Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  “If my man wins, you will work for me for two weeks without pay, though I will see to it that you are fed and have a place to stay.”

  “What kind of work?”

  He was smarter than she had first guessed. Confident or not, he wanted the details before he committed himself. She leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered her voice.

  “I confess, it’s slightly illegal, but you shouldn’t be in any danger. I just need help setting things up.”

  Maldynado appeared more intrigued than appalled. But then, the warrior caste tended to think itself above the law. Besides, he was probably bored after spending the last couple months chaperoning old ladies around.

  “Danger doesn’t scare me,” he said.

  “I mean to help the emperor. I’ve recently found out he’s in trouble from his trusted advisors.”

  Maldynado lifted his shoulder, apparently less interested by this addendum. “So, what do I get if I win?” A suggestive leer accompanied the question, but his innuendo failed to obtain a sinister note. The amused warmth never left his eyes.

  “What do you want?”

  “How about the same deal?” he suggested. “Your buddy loses, and you work for me for two weeks. Doing anything I say.”

  “Agreed. Though my period of indenture could not begin until I finish my current work. After the emperor’s birthday.”

  “What happens if you get caught?”

  “That is a risk,” she said. More of one than she cared to admit.

  “I want three weeks then.”

  “Fair.”

  “Dusk at the Scarbay Gymnasium,” Maldynado said. “I’ll arrange a judge. You and your pal just show up.”

  “Agreed.” Amaranthe stood. “Oh, uhm, if any enforcers wander in, I wasn’t here.”

  “Of course not.” Maldynado winked.

  With his help, Amaranthe found a back exit out of the establishment. She eased through the alley, watching for enforcers. Though she did not see any, she decided a quick trolley ride out of the neighborhood was in order.

  Her car rumbled beneath a clock tower as it tolled eleven. She had plenty of time to return and talk Sicarius into his evening bout. Since Books was no guarantee, she felt obligated to search for another worker.

  She dared not return to the business district, so she let the car speed her toward the factories and warehouses along the waterfront. Before she reached the industrial area, she spotted a crowd gathered in a square near one of the stops. Raucous shouts and curses rose above the churning wheels of the trolley. Curious, she disembarked.

  In the center of the throng, a young man stood locked into a pillory, wrists and neck bound by heavy timbers. Expletives flew through the air along with rotten apples. The freezing temperatures gave the fruit the authority of stones, as evinced by a number of bruises swelling on the man’s face. Hardly a man. Dressed in oversized clothing, he appeared no more than sixteen or seventeen. On one hand, he bore the circle-and-arrow brand of the Black Arrows. The last time she had seen the mark had been on one of the infected men in the dungeon. They could only be dead now, she thought darkly. Across the back of the prisoner’s shirt, someone had chalked WIZARD. That accounted for the flying fruit.

  The gang brand on the young man’s hand almost made Amaranthe reject him without further consideration, but the clouds started unloading snow, and the crowd thinned in response. She edged closer.

  “What’s the matter, lady?” His teeth chattered. Fat snowflakes fell and landed on his bare hands and unprotected head. “You forget your apple?”

  “I’m not a lady,” she said, sympathetic to his shivers. “My name is Amaranthe.”

  “Like I care.”

  She withdrew her sympathy. If Maldynado had been charming, this boy was his utter opposite.

  “Are you really a wizard?” She doubted it but wondered how he had been insinuated. She was surprised none of his underworld brethren had come to help him escape, or at least ward off the fruit throwers. Shattered apples lay on the ground at his feet, the scent of their rotten insides overpowering the crisp smell of snow.

  “You stupid or something?” he asked. “No one in the empire would be crazy enough to practice the mental sciences. They hang you for that.”

  Amaranthe’s head jerked up. He had not replied with the familiar Turgonian mantra: magic does not exist. Even more interesting, he had used the term ‘mental sciences,’ like Sicarius did when referring to magic.

  “Then why are you locked up?” she asked.

  “Accusations, that’s all.”

