by Joseph Lallo
“Are you sure you don’t want to go back and send Books out here?” Amaranthe asked at the base of the stairs. “The next step is to find out where this Larocka Myll lives. This will involve long, tedious research.” As soon as she said it, she winced. That sounded condescending. As if she didn’t think he was capable of doing it. “I’m sure you’d have no problem with it, but I don’t want to bore you.” Was that any better? Maybe she ought to just stop talking.
“You’d rather bore Books?” Sicarius asked.
“He used to grade papers for a living. He’s probably used to it.”
“I can do tedious research. Let’s go.”
He must want Larocka’s address badly. Maybe he thought he could get it by this evening and stick a dagger in her back that night.
“As you wish,” Amaranthe said.
She led Sicarius past a young desk clerk who did not look up from his book when they passed. The cavernous interior had one main floor, surrounded by four tiers of balconies. Tall rolling ladders allowed access to the wall-to-wall shelves, which rose from floor to eighty-foot ceiling. They were crammed with books on property taxes, real estate law, underwriting, and other scintillating topics. Tall windows let in light, and gas lamps shed bubbles of illumination, but even in the afternoon it felt like twilight inside the building.
“The residential plat maps are in the back.” Amaranthe weaved through a maze of standing bookcases, filing cabinets, and dusty tables. They only passed one other person, who was on the way out. “Industrial and business are in the basement.” She pointed to a couple places where narrow stairs led down.
“With Larocka’s name, we can look up where she lives?” Sicarius asked.
His eyes probed the shadows, out of habit, she supposed. Somehow she doubted many bounty hunters lurked at the Real Estate Library.
“Unfortunately, it’s not that easy,” she said. “If you know an address, or lot number, it’s a simple matter to find out who owns the property, what they paid for it and when, who owned it before, and all sorts of semi-interesting stuff. But, you can’t just look up names and find people’s addresses.”
“We have to look at maps of all the houses in the city and hope to find her name? Lokdon, there are a million people in Stumps.”
“Regretting your quickness to volunteer for this?” She slid him a smile over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. First off, only about ten percent of the people in the city own property. Second, the new rich gravitate toward the Ridge, where the houses—and the parcels—are big, so it’ll be easy to skim through the names on the plat map. I’d bet two weeks of pay she lives up there. Well, I would if anyone was paying me anymore.”
They spent the afternoon hunkered over maps in the back corner of the building. The daylight filtering through the windows waned, and the property lines grew squiggly before Amaranthe’s eyes. It was a good thing Sicarius had not taken her up on that bet.
“That’s it. We’ve looked at every house on the Ridge.” Yawning, she leaned back, tipping the front two legs of her chair off the ground. Maps scattered the table with books keeping the edges from rolling up. “I was sure she’d live there. It’s a status symbol. Every business man or woman who makes it buys a house up there.”
“She could be married with the house in her husband’s name,” Sicarius said.
“Not unless she bought it more than twenty years ago. Today’s law says both names go on the property. I suppose she could be that old, but...”
“Can a house be purchased under a business name?”
Amaranthe’s chair slammed down. “Of course! Sicarius, you’re brilliant. I should have thought of that.” She shoved the chair back and bounced to her feet. “I can look up all her businesses with just her name. In fact, the building is just down the street. Oh, but it’ll close soon. I’ve got to hurry. Be back in a half hour. Why don’t you...” She looked around. There wasn’t anything for him to do until she had the information. “Why don’t you go back and make sure our team isn’t burning down the cannery? You’ve been a lot of help already. I can finish here.”
Before he could answer, she skipped into the nearest aisle and raced to the front of the building.
It took forty-five minutes, and some negotiating with the clerk to stay past closing, but she came out with a list of businesses. Larocka was involved in everything from smelters and canning to tourism and gambling.
