by Joseph Lallo
“Yes, I don’t think he’s really into sports.”
“Maldynado should have recovered better though. He wasn’t fighting his best.”
One hand braced against his back, Maldynado hobbled to the wall and removed his gear. He waited—at some distance—while Sicarius returned his blade. Maldynado’s gaze never left Sicarius. To his credit, it was not a glower of hatred, but one of wariness. At least he did not seem to be entertaining notions of vengeance. Amaranthe knew many men would be if they perceived their pride damaged.
“My...comrade rattles everyone,” she said to the judge. “It’s not Maldynado’s fault.”
“I wish I could have awarded Maldynado a few points, at least,” the judge said. “He has superior style and technique.”
“If he hadn’t been shaken in the beginning, do you think he would have won?”
“No, your man is too fast. It might have been a more interesting match, but...” The judge massaged his bald pate. “Technically speaking, Maldynado is the better fencer. Your man is the better killer.”
Amaranthe nodded. The accolade certainly did not surprise.
Maldynado approached her as the judge departed. Sweat dampened the strands of curly brown hair that hung in his eyes. Sicarius came, too, and Maldynado sidled away, giving him more wary glances.
Amaranthe waved Sicarius back. “Can you give us a moment, please?”
Sicarius went outside with spectators moving far aside to let him pass.
“Two weeks starting tomorrow at dawn.” Amaranthe gave Maldynado the address to the icehouse. “Agreed?”
He sighed. “I’ll be there. Will he be there?”
“Yes, but he won’t bother you if you don’t bother him. We’re all working toward the same goal.”
Maldynado rubbed the back of his head. “I’m going to be reliving those opening two seconds over and over for a long time, trying to figure out what I should have done there.” He met her eyes. “I don’t want you to think I’m...I mean, I know how to fight. I’ve been in real brawls, not just dueling matches. He...caught me by surprise.”
“I know. He did the same thing to me. Had me within a half-inch of breaking my neck before we reached an agreement.”
“Huh. And you trust him now?” Maldynado asked.
“As long as we’re angling toward the same ends and can benefit from each others’ skills, I believe we can work together.”
“So, the answer is no.”
Amaranthe smiled faintly and shrugged.
“What happens after you two don’t have a common goal anymore? He whacks you and moves on? Some trust.”
“It’s enough for now,” Amaranthe said. “Just as I trust you to show up tomorrow and work for me for two weeks.”
Maldynado blinked. “You do? Why?”
“I believe you’re an honorable man.”
Another blink. Several actually. Amaranthe only meant it to inspire him to come in the morning, but he straightened and nodded, as if the comment meant something.
“Yes,” he said. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * * * *
Sespian looked up from a report when the door opened and Jeddah walked into the suite. Trog sauntered into the servant’s path, but Jeddah managed to maintain his poise—and hold onto the tray with Sespian’s tea—without tripping when the cat rubbed against his shin. His lips flattened, but he was too professional to scowl at the creature leaving hairs on his uniform.
“Thank you, Jeddah,” Sespian said when the man set the tray down. Steam rolled off the freshly poured cup of tea. “Is Hollowcrest in his suite?”
Sespian kept hoping for a chance to snoop in Hollowcrest’s office, but the honor guard that trailed him everywhere made it impossible to ensure his movements would not be reported. As a boy, he had crawled through the old hypocaust ducts in the walls and under the floors, and he was thinking of taking up the hobby again.
“Yes, Sire,” Jeddah said. “I believe he has a guest.”
Sespian glanced at the grandfather clock ticking against one wall. “It’s late for entertaining.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“I don’t know the gentleman’s name.”
“Has he been here before?” Sespian asked.
“I have served him a few times, Sire.”
“Thank you.”
After Jeddah left, Sespian stared thoughtfully at the door. Maybe he should take more of an interest in what went on in Hollowcrest’s private meetings.