  “Who did the accusing?”

  A surge of hurt and anger flashed across his face before he turned it into a snarl. “Doesn’t matter. Leave me alone, lady.”

  “Amaranthe,” she corrected. “Amaranthe Lokdon.”

  “Still don’t care.”

  Oh yes, this one would be a pleasure to work with. “Would you care if I could get you out of that contraption?”

  “Don’t need your help.”

  “No? Those contusions on your face suggest otherwise. I’ve seen relief maps of mountain ranges with fewer bumps.”

  He snorted. “Once it gets dark and people haul out of this square, I can get out on my own. I don’t need your help.” His gaze slid to the gang mark on his hand. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  Ah, betrayed by his comrades, was it? That would make one bitter.

  “Planning to use magic to get free?” she asked.

  “I told you, no one uses magic in the empire. Cowards here are all scared of it, and there ain’t no one you can trust to watch your back if you wanted to learn.”

  “I see. And it’s important to have someone at your back?”

  “Unless you’re powerful good and can conjure up a bodyguard. The mental sciences take fierce concentration, and that makes you vulnerable to enemies while you’re working your art.”

  A couple bundled against the snow shuffled through the edge of the square, and Amaranthe lowered her voice. If she was not careful, she might find herself strung up next to this fellow for reasons that had nothing to do with her past actions. “Why do you call it science instead of magic?’

  “That’s what it is: mastery of the mind. Using your brain to move and create things. It’s not about praying to gods or chanting no stupid rituals like ign’ant folks think. That’s just a show.”

  “What if I could offer you protection?” she said.

  “You? Some businesswoman who doesn’t even carry a knife?”

  “I have a comrade who is gifted with weapons.” Amaranthe wondered how Sicarius would feel about her using him to sway people to her cause. Unfortunately, he was her only asset. “If you would be willing to work for me, I’ll see to it that you have food, a place to sleep, and someone to watch over you while you practice your ‘science.’”

  “Like I said, I’m not a wizard. And I’m not in a hurry to trust anyone like that. Trust is for fools who don’t know any better.”

  “My comrade would probably agree with you. But consider this: while you may not be able to trust people to do what’s in your best interest, you can always trust them to do what’s in their best interest. I need a couple of men to work for me, so I can reach my goals. That means I’m going to do everything I can to take care of them, because without them, I fail. I’m giving you a chance to use me, and the comrade I can supply, to reach your own goals. We both win in this situation. No unwarranted trust required.”

  “Lady, you keep talking like I care.”

  Amaranthe shrugged and turned away. If nothing else, she had learned something about these mental sciences everyone seemed to know more about than she.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “What?” She turned back.

  “The one you keep talking about. How am I supposed to know if he’s good enough to be some wizard’s bodyguard?”

  “You tell me your name, and I’ll tell you his.”

  “Akstyr.”

  Amaranthe glanced l
eft and right, then stepped closer to him. “Have you heard the name Sicarius?”

  He tried to throw back his head and laugh, but the pillory restricted the movement. “Yes, and if you think I believe he’d be working with a nosey businesswoman, you’re dumber than the drooling lawmen who locked me up.”

  She wondered if there had been a long line of Black Arrows fighting for the pleasure of turning Akstyr over to the enforcers. “The icehouse on Fourth and Wharf Street. Meet us there in the morning, and you can see if I’m lying.”

  “Whatever.”

  Akstyr turned his face away and stared resolutely into the falling snow. Conversation over, his set jaw declared. Amaranthe hesitated, then took off her gloves and stuffed them over his hands. She put her fur cap on his head. Even if he could free himself after nightfall, that was hours away and he was not dressed for the cold. The youth gave no indication he appreciated the gesture.

  She left, wondering if she had succeeded in winning anyone’s aid or simply wasted one of the precious few days she had. At least Maldynado would help, assuming she won her bet. Her weariness and the heavy snowfall precluded further adventures, so she headed back, wondering how to convince Sicarius to take on a dueling match.

