I don’t know that sign yet,” she said.
“Soul,” he mouthed, and sh
e understood since she’d just used the word. Turgonians believe in soul?
Amaranthe drew closer again. “Some do. The old religion speaks of an eternal soul that lives on after you die. All of our references to spirits and fallen ancestors come from that. Though Mad Emperor Motash worked his entire life to declare the old ways dead and atheism the only acceptable belief, er, disbelief, many still believe in guidance from ghosts of the past.”
When you die, your soul goes where?
“Agormak, the Spirit Realm, supposedly. Although, through various ceremonies, dead ancestors can be called upon for advice, and people have claimed to see them in our realm.”
No hell?
“Not like your people believe in, no. Though some say cowardly acts, especially suicide, destroy the soul, rendering it unavailable for consultation. One wonders what those priests were drinking when they sat around and thought up the rules.”
Basilard’s eyes widened, and Amaranthe winced. She forgot how much Mangdorians valued their religion and used its tenets to guide their lives.
“I’m sure your people’s religion makes more sense than ours,” she said by way of apology, but she worried she was sticking her foot deeper into her mouth. A stricken expression twisted Basilard’s face. Yes, she was quite sure her big toe was brushing a tonsil. She coughed. “It’s possible I was mistaken when I said talking to someone would make you feel better.”
He snorted. It might have been a semi-amused snort. She hoped so.
Basilard considered her again, and she tried not to squirm. His eyes were not narrowed this time, but withholding Sicarius’s past crimes in Mangdoria gave her a reason to feel guilty next to him, and she never forgot that.
Why The Emperor’s Edge? he signed, surprising her.
That surprise must have shown on her face, for he clarified, If you believe your soul safe, why risk your life over and over, trying to impress the emperor? Is it just for a pardon?
“It’s partially about clearing my name and partially about...trying to give happiness to someone who means a great deal to me. Also, it’s about wanting a place in the history books. I used to think I could find that through being the first female enforcer to reach... Well, that’s not going to happen now. Maybe it was never going to happen as long as I was following someone else’s path, but now I’ve got my own path, and I believe again that I can make history.” She chuckled. “It’s all kinds of hubris, I know, but that’s the imperial way. You either gain immortality through having children or you earn it by becoming someone history remembers. Despite Maldynado’s attempts to set me up with a man, I have a feeling my odds of achieving the latter are better right now.”