The Emperor's Edge (21 page)

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.”

F
ever flushed Sespian’s face, tremors coursed through his body, and nausea writhed in his stomach. At least he could think straight—when he wasn’t hunched over in the water closet. Fortunately, the doctor had declared his illness the flu, rather than guessing drug withdrawal, and that was the diagnosis Sespian gave to the parade of faces passing through to check on him, each offering condolences, sincerity levels varying. Not sure who he could trust, he viewed everyone with suspicion.

As night darkened the windows, the most suspicious of them all strolled in with a tray. Hollowcrest held a single cup of apple herb tea.

Fear replaced the nausea in Sespian’s belly, even as saliva filled his mouth. Steam wafted from the cup, carrying the scent of cloves and cinnamon. Feeling betrayed that his body should want the drugged tea, he struggled to mask his expression.

Had Hollowcrest simply come to ensure Sespian received his nightly dose? Or did the old curmudgeon suspect what was really behind this “flu?”

Hollowcrest pulled a chair to the bedside and perched his lean frame on the edge. Hawk eyes peered from behind those glasses.

“How are you feeling, Sire?” He held out the cup.

“Horrible.” Sespian accepted it and set it on the table next to the bed.

“It’s a good idea to drink your liquids when you’re ill.”

“I know. I will.”

Hollowcrest’s eyes narrowed. Yes, that was suspicion. Sespian picked the cup up with a weak smile. He drew his knees up and held it in his lap. Hollowcrest watched him intently. Sespian pretended to take a sip.

Hollowcrest relaxed an iota, but he made no move to leave. Worse, he settled back in the chair. “You’ve missed a couple days of meetings. Let me apprise you of the latest imperial news.”

As he launched into a monotonous spiel, Sespian slumped against the pillows.
He’s going to stay until I’ve finished the cup.

What could Sespian do? If he drank it and his symptoms suddenly disappeared, Hollowcrest would know Sespian knew about the drug. If he did not drink it, Hollowcrest would also know.

Minutes ticked past. Hollowcrest droned on. Sespian pretended to take another sip.

He drew his knees up further, blocking the view of his lap from Hollowcrest. With one hand, he edged the blankets up. Careful to hide his movements, he slid the cup under the sheets and poured it onto the mattress. Moisture dampened his pajamas, but he kept his face blank. The staff would think him incontinent, but as long as it fooled Hollowcrest….

He feigned several more sips, then set the empty cup on the table. Hollowcrest’s eyes tracked the motion. His update of imperial affairs soon ended.

Hollowcrest stood and leaned over the cup. Once he saw it was empty, he plucked it up and smiled. “Good night, Sire.”

Sespian glared after the old man, waiting until the door snicked shut to move to the dry side of the bed. He slipped a folder out from under the pillows, ensuring it had not been damaged. He flipped open the roster of men working downstairs in Imperial Intelligence. It was time to find some allies and get rid of Hollowcrest.

• • • • •

The final rasp of the paper cutter sent a nervous quiver through Amaranthe’s stomach. She and Books stared down at the culmination of their work. Elsewhere in the cannery, Akstyr was hanging paper on lines. Outside, Maldynado stood watch. Newly nailed boards across the broken windows shut out the night’s chill and, more importantly, denied prying eyes.

Amaranthe pushed a kerosene lamp closer, and Books inspected both sides of their first completed twenty ranmya bill. A legitimate bill rested beside it for comparison.

“It looks real,” she breathed.

“An accurate facsimile.” Books held the fake bill up to the light. “The image is perfect. The paper is…well, we can wash the bills and crinkle them up. I think they’ll pass all but a thorough inspection.”

Though this had been Amaranthe’s plan all along, and their success should have elated her, misgivings tangled her mind. Even if she meant her scheme to save the emperor, counterfeiting was high treason—punishable by death—whether she intended to circulate the bills or not. Nobody had been hurt yet, but how long could her luck hold? Did she have the right to risk these men’s lives? Even if their sacrifices might save Sespian? And if luck favored her, and the counterfeiting succeeded, could she actually bluff Hollowcrest and Larocka Myll into succumbing to her demands with these bills?

