by Joseph Lallo
The colonel brightened.
“Hollowcrest only takes bimonthly reports,” a voice in the back murmured, not with displeasure but with excitement.
Sespian felt a guilty twinge. He should have been back here previously, talking to these people, learning from them. His father had demanded Sespian go over imperial reports with him, but when Hollowcrest took over... Hollowcrest had always given the impression he preferred it when Sespian took no interest whatsoever.
“I’ll have the first copy on your desk by dawn,” the colonel said. “Anything else, Sire?”
“Actually, I was wondering if you might spare somebody for a couple weeks for a special assignment.” Since Sespian knew Hollowcrest also talked to these men, he made his request vague.
“Of course, Sire. Anyone in the office would be honored to serve you personally.” The colonel extended an arm to encompass his men, who straightened further under Sespian’s gaze. “Choose any you please.”
Sespian knew from their files they were all competent—they had to be to work in the Imperial Barracks—but he needed more than competence. He needed someone unlikely to have developed an allegiance to Hollowcrest. A younger man seemed best, and it would be good to have peers his own age with whom to work. Sespian hoped he was not making his choice based on personal feelings instead of logic.
“Lieutenant Dunn,” Sespian said.
“Sire?” Bright, hopeful eyes met his. The twenty-two-year-old officer was less than six months out of the academy, his record said, where he graduated at the top of his class. Though not of the warrior caste, he had already impressed his superiors and earned numerous accolades.
“Care to work with me for a couple of weeks?”
“Absolutely, Sire.”
“Let’s talk.”
Sespian pointed to one of the cubicles. They went inside, closed the door, and sat across the table from each other.
Dunn fidgeted in his chair. Sespian felt nervous too. Had he chosen the right man?
“You’ll report only to me,” he said. “If your superiors ask you for details, tell them you’re under secret orders.”
“I understand, Sire.”
“You usually focus your efforts on the empire’s borders and beyond, so this will be a different type of task for you. I need you to investigate every soldier working in the Barracks.”
Dunn tilted his head. “Sire?”
“Hollowcrest has been poisoning me for the last year. I’m sure he’s had help.” Sespian watched Dunn’s face intently.
The shock that widened the lieutenant’s eyes seemed genuine. “Why?” he asked. “Why would he dare?”
“To keep me and my ideas out of his way. He grew comfortable as regent, and he didn’t want to give up that power.”
“Despicable,” Dunn whispered.
“Quite.” Sespian held Dunn’s eyes. “That’s why I need your help. I think you’re a man I can trust.”
“Of course! What can I do, Sire?”
“Find out who’s with me and who’s loyal to Hollowcrest. I wish I could lead the investigation myself, but people have a tendency to be on their best behavior when I’m about.” When they’re not trying to drug me....
“Quite.” Dunn smiled as he echoed Sespian’s earlier comment. “On the other hand, who would notice a young lieutenant in one of the ubiquitous soldier uniforms around this place?”
“We’re thinking alike already. Your skills will serve you well in this. One other thing...” Sespian cleared his throat. “Find out everything you can about a female enforcer named Amaranthe Lokdon. In particular, I want to know if she’s dead or alive. Hollowcrest says dead, but I’ve decided it’ll be best for my health to question everything he’s ever told me.”
“Yes, Sire,” Dunn said.
“That’s all. Report to me daily before breakfast.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Sespian sat in the cubicle for a few minutes after Dunn left, wondering if he could trust the man. Even if he could, this was only a start. He would have to round up Hollowcrest’s minions and do something with them—all before Hollowcrest figured out Sespian was off the drug. He hoped he had enough time, but feared he did not.
Chapter 16
“Your name?” the sergeant asked.
Perched on an uncomfortable wooden chair, Amaranthe flirted with making up an identity, but with her wanted posters plastering the city, the soldiers would figure it out sooner or later. Besides, her interrogator would probably see through her lies.
Hard, experienced eyes studied her from beneath graying eyebrows. A scar ran down his cheek, tugging his lip into a sneer that made it look as if he had eaten something unpleasant for breakfast. His last prisoner perhaps.
“Amaranthe Lokdon,” she said.
No one sat at the lone desk, but two armed guards stood by the office’s only door. It was open, and a man wearing captain’s pins leaned against the frame and further blocked the route. At least the soldiers were questioning her here instead of some dank interrogation chamber, though the vertical iron bars securing the sole window offered little hope of escape. No one had bound her hands, but with so many soldiers around, she failed to see how it mattered.
“Occupation?” the sergeant asked.
Counterfeiter of money, plotter against business coalitions, and all-around hindrance to Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest. “Enforcer.”
“What district?”
“Commercial.”
The sergeant strolled around the room, hands clasped behind his back. His boots alternately clacked or thudded as he crossed back and forth over a thin rug. It did little to cover the web of cracks marring the concrete floor, evidence of the building’s age.