He pushed himself to his feet, only to double over with a hiss. Stabs of pain ricocheted through his head. The problem was getting worse every day.
Sespian sucked in a few deep breaths. The stabs subsided into a more manageable ache.
His guards came to attention when he exited the suite.
“Just going across the hall,” he said.
Three steps took him to Hollowcrest’s door. He lifted a hand to knock but paused midair. He always knocked before entering. Emperor or not, he felt it the polite thing to do. Yet he could do as he wished, right? Maybe he should surprise Hollowcrest.
His hand lowered to the knob. He twisted it and stalked inside.
Hollowcrest and a brown-clad man Sespian had never seen before stood in front of a desk. Surprise blossomed across Hollowcrest’s face, but he quickly recovered. The other man looked...guilty. What were they discussing in here so late at night?
“What can I do for you, Sire?” Hollowcrest asked.
Got to be faster, Sespian. You should have spoken first. “Who’s this?”
“This is Malford, the assistant to the Chief of Finance in the Urkart Satrapy,” Hollowcrest said. “He’s here on business.”
Mud and some sort of damp green gunk adorned the stranger’s boots. A worn leather jacket hung nearly to his knees with something that might have been a pistol bulging at his side. Neither the scarred cheek nor shaven head suggested finance expert. In addition, a hint of the sewers clung to the man.
“One wonders what route he took to arrive here,” Sespian said.
“What can I do for you, Sire?” Hollowcrest repeated.
Sespian could challenge him then and there, demand to know who the man really was. But if Hollowcrest continued to lie, what could Sespian do?
“My birthday celebration is coming up,” he said, “a huge holiday for everyone, and there’ll be the gala here at the Barracks, of course. I’d like to invite all the foreign diplomats in the city. It’s time to build real relations instead of simply humoring them.”
“Of course, Sire, I’ll take care of it personally.”
Uh huh, sure you will.
“Anything else, Sire?”
“No. Nothing at all.”
As soon as Sespian returned to his suite, he shoved aside an antique armoire. He grabbed a nail file from a drawer and unfastened a grate at the base of the wall.
He squirmed into the dark and narrow duct. It barely provided enough room to wriggle through on his belly. He had grown in the ten years since he used it last—the age he had decided it was unseemly for the future emperor to crawl through the ducts, spying on people. Perhaps he never should have stopped.
Dust blanketed the inside, and cobwebs wrapped around his face. Drafts of warm air stirred his hair. When he reached a T-section, he folded himself in half to turn right. Before he reached the blob of light that represented the grate to Hollowcrest’s room, he heard voices.
“From your promises, I was expecting a drooling simpleton.” It was not Hollowcrest’s voice—it had to be the supposed finance assistant.
“For a man of average intellect, that would be the result,” Hollowcrest said. “The boy’s naïve but bright. I have everything under control though. The poison has dulled his faculties and is on its way to rendering him bedridden.”
In the stillness of the duct, Sespian’s quickened breaths stirred the cobwebs. His head throbbed
dully. Not a tumor. Poison. It was hard to feel relief, since the latter was just as bad as the former. Although poison he might be able to do something about.
“I don’t think he believed your finance chief cover.”
“If you’d avoid mucking around in the sewers, your true occupation wouldn’t be so obvious,” Hollowcrest muttered.
“My work takes me to fabulous and varied places.” The man laughed and something sinister in it chilled Sespian further.
Hollowcrest sighed. “Sicarius never smelled of his work.”
Sespian’s stomach lurched at the assassin’s name, old fear rearing to the front of his mind.
“Sicarius, Sicarius, Sicarius,” the other man snarled. “The way you always talk about him, you’d think you were lovers.”
“He was efficient. Very efficient. A man in my position values that.”
“I hear he’s in the city. Maybe you two should kiss and make up. Unless you’re afraid you’re his next mark. Or perhaps the boy is.” That sinister laugh again. “Many would benefit from the emperor’s death and the succession confusion it would bring. I’m sure there’s a lot of money in that job.” He sounded wistful.
