“Nothing’s poisoned. If we wanted you dead, that would have happened by now.” She did not nod toward Sicarius; she didn’t figure she had to.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure your assassin could have arranged that,” Mancrest said, “but I figured you might have a lesser punishment in mind and have arranged for some gut-wrenching vomiting or emergency movements from the other end.”
“You must have courted some vindictive women,” Amaranthe said.
Mancrest grunted, set the wine bottle down, and headed for a door that presumably led to a kitchen.
“Plates, too,” Amaranthe suggested.
Sicarius detached himself from the wall to follow.
Mancrest paused and stared at him. “Unless you know where I left my corkscrew, I don’t need your help.”
Sicarius followed him into the kitchen anyway, probably thinking Mancrest might have a pistol or two on the premises. If she ever did go out with a man for non-work-related reasons, she would have to figure out a way to leave Sicarius home. Of course, if he’d ever deign to take her out for non-work-related reasons, that would suffice as well.
Amaranthe laid out Maldynado’s food choices, trying to arrange the bread and pastries in such a way that one might not immediately notice their battered state. Given what these groceries had gone through to arrive here, she was happy nothing was poisoned with varnish.
She had forgotten Maldynado stashed a newspaper in a bag, too, and she glanced over it. Mancrest did have an article on the front page. Apparently the winners of each of the events in the Imperial Games would be invited to dinner with the emperor.
“Wish I could enter,” she muttered. With all the training the team did, she was more fit than she had ever been. Though she had never been tall enough to have a chance at the sprints, where the long-legged women excelled, she had won medals for the middle- and long-distance races as a junior. Unfortunately, any race she ran these days would end with enforcers taking her into custody—or worse.
A crash sounded in the other room—a big one.
Amaranthe lunged around the table, a vision of Sicarius mashing Mancrest with a meat cleaver stampeding into her head. She shoved the swinging door open. A drawer lay on the floor beside a butcher-block island; cutlery and silverware scattered the travertine tiles. One wicked serrated knife had somehow struck a cabinet door with such force that it protruded from the wood, handle still quivering.
Sicarius had Mancrest bent over the island, his cheek smashed into the butcher block, his arm chicken-winged behind his back, fingers jerked up so high he could have braided his own hair, were it long enough. Maldynado would have had an innuendo-laden comment about the men’s positioning. Amaranthe only propped her hands on her hips and said, “Problem?”
“No,” Sicarius said.
“Yes!” Mancrest cried. “I was just trying to get silverware out.”
“Is it possible you’re being a touch jumpy?” Amaranthe asked Sicarius.
He kicked something on the floor behind the island. An ivory-handled pistol skidded across the tiles and bumped against the fallen drawer.
Amaranthe picked it up. The hammer was cocked. She lifted the frizzen, and powder poured out of the pan.
“I forgot it was there,” Mancrest said, voice muffled by the fact his cheek was still mashed against the butcher block.
“Really?” Amaranthe asked, prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Mancrest hesitated. “No.”
Given the situation, his honesty surprised her, however belated.
“Care to tell us where the rest of the loaded firearms in your flat are?” she asked.
“Not really,” Mancrest said.
“Then I guess Sicarius will have to follow you around all night, hovering over your shoulder while you eat. Breathing down your neck. Sharing your salad. Hogging your croutons.”
That might have drawn a snort from Sicarius had they been alone, but with someone else present, he gave no hints of emotion, and she could not guess what he was thinking. Probably that he did not want to be there. Perhaps that he would like to finish grinding Mancrest’s face into the island.
“Do you actually think I’m going to sit down and dine with you?” Mancrest asked.
“Standing is an option, if you wish,” Amaranthe said. “Where are the other firearms? I’ll be more comfortable eating and chatting with you, knowing it’s unlikely you’ll be able to shoot me between courses.”
“Parlor room desk drawer,” Mancrest said, “and in the latrine above the washout.”
“Thank you. I’ll...did you say latrine?”
