The Emperor's Edge (40 page)

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Sicarius was doing his big showdown with Hollowcrest.” Akstyr shrugged. “I got distracted.”

“Just go find her,” Amaranthe said.

The men trooped off, and silence returned to the basement.

“I’m sorry,” she told Sicarius.

“For what?” he asked.

“Getting you mauled.”

“This is a far better outcome than I would have guessed possible a few minutes ago.” Sicarius turned his head to regard her, a faint frown tugging at his lips. Perhaps his injuries were too distracting for him to maintain the usual façade.

“What?” she asked.

“Barring tonight, I’ve lived as long as I have because I’ve never underestimated my enemies. You keep…exceeding my expectations.”

“Thank you,” she said, more pleased than she would admit, “but not everyone is your enemy.”

“Whether realized or not,” he said, “everyone you talk to is trying to use you to further his own interests. You must always be ready to protect yourself.”

“There are such things as friends,” Amaranthe said.

“That does not negate my statement. Friendship is as selfish as any other relationship, perhaps more so because it masquerades as something noble. I am more comfortable with those who approach me with blades drawn.”

“I suppose this will disappoint you,” Amaranthe said, “but I’d rather be your friend than your enemy. I’ll try not to make you suffer too much from the association.”

He looked away. “I am not…disappointed.”

She put her free hand on his shoulder. “You’ve exceeded my expectations too.”

Amaranthe lightened her pressure on the wounds and peeled back a corner of the shirt. Most of the bleeding had stopped, but the gashes needed to be stitched.

“Sit down on the bleachers,” she said. “I’ll hunt for suturing supplies.”

Given the nature of the entertainment here, well-stocked medical kits seemed likely.

“Sicarius?” Amaranthe asked as she poked through desk drawers in the bettors’ cage. “You don’t owe me any answers or explanations, but there’s one thing I’ve been wondering since the day we met—well, since the day you
didn’t
kill me when you should have. Why do you care about the emperor? What are you to him?”

“An enemy.”

She frowned, considered her words, and rearranged them. “What is the emperor to you?”

Those lips stayed shut. At least he wasn’t glaring threateningly at her as he had the last time she pried into his past.

As she checked cabinets, Amaranthe mulled over Hollowcrest’s words in the parlor. Almost until the end, he had believed Sicarius would return to his side. Like a father speaking to a son he thought he knew—or perhaps an old general addressing a soldier he had supervised from the earliest days. Just how long had Sicarius worked for Hollowcrest? How long had he had access to the Imperial Barracks? Maybe Sicarius had been around when Sespian was growing up. Maybe Sicarius had developed an affection for him. Only one problem. Sicarius was about as affectionate as a freshly blooded dagger. As practical as he was, she could not imagine him forming an emotional attachment to someone just because they had passed in the halls for a few years. Look at what he had done to Hollowcrest. There had to be a greater bond.

She found bandages, suturing thread, and scissors, and returned to the bleachers. A new thought came to her, and she hesitated.

“Are you related?”

There was not an obvious resemblance, but they did have the same dark eyes. Sicarius could even draw, if dispassionately compared to the emperor.

“Brothers?” she went on. “One trained to rule the empire, one to defend it?”

Sicarius snorted.

“No,” Amaranthe said. “If that were true, you would have been the heir. You’re at least ten years older.” She studied his face. It was unlined and he had the speed and strength of youth, but he was too experienced at too many things to be mistaken for a young man. “Maybe fifteen or more,” she said slowly, her mind edging toward an idea that was nothing short of blasphemous. She tried to squash it and look for other—less seditious—possibilities, but once acknowledged, the thought grew like a plant steeped in sun and fertilizer.

Sicarius, watching her face even as she watched his, sighed and looked away.
When did we get to know each other so well that he can see my thoughts?

“Sespian is your son,” Amaranthe said.

For the first time, his silence was readable. Yes.