“A female enforcer,” he said. “There can’t be many. It’ll be easy enough to check your story.”
“I imagine so.”
“Women warriors. Ridiculous notion. You can’t beat a man in a fight.”
“Depends on the man,” she said. “Why don’t we leave the fort, just you and me, and we can test your theory?”
The sergeant steered a frosty look her direction. “Who’s your friend that ran?”
Amaranthe hesitated. In the doorway, the captain’s eyes narrowed. She shifted on the hard chair. The sergeant dropped his fists on the desk, leaned on them, and glared at her.
“My partner,” she said.
The sergeant snorted. “That man is no enforcer. He evaded our soldiers slicker than a greased fish.”
“Did he kill anyone?” Amaranthe asked. Please, no more deaths on my hands.
“It depends on how much you two had to do with the men who were murdered by the lake and under the water tower.”
“We had nothing to do with that,” Amaranthe said. “We were only following the trail to see what did kill them.” She leaned forward and gripped the edge of the desk. “And we did. We saw it, and we fled from it. Your men need to be very careful. It’s not a bear or panther, like the papers said. It’s much worse.”
“Oh?”
Amaranthe frowned. The sergeant sounded more skeptical than interested. Was he not concerned about his lost men?
“Yes, oh,” she said.
“What did you see?”
“It was like a cougar but much bigger. It was strong, but it wasn’t graceful. It was ugly and blocky—like something molded out of clay. It’s not of natural origins.”
The sergeant exchanged significant glances with the captain, who was apparently content to let his man do the questioning while he observed. A part of her wanted to tell them about everything: Forge’s assassination threats, Hollowcrest’s drugging of the emperor, and her suspicions about the creature. But they would never believe her. Still, if there was a chance she could get them in on the monster hunt, she had to try. After seeing Sicarius’s knife clank uselessly off the beast’s eye, she knew killing it was beyond her team.
“What do you mean not of ‘natural origi
ns?’” the sergeant asked.
Amaranthe leaned back and felt the hard edge of the chair against her shoulder blades. She considered her next words. If she simply said the beast was a magical Nurian creation—something imperial subjects were supposed to know nothing about—she would find herself thrown in a cell as a conspirator. She had to lead them to make their own conclusions.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anything like that monster. My comrade threw a knife at its eye, and the blade didn’t penetrate.”
“The weapon must have spun and hit with the hilt,” the sergeant said.
Amaranthe shook her head. “The point struck true. Right in the eye. It clanged off as if it had hit steel.”
“Impossible. You saw wrong.”
Believe me, curse you. “I’m just an enforcer, and I don’t know too much about politics, but isn’t it possible that some—I don’t know—enemy of the empire sent the creature over here to make trouble? Especially now, with the emperor’s birthday celebration only days away? Foreign diplomats and hundreds of important officials from all across the empire will be in town. Don’t you think it’s a bad time for soldiers to start showing up dead?”
“It’s never a good time for soldiers to show up dead.” The sergeant dropped his chin to his chest. “It is kind of suspicious though. The timing and all. I suppose...”
In the doorway, the captain cleared his throat. The sergeant glared at Amaranthe.
“I’m asking questions,” he said. “For all I know, you’re trying to distract me from your involvement in the deaths of our men.”
“Did you see the bodies?” she asked. “They were mutilated. By something with fangs and claws. How could I possibly have done that?”
“Human beings are vile and resourceful creatures. I’ve seen ‘em do wicked things to each other.”
“Yes, I had retractable six-inch claws installed beneath my fingernails to do this job.” Amaranthe thrust her hand out. There was not even room to hide a speck of dirt under the chewed nubs at the ends of her fingers. “Besides, you saw the tracks. You know something inhuman is about.”
“What are you suggesting? That this is some sort of magical beast planted by enemies of the empire?”
Yes! “Magic? I thought it didn’t exist.”
The sergeant rapped his knuckles on the edge of the desk. “That’s exactly what you should think.”
“But if it did exist...” Amaranthe furrowed her brow thoughtfully, silently urging him to make the connection.
He stared blankly at her.
Exasperation welled in her. “If it did exist, we could all be in danger. If someone using the mental sciences shows up at the emperor’s birthday—”
The captain and sergeant’s heads snapped up like bloodhounds that had caught a scent. Idiot, wrong word!
The captain jerked his chin toward the hallway, and the sergeant followed him outside. The two statuesque soldiers who had guarded the exit followed. The door thudded shut. A lock clanked.
Amaranthe went to the door and pressed her ear against it.
“...worse than murder... Nurian collaborator.”
“...said science, not magic... dangerous.”
“...jail?”
“...influence prisoners. Leave her... general will want...”