“A man feels particularly vulnerable with his trousers around his ankles.” Mancrest tried to pull his arm free—a futile attempt. “Would you mind calling off your attack dog? I can’t feel the blood in my fingers.”
Amaranthe nodded at Sicarius. “Want to go check on those firearms?”
He did not move.
“Or I could check,” she said. “Let him wriggle his fingers, will you?”
Amaranthe trotted through the rooms, wanting to find the weapons and come back to rescue Mancrest before lack of circulation lost him any digits. She found the pistols and returned to the dining room. Mancrest sat in a seat—not the head of the table—with Sicarius at his back, arms crossed over chest in one of his typical poses. Amaranthe handed Sicarius the pistols, which he unloaded, then tossed into a corner.
She slipped into an upholstered seat at the head of the table, a throne of a chair that made her feel slight. The hand-carved feet resembled cougar paws and the rest of the detailing also evoked a predatory feline feel. None of this man’s furnishings had been produced in a factory or by anyone other than a master woodworker.
Mancrest, arms also crossed over his chest, glowered at her, and Amaranthe wondered how much force had been involved in seating him.
A gold-and-silver corkscrew rested on the table by the wine. She opened the bottle and poured two glasses.
“Your dog isn’t drinking?” Mancrest asked.
Amaranthe fought to keep a scowl off her face. While she could understand Mancrest being irked with Sicarius, her instinct was to come to his defense. She doubted the barbs would bother him, but they bothered her. “Sicarius is my partner in our endeavors. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t belittle, dehumanize, or otherwise deride him. Given the stories you’ve printed about him, I believe he’s showing admirable restraint in not killing you.”
“He’s a cowar—assassin, and I’ve done nothing but print the truth.”
Hm, maybe that correction was a sign of progress. Or maybe he was gentlemanly enough not to purposely irritate a woman.
“At least one of the stories you’ve printed is an untruth,” Amaranthe said. “We did not kidnap the emperor last winter. In fact, we saved his life.”
Mancrest snorted. “I interviewed witnesses that say you were there and that Sicarius had an axe over the emperor’s head when the guards stormed in.”
“He was lifting the axe to cut the chains binding Emperor Sespian to a dispensary of molten ore, a situation set up by Larocka Myll and Arbitan Losk, the former heads of the Forge organization. You’ve heard of them, I trust?”
Mancrest’s face grew as hard to read as Sicarius’s. Since he was not scoffing, she decided to press on.
“Arbitan was a Nurian masquerading as a Turgonian businessman, and he was the creator of the monster that was killing people all over town last winter. That was little more than a distraction, though, so he could plot against the emperor. And he almost succeeded. Sicarius saved Sespian’s life.”
Mancrest snorted. “Oh, please.”
Ah, there was the scoff.
“We also thwarted Forge’s attempt to pollute the city water a couple of months ago,” Amaranthe said. “That epidemic you wrote about as well.”
“You’re claiming that, too?” Mancrest laughed. “The entire army went up there. They handled that.”
“They cleaned up after we did all the w
ork, including killing a half a dozen makarovi that had butchered everyone in the dam.”
Amaranthe stood before Mancrest could voice another statement of disbelief. She untucked her blouse and displayed the scars on her abdomen. Showing unfamiliar men—or any men—her midsection was not something she did often, and the wounds were not exactly unquestionable evidence that her story was true, but she figured it might prove worth it. His eyebrows flew up and his mouth sagged open. The reaction did not leave her with the triumphant feeling she had expected; rather it reminded her that she would have ugly scars for life. Though she might be focused on her goals and was not usually one to worry about vanity, no woman wanted a man to be horrified when she showed some skin. She tucked her blouse back in.
“Of course, if my plan had been better thought-out, I might not have been mauled, but fortunately I had talented people to dig me out of trouble.” She smiled at Sicarius and caught him staring at her abdomen.
