by Joseph Lallo
Amaranthe accepted the sketch and studied it. She admired the precision of the crisp portrait. The artist was surely not related to the unsubtle sculptors responsible for the statues on the first floor. In the black ink drawing, the criminal’s features appeared cruel and menacing. Military-style short hair topped an angular face above a lean, muscular torso.
“It’s blond,” Hollowcrest said, startling her.
“What?”
“His hair. It’s hard to tell in the drawing.”
“Oh,” she said. Blond hair was rare in the empire, a nation of people whose blood had been mixed and mixed again via generations of conquering and expansion; most citizens shared Amaranthe’s bronze skin and dark locks.
“Where should I look for him, sir?” She thought of Wholt’s suggestion that Sicarius might be behind the pottery shop arson, but that had been groundless speculation. The man could be anywhere in the city.
“I’ll leave that to your ingenuity,” Hollowcrest said. “Finding him is a feasible task. Sicarius doesn’t travel in disguise and, though discreet, he goes where he pleases. He does have a knack for knowing when our soldiers or enforcers are trying to spring a trap on him though. Then he disappears.” Hollowcrest grimaced. “Or doesn’t. The results are less devastating when he does.”
“I understand, sir. When should I start?”
“Immediately. Speak to no one about this mission. It’s imperative the criminal not find out we’re aware of, and angling for, him.”
“What about my regular duties, sir? I’ll need to report to my superior.”
“I’ll see to it that your district chief is informed. You don’t even need to go home; I have a soldier waiting with money for you. If you decide to buy new clothes—” A crinkle of his nose at her soot-stained uniform implied this was more than a suggestion, “—don’t attend shops you usually visit.”
Not a problem. The shops she visited leaned more toward uniforms and utilitarian clothing rather than whatever it was women wore to seduce men. Not much, she guessed.
“Avoid all your typical haunts until the mission is complete,” Hollowcrest finished. “Likewise, don’t return home until you’ve reported back to me.”
Amaranthe wondered why was it so imperative she not interact with anyone she knew. Corporal Wholt certainly was not going to find Sicarius and inform him of her intentions if she told him.
“Sir, what—”
“You may go now,” Hollowcrest said. “The soldier outside my door will escort you.”
Amaranthe longed to question the man further. But Hollowcrest had already turned to the papers on his desk. She stared at him for a moment, then turned on her heel and strode out the door. She was not an imbecile; she could find the answers to her own questions.
As promised, a soldier waited in the hallway, an envelope filled with bills in his hand. She followed him through the corridor, toward the stairs that would lead her back to the first floor.
“Corporal Lokdon,” a voice called before they entered the stairwell.
The young emperor jogged down the hallway in his socks. He carried a pad of paper clutched under one arm. His guards, fully armed and armored despite the hour, trailed dutifully behind.
“Hello,” the emperor said brightly. “What are you doing here?” Before Amaranthe could answer, he burbled on. “Are you on duty? Will you be working at the Barracks?”
“I’ve just received a mission, Sire.”
“Really? That sounds exciting.” He smiled hopefully, eyes eager for details.
“It’s going to be...challenging.” Amaranthe found herself reluctant to provide more information. She had the feeling he might be the type to put a person’s safety above the possibility of achievement, and cancel her mission. If anyone could countermand Hollowcrest, it would be the emperor. A minute ago, you were dreading the idea of an assassination, and now you don’t want to give up the chance of this assignment?
Amaranthe was saved from further accusing statements from the back of her mind, when the emperor dug something out of his pocket and extended it to her. She accepted it curiously. It was one of the chain bracelets soldiers wore into battle. A flattened side left room for inscribing one’s name in case the body was unrecognizable when it was recovered. This particular bracelet was far more ornate—and valuable—than any Amaranthe had seen. The golden chain was woven in a complex pattern one might expect in thread but not metal.
“Take it for luck,” the emperor said, smiling.