Amaranthe stared at the floor, almost wishing she hadn’t asked. This meant Raumesys had left no true heir. Sespian’s claim to rule was only through his mother and therefore no better than a dozen others. If anyone found out, nothing short of civil war would follow. Bloody years of infighting in which the empire’s copious enemies could strike while the soldiers were distracted choosing sides and fighting each other. In the end, some jaded old general, some vague relation of Raumesys’s, would end up in power. Little chance of the next emperor having any of Sespian’s tolerance or progressive passion. She imagined some contemporary of Hollowcrest’s on the throne and felt sick. Though it might make her a traitor to the empire, she would take this secret to her funeral pyre.

She turned her attention to Sicarius, feeling a guilty twinge that her first thoughts had been political. “Hollowcrest obviously didn’t know. Sespian doesn’t either, does he?”

A minute shake of the head confirmed this.

“If you told him, he’d probably abdicate the throne,” Amaranthe said, sure the emperor’s conscience would trouble him into that route. “But perhaps you two would have a chance for…something, a relationship. From my brief meetings with him, I got the feeling Sespian has led a lonely life.”

“He has. Thrusting this knowledge into it would not improve matters. He has read my records. He knows everyone I tortured and killed for Raumesys and Hollowcrest. And since. He’s the one who put the bounty on my head. I am likely the only person in the world he truly wants dead.”

“You might…”

Might what, Amaranthe? What are you going to suggest he do? Change? Repent his cold-hearted assassin ways? Mourn for those he’s killed? Become someone Sespian might admire? Be a
good
person?
Sicarius might not scoff out loud, but surely that would be his mental reaction. He was too pragmatic to give up his system, however callous, for something less effective. That he cared for his son did not mean he felt any concern for people in general. Asking him to change would accomplish nothing.

“You might find it easier to protect Sespian if you were at his side,” was all she said.

“That was my plan once. But I underestimated his…idealism. He would not employ a killer, even to his benefit. I should have foreseen that.”

Amaranthe smiled gently. “It is difficult to understand those who are least like ourselves.”

Sicarius twitched an eyebrow. “You understand me.”

“Hm.”

She laid out the medical supplies on the bench, filled a bucket with clean water, and sat behind him. The wounds must have stung, but Sicarius did not flinch when she washed them. She picked up the needle and considered the task before her. It would be better to find a surgeon to sew up the gashes, but she did not know where to look in this neighborhood at this time of night. Anyway, a part of her liked the idea of being the one to help him. He had saved her life a number of times over the last two weeks, and now she could do something for him.

She slid her hand across his back. Surprisingly, no other scars marred his flesh. Even relaxed, his muscles were like steel, each distinct and delineated beneath warm skin. Sicarius looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. She blushed and bent to thread the needle. Medics probably weren’t supposed to ogle their patients.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have some wicked scars,” Amaranthe said.

“I’ll survive,” he said.

“A little soon to say that. You haven’t felt the prod of my inexperienced needle yet.”

“Surely as an enforcer, you’ve had combat medic training.”

“Training, yes. Real-world experience, no. Unless you count the times I did this on dolls.”

“Dolls?”

“Memela, the woman who watched me while my father worked, gave me the dolls her children had played with growing up. They were a little battered from use, so I frequently had to put the stuffing back in and sew the rips.”

“It’s the same principle,” Sicarius said.

He looked over his shoulder again.

“What?” she asked.

“Dolls.” His eyes crinkled.

Amused, was he?

“What’s wrong with dolls? I am a girl, you know.”

Sicarius turned his head back forward. Amaranthe was about to start on the first wound when he spoke again.

“I’ll wager you lined them up and ordered them around like a general commanding his troops.”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

She had finished stitching Sicarius’s back when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Amaranthe expected one of her men, but it was a servant in the crimson house uniform. Sicarius stood. The servant approached them slowly, eyeing the bare-chested Sicarius. He looked even more intimating without a shirt on.

“I mean you no trouble. Please don’t hurt me.” The servant’s voice squeaked. He fingered a sealed envelope. “My mistress bade me deliver this message to you.” He crept toward Sicarius, the hand with the envelope trembling.

“Your mistress is Larocka?” Amaranthe asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is she in the house?”

“I really can’t say, ma’am.”

As soon as Sicarius took the envelope, the servant darted away. Amaranthe worried Sicarius would follow, perhaps torture the man for information, but the message arrested his attention. He broke the seal on the envelope, slid out a folded sheet of stationery, and read.