“Let’s focus on why you’re here,” Hollowcrest said. “What have you found out about Forge?”
“I can’t get into the lead lady’s place. I ran up against a bunch of magical protection, and I was almost discovered by some scarred-up security guard.”
The men moved to another room in the suite where Sespian could not hear them. That was fine. He had heard enough. He backed through the duct until he reached his room. When he tried to screw the grate back in place, his hands shook too much for the job.
Hollowcrest was poisoning him.
Sespian stalked the room, mind whirring. How was the old curmudgeon doing it? Putting it in his food? Was the kitchen staff a part of it? Was Jeddah?
His peregrinations halted in front of the tray with the cup of tea on it. He sank to the floor before the steeping liquid. Not his food. His tea. The one thing that most reminded him of his mother. Sespian clenched his jaw. That bastard had ruined it.
He picked up the cup, crossed to the water closet, and poured it down the wash-out. A part of him wanted to stalk across the hall and hurl the empty cup at Hollowcrest—a big part of him. But that would do no good. It would only tip Hollowcrest to what Sespian now knew.
Sespian stared into the empty cup. What was he going to do?
* * * * *
At the icehouse, Amaranthe woke in the middle of the night with her heart slamming against her ribs. Fleeting memories of a nightmare dissipated like plumes of smoke from a steam engine. All she remembered was something dark chasing her, emitting a horrible, unearthly screech.
The sound came again. She frowned with confusion as dream and reality mixed. Had the screech been real or was she still sleeping?
She sat up on the cot. The wool blanket pooled around her waist. Darkness blanketed the room, though she could feel heat radiating from the nearby stove. She sat motionless and listened.
At first, she heard nothing. Deep in the industrial district, the icehouse neighborhood saw little traffic at night, and silence stretched through the streets like death. Then another screech shattered the quiet. Amaranthe cringed involuntarily; it jarred her nerves like metal gouging metal. An eerily supernatural quality promised it was nothing so innocuous. And it originated nearby, within a block or two.
Thinking of the bear-mauling story in the paper, Amaranthe slid off the cot, reluctant to make any noise. She managed to thump her knee against the desk. So much for not making noise. She groped for the lantern and turned up the flame. The light revealed her neat pile of boots, business clothing, knife, and the box containing her savings. She tugged on the footwear, then grabbed the weapon and lantern. When she opened the door, it creaked. Loudly. She hissed at it in frustration.
On the landing, she glanced around, hoping Sicarius would step out of the shadows. The vastness of the dark warehouse mocked her tiny light. The floor was not visible from the landing. When Amaranthe leaned over the railing, her light reflected off exposed ice, mimicking dozens of yellow eyes staring at her.
Another inhuman screech cut through the walls of the icehouse. It echoed through the streets and alleys outside, surrounding and encompassing. In the distance, dogs barked. The hair on her arms leapt to attention. She shivered and clenched the handle of the lantern more tightly.
“Help!” came a male voice from outside. “Anyone!”
The nearby cry startled Amaranthe. It sounded like the speaker was directly in front of the icehouse.
She crossed the landing, her boots ringing on the metal. A pounding erupted at the double doors below.
“Is someone there?” the voice called.
“On my way!” Amaranthe hustled down the stairs.
He had to be trying to escape whatever was hunting the streets. The doors rattled on their hinges.
“It’s coming!” he shouted.
Amaranthe took the last stairs three at a time. She slid on sawdust when she landed at the bottom, recovered, and ran to the doors. She reached for the heavy wooden bar securing them.
A deafening screech sounded right outside. Amaranthe jerked back.
On the other side of the door, the man shrieked with pain. She wanted to help, to lift the bar, but fear stilled her hand. Armed only with a knife, what could she do?
Coward, you have to try.
She yanked her knife from its sheath. Outside, the cries broke off with a crunch. She reached for the bar again.
“Stop.”