She blinked. “Sire, I can’t—”
“Would you like to see what I’m working on?” He thrust his pad of paper toward her. “It’s the design for an art wing at the University.”
Though she knew little about architecture, the detailed blueprint impressed Amaranthe.
“Until now,” he continued, “there has been no place for students to gather and study sculpture, writing, and painting.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Four military academies in each satrapy though. I’m planning a new science wing too.”
Though his passion spilled out like a refreshing fountain, the differences in their stations left Amaranthe staring awkwardly. What was she allowed to say to him?
The emperor shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. What sort of mission are you going on? Who assigned it? Why are you starting here? Not that I mind. It’s nice seeing a new face. These halls are so drab, like a prison.” The wry smile returned. “Babbling again, aren’t I?”
“I...think it’s allowed, Sire,” Amaranthe said. “I just had an appointment with—”
Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest appeared, moving with surprising alacrity for an older man. He draped an arm across the emperor’s shoulders. “Ah, Sire. There you are. Would you mind coming into my office for a few moments? I have some documents I’d like to discuss with you.”
The emperor removed Hollowcrest’s arm and stepped away. He tucked his pad under his arm and turned a frank stare onto the older man. “Documents to discuss this late at night? More dedicated to your work than usual, aren’t you, Hollow?”
If the emperor had seemed a tad simple while speaking to Amaranthe, she realized it probably had more to do with her belonging to the opposite sex than any dullness on his part.
“It’s important, Sire,” Hollowcrest said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “It’ll only take a few moments.”
The emperor lifted his gaze toward the ceiling, bade Amaranthe goodnight, then trundled back down the hallway in the opposite direction. She frowned at her hand, realizing she still held his bracelet.
“Artonis,” Hollowcrest said.
One of the last of the emperor’s guards dropped out of line and stepped into place before Hollowcrest.
“See that the emperor has his tea. He seems too...perky tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard trotted after the others, mail jangling.
Amaranthe frowned after him. Tea?
Hollowcrest noticed she was still there and waved her toward the door. “I believe you have someone to hunt.”
“Yes, sir,” Amaranthe said.
She allowed her guide to usher her out of the building. This time, with thoughts spinning in her head, she didn’t notice the scenery. That meeting had left her doubting Hollowcrest’s veracity, though it hadn’t been surprising. She had no reason to believe the Commander of the Armies would tell a common enforcer everything. But if he was keeping secrets from the emperor.... It sounded like the old relic was sedating Sespian. Maybe more. How could she accept a mission from someone who might be betraying the empire?
Yet what could she do? If she made a fuss or disobeyed Hollowcrest, he could destroy her career. Or worse.
If, on the other hand, she cooperated, assassinated Sicarius, and earned her promotion... Well, she could investigate her concerns later, when Hollowcrest didn’t have his eye on her. Yes, that’s how it had to be. First, she had to complete the mission.
She paused be
neath a lamp in the courtyard and eyed the outlaw’s picture again. The cold face made her uneasy, and the idea of seduction seemed ludicrous, possibly suicidal. If she was going to take an experienced assassin down, she’d have to do something he wouldn’t expect.
Chapter 3
As soon as he entered his suite, Sespian Savarsin, emperor of the most powerful nation in the world, slapped himself on the forehead.
“Babbling idiot.” He paced the rug in the antechamber. “She thinks I’m a babbling idiot.”
A soft thud came from the bedroom, and an elegant tan-colored cat with a deep brown mask and paws padded into the anteroom. He hopped onto a desk abutting the window.
Too agitated to give the cat his usual pats, Sespian continued pacing. “The most serene, competent, beautiful girl—no, woman—I’ve met shows up in my hall, and I babble.” He pushed his hand through his hair hard enough to dislodge several strands. “And then I let Hollowcrest chase me off like a five-year-old child told to go to bed without supper. Although maybe I should thank him. He probably saved me from further embarrassing myself.” Sespian faced the cat. “It was bad, Trog. Very bad.”