Only one line marked the paper. Nonetheless, Sicarius stared at the words for a long moment.

“What does it say?” she finally asked.

Stiffly, Sicarius handed the note to her.

You killed my love. Before dawn, I shall burn your son alive.

“Son,” Amaranthe croaked. “How could she know? How many people have you told?”

“Just you.”

“That means…she was listening.”

Sicarius’s head jerked up, and his eyes scanned the ceiling, walls, and shadows. But there was no one else in the basement. With Arbitan dead, Larocka could not have access to the mental sciences, could she?

Sicarius grabbed a fallen brick and ran to the wall nearest the bleachers where they had been talking. He tapped the stone as he moved along it. Clanks echoed through the basement.

A more mundane possibility, Amaranthe realized. She grabbed a brick too. Soon the clanks turned to hollow thuds.

“There,” she said.

She and Sicarius dropped the bricks and slid their hands along the cool stone. Rough and porous, it would conceal secret entrances well. Amaranthe almost missed the hairline crack running vertically up the wall.

“Over here,” she said.

Sicarius shifted to her side, and he was the one to find the button. With a click, a portion of the wall swung backward. Inside was a chair, shelves, a tall cabinet, and a writing desk. On the back wall, a ladder rose into the upper levels of the house.

Amaranthe walked into the room. “How many secret passages does this place have?”

Standing mute at the entrance, Sicarius seemed stunned—or horrified.

Amaranthe touched the wooden seat in front of the desk. “She must have heard everything.”

Sicarius slammed his fist into the cabinet. Amaranthe jumped. Wood splintered and gave, and his hand went straight through. Jaw clenched, he yanked his arm free. Blood ran down his fingers and dripped onto the stone floor.

Amaranthe stared, open-mouthed. His back was to her, and both hands curled into white-knuckled fists. She had never seen him lose his composure.

She licked her lips. “It’s not too late, Sicarius. We can save him. We just have to figure out where she’d go to—”

Sicarius stalked out the door.

“Wait, please.” Amaranthe followed him. “I’m sorry, but if you’d just listen to me—”

Sicarius spun on her, eyes raging. She skittered back and bumped into the wall.

“Listen to you?” he snarled. “This is
your
fault. All your questions. Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Hollowcrest and Arbitan are dead. Everything would be fine now. But you had to pry. And, fool I am, I let you.” Anguish warped his face. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”

Without waiting for an answer, he whirled and raced out of the basement. Shocked by his outburst, Amaranthe could not answer right away. Tears stung her eyes. Long after he disappeared up the stairs, she whispered, “Because I care.”

• • • • •

Sespian wasn’t sleeping when the knock came. Hollowcrest’s threats kept repeating in his mind. Was there truly some assassination plot afoot, or had Hollowcrest simply been spinning hyperbole to make himself seem necessary? And what of that confrontation? Had Sespian bested Hollowcrest too easily? Even now, Sespian could scarcely believe he had won.

He slid out of bed and headed for the door, but paused in the antechamber. “Who is it?”

“Lieutenant Dunn.”

Uh oh. Hollowcrest was back. Or something else was up.

“Yes?” Sespian asked when he opened the door.

“Sire, I’ve been in contact with that renegade enforcer, Amaranthe Lokdon. I assumed you’d want to hear about it right away.”

“Oh?” Sespian leaned forward. Since he had been drugged the few times he’d met her, he could hardly trust his judgment, but he so badly wanted to hear that Hollowcrest’s words were lies.

“Yes, Sire. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

A servant glided in on Dunn’s heels to turn up the lamps and add coal to the stove. Sespian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, watching the process with ill-concealed impatience.

“What is it?” Sespian blurted as soon as the servant left.

Dunn wrung his hands and paced. “Before I tell you what she said, let me say that I think it’s a very bad idea, and you shouldn’t go off to meet her.”

“She wants to meet? Me?”
Idiot, you sound like a love struck youth, not an emperor over millions
. Sespian cleared his throat and struggled for nonchalance. “I mean, what did she say?”