Yes, the answer had to be yes, or she might as well give up now. But she could not do that. Sespian deserved a chance to rule as he envisioned, and after seven hundred years of war and conquering, the empire needed someone who’d rather wield a pen than a blade. And, philosophical factors aside, she needed her name cleared. Sicarius might be able to walk the streets with a million ranmya bounty on his head, but she wasn’t the fighter he was, and she wouldn’t live long with people hunting her.

“I am uncomfortable with this.” Books set down the counterfeit and reached for a pungent bottle of apple brandy.

“As am I, but what choice do we have?”

“The choice to do nothing and let events unfold as they will.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Amaranthe said.

Books considered the two inches of liquid left, removed and replaced the cork a couple times, but ultimately set the bottle back down without taking a swig.

“Saving the rest for later?” she asked.

“I haven’t had a drink today. I was thinking of quitting.”

“Oh?” Normally, Amaranthe would applaud the resolution, but having one of her few resources incapacitated for days with the shakes would not be convenient. Still, she could hardly encourage him to drink. “An admirable goal.”

Books shrugged and looked away. “How do you know your boy emperor will be any better than Hollowcrest or whatever lackey Forge would put forth?”

“He’s better. I’ve met him. He’s a good man.” She tried to forget she was basing her beliefs on a couple of three minute conversations.

“I hope you’re right.”

Akstyr sauntered over. Paperclips hung from his ear lobes, his nostrils, and the hem of a threadbare shirt several sizes too big for him. “Is that a finished one?”

“Indeed,” Books said.

“Let me see.” Akstyr reached for it.

Books jerked the bill away. “Careful, you’ll damage it.”

“I’m not a three year old.”

“No, you only dress like one.”

“Gentlemen.” Amaranthe plucked the bill from Books’s grip and handed it to Akstyr. “I’m sure there will be no damage done, but if there were, we do have plenty more.”

After a quick sneer at Books, Akstyr surveyed both sides. “Want me to try spending it?”

“No,” Amaranthe said and Books shouted.

If not for the gust of cold air blowing snow through the back door, Amaranthe would not have noticed Sicarius’s entrance. He glided to their counter, white flakes dusting his hair and shoulders. They had finished researching Larocka’s long list of properties that morning. She did not know where he had been since then.

Books returned to the press to prepare the next batch.

Wordlessly, Amaranthe gestured for Akstyr to let Sicarius see the bill.

Sicarius studied it briefly. “Sufficient.”

“Ready for a mission?” Amaranthe asked him. “You too, Akstyr.”

“Huh?” Akstyr glanced at Sicarius. “With him?”

“You wanted someone who could watch your back while you worked your science, didn’t you?” She smiled, willing Akstyr to forget that Sicarius had threatened to break his neck a couple days earlier. “There isn’t anyone better.”

“Uhm.” Akstyr didn’t look sold.

“What mission?” Sicarius asked.

“I would like a chance to observe Larocka Myll. We’ve got a long list of businesses and properties she owns, but if we have to visit each personally, hoping to catch her there…it’ll be fool’s luck if we run into her before the emperor’s birthday. Someone with as many apple tarts in the oven as she has won’t be personally overseeing any of her businesses. Our best bet will be to catch her at home.”

“Which is likely warded,” Sicarius said.

Akstyr’s eyes twitched; he recognized the term. Good. While she doubted someone so young would have much of a magic arsenal, if he could identify it being used, that alone would be worth a lot.

“Maybe,” Amaranthe said. “That’s what we need to verify. We can’t assume that just because Hollowcrest’s assassin had trouble getting in means there isn’t a way. That fellow didn’t have Akstyr’s help investigating. And he was an unprofessional lout.”