She froze at the authoritative tone of Sicarius’s voice.
“Someone’s dying out there,” she said, more out of a sense of obligation than a genuine desire to open the door.
Sicarius walked out of the darkness beneath the stairs. If he had been sleeping, it was not evident. He was fully dressed and armed.
“He’s already dead,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe forced her breathing to slow and listened for activity. She had a feeling Sicarius was right.
Footsteps crunched on the snow outside, but they did not sound human. They were too heavy. The crunching stopped, and snuffling replaced it. The door shuddered as something bumped it. Amaranthe backed away. The snuffling came again, louder and more insistent.
She continued backing up until she stood beside Sicarius.
“Are we safe in here?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Oh.” Better to know now than later, I suppose.
The door shuddered again, louder this time.
“It’s coming in, isn’t it?” she asked.
“So it seems.”
Amaranthe searched for escape routes. If she ran up the stairs and climbed onto the railing, she might be able to pull herself up into the rafters. From there, she could crawl along the network of steel beams and supports to the high windows. If she performed an amazing acrobatic feat, she might be able to kick out the glass, then swing out and climb onto the roof. Good, Amaranthe, that works for Sicarius. Now how are you going to get out?
She remembered the grates and the stacks of ice stored beneath the floor. She shoved aside sawdust and found an entrance. The inset handle required a twist and pull that only someone with thumbs could open. She hoped that thing out there had nothing of the sort.
“You coming?” she asked over her shoulder.
“It’s cramped down there; a poor place to make a stand.” Sicarius’s gaze drifted toward her, then toward the windows and up the stairs, as if he sought an alternative.
The creature slammed against the door. A hinge popped off. Wood splintered. Only the bar kept the door standing. And that would not hold long.
“Fine,” Amaranthe said. “Let me know how it goes up here.”
She grabbed the lantern and climbed down the ladder. She paused to close the grate. Sicarius appeared and caught it before it fell. He w
aved for her to continue down, then slipped in and secured the grate behind him.
“I thought you might change your mind,” she said.
A crash came from above—the sound of the bar shattering and the door collapsing. Feet or paws or something like padded through the sawdust.
Amaranthe wished she knew what the creature looked like, specifically if it had digits that would allow it to turn the handle to their hideout. Or if its strength might let it rip the grates open without bothering with a handle. She shivered. Maybe she should have tried the window route.
There was not much room between the stacks of ice and the wall. A block pressed against her shoulder and numbed her arm. She wished she had grabbed her parka.
The footsteps altered pitch as the creature moved from solid floor to the grate. Tiny flecks of sawdust sifted through. With the darkness above, Amaranthe could not see anything through the tiny gaps in the metal. She could only hear the creature. Sniffing.
Sicarius faced the entrance, his back to her and the lantern. Neither of them spoke, though there was little point in silence. It knew where they were.
The scrape of claws on metal replaced the sniffing. Slow and experimental at first, the noise then grew faster, like a dog digging under a fence.
When claws slipped between the gaps in the grate, she sucked in a breath. It was the span between them that unsettled her. No animal she had ever seen had paws that large.
She lowered her eyes and stared at Sicarius’s back, the steady expansion and contraction of his rib cage. The air felt tight and constricting, and her own breaths were shallow and fast. She tried to emulate his calm. After all, he had not drawn a weapon. Maybe he knew they were safe. Or maybe he knew fighting the creature was pointless.
Above, the clawing stopped. Nothing moved.
A soft splatter to Amaranthe’s right made her jump. At first she thought it had come from the ice above, a drop melting. But it steamed when it hit a block. Another drop struck the back of her hand. As hot as candle wax, it stung like salt in a cut. Not melted ice, she realized. Saliva.
Slowly, she looked up. More drops filtered down. Puffs of steam whispered through the grate—the creature’s breath, visible in the chill air. Two yellow dots burned on the other side of that fog. Eyes reflecting the flame of her lantern.