He lifted his gaze to meet her eyes, and for once she was glad she could not read his face. She could not imagine the long look being for anything other than pity or perhaps guilt over not having kept her from that fate, and she did not want either from him. Ancestors knew that whole debacle had been a result of her questionable-at-best scheme, one he had tried to talk her out of, and she had nobody to blame but herself.
“Naturally, I don’t expect you to take my word as truth,” Amaranthe said, “for any of these events, but I’d like to think The Gazette, should it be proved to be in error, would print a retraction.” She gestured to the forgotten meal and wine. “Shall we dine?”
“Huh?” Mancrest glanced back at Sicarius, then stared at her.
“Problem?” Amaranthe asked.
“I... When you started talking about those stories, I assumed you were here to threaten me and force me to print something more to your liking.” He checked on Sicarius again, who was doing a good imitation of furniture at the moment. “Or is that activity still forthcoming?”
“No, I’d rather eat now if you don’t mind. I’ve had a busy night.” She tore a chunk of bread, admiring the flaky crust and soft interior—a tasty change from the rice-based flatbread more common in the empire. A small tin held freshly smashed peanut butter. It never warmed enough in their satrapy for peanuts, so the import was a rare treat. She smeared some on the bread, and her mouth watered in anticipation. Though Maldynado had nearly walked her into a trap, she could forgive him since his shopping had proved so thoughtful. She lifted the piece of bread and offered the traditional before-meal salute, “A warrior’s health.”
Mancrest had been watching her, and, after she took a few bites, he prepared a plate for himself.
Amaranthe lifted her bread toward Sicarius. Though she knew he would not accept the invitation, she would have felt awkward eating without offering him something. He gave a single minute head shake.
“You’re not what I expected,” Mancrest said.
“What’d you expect?”
“Given you’re a rogue enforcer and who you work with now—” Mancrest jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Sicarius, “—someone draconian and pugilistic.”
“You think Maldynado would spend time with someone like that?”
“If that someone had nice breasts, yes.”
Amaranthe chuckled. “Perhaps so. By the way, did Maldynado tell you who he wanted you to meet, or did you guess?
“Is he going to be in trouble if you find out he did tell me?” Mancrest sipped from his glass of wine—he had apparently decided it was safe to drink—and watched her over the rim of the glass.
She had a feeling she was being tested. “That might earn him an extra stair-running session.”
Two vertical lines formed between Mancrest’s eyebrows. “Stair-running? Like exercise?”
“Yes.”
“If it’ll get him extra work, then maybe I should say yes.” Mancrest smiled for the first time that night. “But, no, he just said he knew a nice girl I should meet, someone who was working too hard and needed to have more fun.” He raised his eyebrows. “I figured out the rest on my own. People have noticed who he’s running with these days. His family is vocal in expressing their disappointment and quick to point out that this demonstrates why he deserved to be disowned.”
So, they had earned enough notoriety that everyone who knew Maldynado knew he was a potential avenue to her and Sicarius. She would have to remember that.
Mancrest sipped his wine. “How do you get Maldynado to climb stairs? We used to fence together, and he was always too unambitious to put any serious effort into his training.”
“We aim to be a fit group. It helps with defeating the evil doers of the world. At the least, it helps if you’re fast enough to outrun them. We’re all up well before dawn for distance work or obstacle courses, and there’s usually weapons training in the afternoon or evening.”
Mancrest sputtered and almost spilled his wine. “You can convince Maldynado to get up before dawn?”
Behind him, Sicarius stirred. He pinned Amaranthe with a hard stare. Not enthused about her sharing information on when and where they trained? She raised her fingers and nodded once. He was right. Mancrest was not someone to be trusted yet.
“I didn’t think even breasts could convince him to get out of bed before nine,” Mancrest continued, not noticing her exchange with Sicarius. He did glance at her chest, as if wondering if something special might be going on down there. Uh huh. Right.
“That’s not how I motivate the men,” Amaranthe said dryly. “And I’m sure it would take someone prettier than I to finagle them into doing things by that method.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Mancrest smiled for the first time. “You’re pretty enough. I’d like to see you with your hair down. It looks like you have a few waves that don’t want to be confined.”