  9

  When Amaranthe returned to the icehouse, she did not see Sicarius, but the mountains of frozen blocks hid a lot. Grinding machinery and yelling workers from neighboring buildings penetrated the walls. Inside, nothing stirred.

  She padded around the perimeter of the building, her boots scattering sawdust. If Sicarius was sleeping down here, she saw no indication of it.

  Her boots clanged on metal. She knelt to push aside sawdust, and the scent of cedar grew stronger. Beneath the wood chips, steel grates covered much of the floor. Many of them had hinges and handles. She unfastened one that was not barred with ice and peered inside the dark well. More ice. Ladders led down another fifteen feet to a massive chamber, where a single narrow corridor allowed access to the blocks. Packed with more insulation than the stacks above, the underground ice would probably last through the heat of the next summer.

  She dropped the grate, turned around, and almost bumped into Sicarius.

  He held out a familiar box. “Your flat is empty, and two enforcers are watching the building. This was still under the floorboards.”

  They had taken all her belongings? Her furniture, her weapons, her books, all her treasures and mementos?

  Amaranthe sighed and accepted the age-worn alder box. She traced the faded yellow canary painted on the lid. Her mother, whom she barely remembered, had made it for her father when he first started working in the mines. This is all that’s left of my parents and my past.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Amaranthe turned and took a few steps from Sicarius before lifting the lid. Her savings were still there, nestled next to an old but well-kept knife that had belonged to her grandfather. She removed both. She had never been able to wear the blade at work, since it was not enforcer-issue, but no one was around to set rules now. After a look at drawings of her parents and grandparents, she folded them and laid them to rest amongst running medals from the Junior Games, a marksmanship pin from the Academy, and silly treasures from her childhood.

  “I located a fish cannery that’s not used in the winter.” Sicarius had moved to the stairs and laid out his weapons for cleaning. The tang of blade oil mingled with the aromatic cedar. “It has the prerequisite floor space, and there is little traffic on the street outside. We should not have to worry about someone hearing the creaking of the printing press.”

  “It’ll have to wait for morning.” Amaranthe took a deep breath and faced him. “You have a duel this evening.”

  “A what?”

  “A duel. The recruit of one gentleman—” remembering the loincloth, Amaranthe almost choked over that title, “—is contingent on your besting him in a sword duel. I apologize for committing you without asking, but our time is limited.”

  “I don’t duel.”

  Amaranthe had expected refusal or reluctance but not that statement. She surveyed the array of weapons in front of him. Garrote. Dagger. Throwing Knives. Dagger. Utility knife. Serrated jackknife. No swords. A flash of panic clutched at her chest. What if he had never used one? Maldynado, her only near-sure thing, might poke a thousand holes into her assassin, and where would her mission be then?

  “Surely,” Amaranthe said weakly, “you’ve some familiarity with swords.”

  Sicarius finished sharpening a dagger. “I can use a sword. I do not know the rules of sport dueling or much about it.”

  Great, neither did she. All she knew was that young members of the warrior caste found it fashionable as a means to acquire a scar or two before heading off to officer candidacy school.

  “Who’s my opponent?” Sicarius asked.

  “His name’s Maldynado. According to his current, ah, employer, he’s highly ranked amongst the city’s duelists. You say you’ve never dueled?”

  “Never.”

  “This should be interesting then.”

  “I imagine so,” Sicarius said.

  Darkness was gathering in the streets when Amaranthe and Sicarius arrived at the gymnasium. The sprawling complex covered a city block and included a running track buried under a white field of snow, steam rooms, heated baths, and the area they approached: the rings.

  “Remember,” Amaranthe said, “the goal is to recruit this fellow to work for us. We don’t want him killed or maimed.”

  Sicarius slanted her a cool look.

  “Of course, you know this already. I’m just concerned that your—” she groped to express her concern diplomatically, “—admirably honed assassin’s instincts might forget.”

  Silence was her answer.