When Amaranthe returned to the Real Estate Library, the clerk had disappeared. She glanced at the hours posted on the desk. Though darkness had descended outside, the building was supposed to be open another two hours. She hoped Sicarius hadn’t had some altercation with the man that required...removing him.
Telling herself it was unlikely, she headed for the back corner.
Sicarius was gone. Even though she had told him to go, she found herself wishing he had stayed. He was a quick study, and she doubted Books could have done anything Sicarius hadn’t.
The plat maps still sprawled across the table. Looking now for companies on the list instead of Larocka’s name, Amaranthe leaned down, prepared to go over them again.
Almost immediately, an uneasy feeling made her straighten. Had she heard something? She wasn’t sure.
She peered down the aisles of bookshelves behind her. The lamps on the outside walls barely illuminated the rows, but nothing moved amongst the deep shadows. None of the tables within sight were occupied, nor had she seen or heard anyone else since entering. Still, she sensed eyes upon her.
Slowly, Amaranthe tilted her head back.
A man stood on the balcony above, his arms draped across the railing. It was not Sicarius.
Dressed all in brown, including a long leather jacket, he wore a pistol and almost as many daggers as Sicarius. Thick shadows played across his bald head, scarred face, and beard stubble. He folded a piece of paper and slipped it into a pocket.
“You’re not what I was expecting.” His dark eyes ran up and down her body, lingering on her breasts.
She touched a bulge in her parka, reassuring herself she had her knife.
In one liquid motion, the man vaulted over the rail, dropped fifteen feet and landed on the table in an easy crouch. She skittered back, bumping against the end of a bookcase. His soft boots hadn’t even rustled the papers.
Fear shot through Amaranthe’s limbs. This was not some random molester. That paper he’d pocketed—it must have been one of her wanted posters.
“Can I assist you? What are you looking for?”
The man—bounty hunter?—fingered the paper she had set down, the list of Larocka Myll’s business entities. “Indeed you can. You can assist me all night long.” His leer had none of the charm of one of Maldynado’s. “As much trouble as you’ve given Hollowcrest, I figured you’d be some giant beefy woman with arms like cannon barrels. Not a perky little kitten. Yes, you’ll have to assist me quite a bit before I hack off your head for Hollowcrest.”
“You’ve been following me for him?” She eased to the side so the bookcase did not block retreat, though she doubted she could outrun him. Who would she run to anyway? Night had fallen, and the streets were empty. The image of the vacant clerk desk flashed through her mind. Was there even now a body stuffed behind it, out of sight?
He only smiled, his eyes chilling and invasive. “Not at all. This was the purest stroke of luck. Hollowcrest has me researching Myll, too, you see. Maybe you can share your findings with me before...”
“I’ll have more information if you leave me alone to work a while.” She backed into the aisle. Nothing but books stood within reach; she doubted throwing a book at someone who moved like Sicarius would help. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow?”
“I don’t think so.” He leaped off the table.
Amaranthe whirled, using the movement to hide the drawing of her knife. She sprinted down the aisle. At the end of the row, she darted behind the bookcase and dropped into a crouch. With luck, he would expect a standing targe
t when he lunged around the corner. She might have a fraction of a heartbeat to surprise him.
But many heartbeats skipped by, and he didn’t round the corner. She dared a glance down the aisle. It was empty. She looked down the one on the other side of the bookcase. Empty too.
He’s toying with me.
She looked up. Too late.
The dark form dropped from the top of the bookcase. She leaped to the side, slashing at the inside of his ankle.
Too fast to see, he kicked the blade from her hand. By the time it thudded onto the carpet, he was on her, his hand around her neck. He tore her parka from her shoulders.
She tried to jerk her knee into his groin, but he blocked and pressed her into the end of the bookcase.
He loomed broader and a foot taller than her. He pinned her with his body, trapping her arms. A sewer odor rolled off him and assaulted her nose. He shoved his hand into her blouse and mashed her breast.
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.”
Chapter 12
Fever 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 pe
rched 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.