Trog sat on the desk and swished his tail back and forth. A cobweb hung from his ear. Not surprising. His name was short for troglodyte, a label received due to a penchant for exploring dusty old ducts and passages in the Barracks. The swishing tail sent a sketch fluttering to the rug. Trog had no respect for artistic endeavors, but at least he listened.
“You should have seen her,” Sespian said. “She was so unflappable but not arrogant, not at all. An enforcer. Not some stodgy matron devoted to holding up the values of the warrior caste and not some manipulative businesswoman intent on selling you something. Someone who looks out for people. What a wonderful friend and ally she would make. Maybe more.” He smiled wistfully. “I made her uncomfortable though. Because I’m the emperor. Stupid social rules. I wonder what it would have been like if I were just some man off the street. What would she have said? Do you think I’m her type?”
Trog yawned and flopped down on his side, tail twitching.
Sespian raised an eyebrow. “It’s as if you’re trying to tell me that my piddling romantic ramblings, while of vast interest to me, are inconsequential to anyone else.” He sat in the chair in front of the desk and ran his fingers through Trog’s thick fur. “You’re probably right.”
Trog purred and stretched his legs out. He always liked being told he was right.
As Sespian stroked the cat, he gazed out the window, where falling snow blanketed the grounds. Amaranthe had been a delightful distraction, but with the event fading, his headache returned. Sespian sighed and tried to ignore it.
“I shouldn’t let him push me around anymore.”
Trog rotated an ear.
“Hollowcrest. When Father died, I had so many ideas. But after three years with Hollowcrest as regent... I guess I got used to following his orders.” Sespian grimaced. “And so did everyone else. I need to change that. I’m in charge now, and I need to be someone who can lead an empire—and maybe be someone Amaranthe would like, eh?”
A knock sounded.
“Come in,” Sespian called.
The familiar scent of apple herb tea accompanied the servant, Jeddah, into the suite. Steam rose from a porcelain cup on a silver platter. The man set the tray down on an ottoman.
“Thank you, Jeddah,” Sespian said.
The man bowed and walked out.
When Sespian stood, his headache intensified. He winced. The pain came every day now, a constant and loathed companion.
At least the tea seemed to help. It had been his mother’s favorite. More than a decade had passed since she died, but he still missed her. Father, the great warrior emperor, had been an obstacle to overcome—or avoid—but Mother had loved him and never failed to support him. Every night, when he drank the tea, he felt close to her, as if he were honoring her memory.
Sespian picked up the cup. He inhaled deeply, the pleasant blend of herbs tickling his nose. Not so sweet as spiced cider, it warmed and soothed as it flowed down his throat.
He soon finished the cup.
* * * * *
The next evening, Amaranthe visited the Maze. From the outside, it looked like little more than a warehouse, but the long line she stepped into promised something more entertaining. The establishment had only been around for a few years, but it was already more popular than any other gambling venue in the city. It was more profitable, too, though the question of the place’s legality had come up in more than one enforcer report. This was not her district, though, so she had never visited.
Dressed in parka, ankle-length skirt, leggings, and the fitted jacket of a businesswoman, she was a little out of place amongst the jostling folks wearing factory coveralls or labor uniforms under their coats. She hoped to meet with the owner, though, not mingle with the gamblers.
When the bouncer let her in, a moment of claustrophobia swallowed her. Hundreds of cheering men and women pressed from all sides. Thick tobacco and warkus weed smoke did not quite obliterate the stench of stale sweat and alcohol-swathed bodies.
Since the crowd kept Amaranthe from seeing the layout, she found a support pillar and climbed onto its concrete base. Rows of benches formed descending squares around a fifty-meter-wide pit filled with the ever-changing maze that gave the establishment its name. Even as she watched, a section of the wall detached and started moving. It slid along one of myriad tracks in the floor and clanked into a new slot on the far side of the pit. Two more walls began a different journey before the first finished. Within the maze, a stout fellow wearing a white tunic turned out of a dead-end and hunted for a new path. Four clackers, mechanical constructs with crab-like pinchers, rolled through the maze on treads. In the center of the labyrinth, a tiny alcove held a dais. A small chest rested on top, its lid open to display a pile of gold coins. Spectators cheered or booed for the lone player, depending on which way they had bet.