  She tried not to feel nervous. It didn’t work.

  They stepped inside a massive chamber open to the night on three sides. Intermittent columns offered the only barrier to the wind. Icicles like spears hung from the roof, which kept out the snow but little else. Bare-chested men, bodies too warm to notice the cold, sparred in circles chalked on the black clay floor. Spectators, and those waiting their turns, crowded the edges of the rings.

  With a chill wind skidding fresh powder into the building, Amaranthe did not feel conspicuous keeping her hood pulled low over her eyes, the fur trim nuzzling her cheeks. Though they were in the upscale Mokath Ridge neighborhood, where low-paid enforcers would not make up any of the clientele, running into army officers was possible. Her encounter that morning left her inclined to keep her face hidden. Sicarius, striding along at her side, did not share her inclination. At least he was not wearing his knives and daggers openly tonight.

  They passed small rings used for boxing and wrestling and weaved toward the larger circles. Amaranthe craned her neck, searching for Maldynado. Despite night’s approach, the area was well-lit by gas jets burning on the wall and braziers positioned between the circles.

  A servant meandered through, offering water, towels, or bandages as needed. A musician wandered from fight to fight, beating an invigorating pattern on a hand drum. He held out his fur cap for donations between bouts.

  “There he is,” Amaranthe said.

  She pointed out Maldynado, who stood near the wall, behind rings full of men sparring with rapiers and sabers. Since their last meeting, he had changed clothes—or at least added a few. Clad in a velvety exercise outfit that probably cost a week’s enforcer salary, he was chatting with a balding man.

  When they stepped within Maldynado’s line of sight, he nodded toward Amaranthe and took in Sicarius with an unconcerned boot-to-head survey. His gaze lingered above Sicarius’s eyebrows. Maldynado lifted a finger, walked over to a bag of gear, retrieved a card, and returned. He extended his arm toward Sicarius.

  “My barber. He’s excellent.” Maldynado flicked his fingers at Sicarius’s tousled hair. “He can fix that rat’s nest.”

  Sicarius did not accept the card. He gave Maldynado that flat, c
old stare he did exceedingly well. Though Maldynado was broader and half a head taller, he was the one who shifted uncomfortably. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat and pocketed the card.

  “Shall we begin then? Ado here will judge. First to five points wins.” Maldynado winked at Amaranthe. “And collects the reward.”

  “A point is what?” Sicarius asked.

  “Uhm, are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “Ah,” Maldynado said. “We use blunted swords and wear padded vests and helmets. Anything above the waist is a point. Anything below the waist is, well, no man should attack another man down there, eh? It’s off target, no point. You have to stay in the ring or it’s a penalty. Three penalties and you start losing points. Follow me. I’ll show you the communal gear.”

  Amaranthe tagged along. Maldynado led them to an equipment chest jammed with bent and rusty blades. Another chest held equally dilapidated armor. Apparently, the serious folks had their own gear.

  Maldynado set down his saber and shrugged into a pristine padded vest and grabbed a monogrammed helmet. With a wave, he indicated Sicarius should select from the chests and arm himself. Amaranthe crinkled her nose. She could smell the stale sweat from several feet away. Yellow stains marked the armpits of the vests and several sported dried blood spatters.

  Sicarius selected a saber for his left hand and eschewed the armor. Amaranthe would have done the same, even if it meant death by impalement. So armed, he walked over to one side of a large circle and waited.

  Maldynado nodded to Amaranthe. “What’s his problem? He trying to get hurt? I thought you were bringing a serious contender.”

  “Oh, he’s serious.”

  As she watched Sicarius waiting, dark eyes cold, face a mask, Amaranthe felt new twinges of uncertainty about engineering the match.

  Maldynado shrugged. He ambled into the circle opposite Sicarius. He lifted his saber in a salute to his opponent and to the judge, then plopped the helmet over his curls. Sicarius did not return the salute. Amaranthe had heard of wine-stompers displaying more courtesy to the grapes in their vats.