“Uhm. Maybe another time when I’m sure escaping soldiers and enforcers won’t be a part of the evening activities.”
Mancrest’s smile widened. “Is that a request for a second date?”
“Er.” She was rescued from having to avoid Sicarius’s gaze by the fact that his eyes were boring into the back of Mancrest’s head. “We’ll see. Why don’t you tell me more about your recent story?” She laid the newspaper on the table between them. “The emperor is going to dine with the winners of all the events?”
Yes, that was good. Talking about work. Sicarius wouldn’t glare disapprovingly then, right? And maybe she could even get some useful information out of her new contact.
With that in mind, she spent the rest of the dinner chatting with Mancrest about the Imperial Games and avoiding such fraught topics as hair. He had not heard of the kidnappings, so she managed to pique his interest with those tidbits. Though he made no promises in regard to Forge or retracting stories, by the end of the evening, she had hope that she might make an ally out of him one day.
* * * * *
After almost an hour of wandering the grounds, Basilard and Akstyr found something. Rather Akstyr found something, and Basilard waited while the younger man knelt in the grass behind the bathhouse examining it.
What is it? Basilard signed.
Head bent low, Akstyr did not see the question.
Basilard nudged Akstyr’s arm, drawing the younger man’s gaze, and repeated himself.
“It’s too dark back here,” Akstyr whispered. “I can’t see your fingers.”
Basilard waved toward a glass globe lantern hanging from a post and took a couple of steps that direction, but Akstyr did not follow. His head was down again, his eyes focused on some tiny object in his hand. Something magical? That was the only thing Basilard could think of that would explain Akstyr’s fascination—especially since it was too dark to examine much with eyes alone.
He headed to the lantern, figuring Akstyr would come show him his find sooner or later.
The number of people enjoying the summer evening had dwindled, but people still ambled along the trails. Voices drifted from the
men’s and women’s bathhouses every time someone opened a door. Athletes strolled back to the barracks in pairs and groups, all friends now, but that would likely change once the events started.
The faint scent of blackberries lingered in the evening air. Basilard patted himself down, found one of his collection bags, and followed his nose toward a bramble patch in the shadows.
Frenzied grunts coming from nearby bushes made him pause, thinking someone might be embroiled in a battle and need help. His cheeks warmed when he realized it wasn’t the sort of battle from which one wanted to be extricated. He supposed he should move farther up the path and give the enthusiastic grunters their privacy, but a post-coital chuckle made him freeze. That laugh sounded familiar.
Basilard plucked the lantern from its wrought iron perch and returned to the bushes. He parted the branches, lifted the light, and revealed...
“Oh, hullo, Basilard.” A nude Maldynado propped himself up on an elbow.
A young woman squealed, snatched a grass-stained towel off the ground, covered herself, and sprinted toward the women’s barracks. Judging by the speed her long bare legs managed, she was one of the athletes, a rather embarrassed one.
You have the night off? Basilard signed, an eyebrow raised.
“Not exactly.” Maldynado stood, brushed grass off himself, and started retrieving clothing. A shoe from under the bush, a belt from the grass, and—how did that shirt get ten feet up in that tree? “The boss sent me to find you fellows and let you know she’d be late. I hunted all over and didn’t see you. I did see that exquisite young lady coming out of the baths all by herself, though, and she appeared lonesome so I struck up a conversation, asking if she knew how in the old days women used to compete at the Imperial Games to win the eye of eligible warrior-caste bachelors, and did she know I was warrior caste—I left out the part about being disowned naturally—and would she like to...”
There were times Basilard dearly missed having undamaged vocal cords. He would have liked to bark an, “Enough,” to cut Maldynado off. It was bad enough few people outside of his team could understand his sign language, but his scars and lack of height ensured no Turgonian women looked upon him with kind—or lascivious—eyes.