Amaranthe dropped off her perch. She had not come to watch the game but to see the owner. She slipped through the crowd until she found the betting cage near the back wall. Several bouncers with the prerequisite prodigious muscles kept the gamblers peaceful. The backs of their hands sported brands, inelegant feline faces with pointed ears and fat whiskers. The marks showed allegiance with the Panthers, one of the larger gangs in the city.
Amaranthe approached the closest bouncer, a man with a cleft chin and wavy black hair. Without the scowl, he might have been handsome.
Before she could speak to him, he turned and yelled at a little man tugging on his sleeve. “I already told you, bets are final! You can’t change your mind in the middle. Go away!”
The man scampered into the crowd. The bouncer turned on Amaranthe.
“What?” he roared.
She stifled the instinct to step back. Instead she met his eyes and asked, “Rough day?”
“Huh?”
She added a sympathetic smile. “It looks like you’re having a rough day.”
The irritation bled away from the bouncer’s face. “Actually, yes.”
“I’m Amaranthe. What’s your name?”
“Ragos.”
“It must be trying dealing with the same silly questions day in and day out,” she said.
“That, I’m used to. But today, two of the bookmakers didn’t show up. The potatoes for our vendors’ potato cakes didn’t come. The furnace that powers the Maze decided to break down, and who do you think got to fix it?” Ragos pulled a wrench out of a back pocket and waved it.
“I didn’t realize bouncers had so many responsibilities,” Amaranthe said.
Another bouncer sidled up to Ragos and grinned. “Most don’t. Unless they’re the boss’s pet.”
Ragos glowered at his comrade. “Your section is over there, isn’t it?”
The man’s grin never left, but he returned to his post.
“The boss? Is that the owner
?” Amaranthe asked. “I came to see her about some business.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but she knows me. We went to school together.”
“Is that the school that makes her sound like she’s swallowing spikes when she talks about it?” Ragos asked.
“I believe so. She didn’t get along well with the teachers. Or the students.”
“I’m sure she’ll love to see you then.”
“Probably not,” Amaranthe admitted.
Ragos smiled mischievously. “In that case, I’ll show you right up.”
He unlocked a door behind the betting cage, and they climbed a metal staircase to a catwalk that passed over the Maze. They stopped before an office built against the rafters. A name plaque on the door read: The Boss. Ragos raised a finger for Amaranthe to wait before ambling inside.
“No!” came a woman’s voice almost immediately.
Ragos ambled back out and winked. “Go right in.”
“Thank you, Ragos.”
Amaranthe waited until he descended the stairs. She was tempted to leave as well, but she had already asked every pawnbroker, bar keeper, weapons smith, and loan shark in the city how to get a message to Sicarius, all with no luck. Either they did not know, or they were not willing to risk the infamous criminal’s ire by bothering him.
She knocked.
“Oh, come in already,” the woman growled.
Amaranthe stepped inside. The magnificent, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Maze was not quite enough to distract her from the old clutter, new clutter, and nascent clutter swamping the office. At first, the mess overshadowed the woman lounging behind a desk overflowing with boxes, ledger books, and discarded men’s clothing. She wore tight-fitting leather that emphasized lush curves. Maybe Hollowcrest should have hired her to seduce Sicarius.
“Amaranthe Lokdon?” the woman said. “I never expected you to show up here. And look. You’re still wearing your hair in that unimaginative bun.”
“Mitsy Masters.” Amaranthe forced a smile. Be friendly. If anyone has the right contacts to get in touch with Sicarius, it’s her. “I like to keep my hair neat, out of the way.”