The voices moved out of range. The cool wood of the door felt deceptively calming against Amaranthe’s cheek. What are they going to do with me?
She sank to the floor, back against the door. The concrete radiated warmth beneath her palms. No fireplace or stove burned in the room, but the air was comfortable. A lot of large buildings in the city were heated by hypocausts. If this one was, that would mean flues in the walls and crawl spaces beneath the floor where hot air flowed.
Her fingers drifted toward one of the many cracks. It meandered into a corner by the window wall. Might the building be dilapidated enough that she could escape through the floor?
On hands and knees, Amaranthe crossed the room, probing at promising rifts. After pushing aside the rug, she found an area where multiple cracks intersected, creating a diamond-shaped island in the middle.
She dug her fingers into the wider crevices and wiggled the piece. It shifted slightly, but she could not lift it free.
Amaranthe stood and investigated the desk. A smooth stone being used as a paperweight caught her interest. She grabbed it, then rummaged through the drawers. A stash of wrapped flatcakes occupied one. Apparently, the captain had a sweet tooth, or maybe he bribed his men with rewards. She dumped them on top of the desk. Maybe she could use them if she escaped the building.
The letter opener stashed behind a collection of writing supplies had a more immediate use. Though too blunt to make much of a weapon, it had sufficient heft for an impromptu chisel.
She grabbed a scarf from a peg near the door and used it to muffle her work. The tap of the paperweight against the end of the letter opener still sounded too loud in her ears. Fortunately, the remaining threads of mortar shattered easily. Amaranthe lifted the one-inch-thick slab free. Beneath the top layer rested two foot square tiles. Though not surprised, she groaned at the additional barrier. Her captors would not leave her alone indefinitely.
Only one tile was fully visible and it held no cracks or signs of weakness. Nonetheless, she would have to work with that one or try to pull up more of the floor, which would take too long.
Amaranthe placed her hand on the tile. Warmth seeped through the ceramic. She tapped on it with the paper weight, and the hollow thuds gave her reason to continue. It sounded as if a duct or crawl space ran underneath. She grabbed the letter opener again and chipped at the worn mortar around the edge of the tile.
Time bled past. Whenever voices or footsteps sounded outside, she glanced at the door, letter opener clenched in her fist.
Finally, she wiggled the tile free. A black opening yawned beneath it, and warm air wafted from the gap. Pillars supported each corner where the square had laid, and darkness lurked all around them. Amaranthe reached down to measure the space to the bottom. Moist grime and mold cloaked the rough concrete beneath. She shuddered and wiped her fingers on the rug. What were you expecting? A freshly scrubbed crawl space?
She estimated a depth of two feet to squirm through. Good enough.
Amaranthe grabbed the wrapped cakes and stuffed them into her shirt. Feet first, she squeezed into the hole. Hunkered on her knees, she dragged the rug back into place behind her. Her escape route would not remain a mystery for long, but she need not be obvious about it.
Darkness swallowed her, stealing sight. She inhaled deeply and forced herself to remain calm in the tight space. Hot smoky air, heavy with the scent of burning coal, irritated her nostrils and throat.
She groped around, skinning her knuckles against a pillar. The heat seemed to originate from her left, so she belly-crawled that direction. Mold squished beneath her fingers. Sweat soon bathed her body. Grit and dust stuck to her palms. Something furry brushed her wrist and scurried away. She jerked her hand up. Though she doubted she had anything to fear from rats, she couldn’t keep from imagining hordes of the little beasts swarming over her and gnawing at her flesh.
Amaranthe sighed with relief when she made it to a shaft slanting down. She climbed in and wriggled through it. As she descended, the smoke grew more concentrated and the heat intensified. Stifling coughs, she turned a corner and a square of light appeared below her. When she reached the end of the shaft, she swung out, scattering the burning embers of a fire. She banged her head as she hustled through the flames. Once free, she stomped her feet and swatted her clothes to make sure nothing was burning.
Two sooty, bare-chested men gaped at her. Both held shovels heaped with coal. Aside from the glow of the fire, a single lantern provided light. Stairs rose behind the workers.
Amaranthe pulled two mashed flatcakes from her shirt and handed one to each man. “You fellows are doing excellent work. You
never saw me, right?”
They jabbered in a foreign language. Perhaps Arbitan and Larocka were not the only ones exploiting illegal slaves. Fortunately, the men showed more interest in the cakes than her.
Amaranthe slid past them and climbed the stairs. She cracked open the door at the top. A few feet away, a brick wall loomed. She was behind the building near the edge of the compound. A guard clanked past on a walkway above. No going over the wall, but the smooth brick defied scaling anyway.
She brushed dust, mold, and other dubious smudges from her clothing. Then she arranged her remaining flatcakes in one arm and stepped into the sunlight. An ice-and-gravel path took her along the wall, then veered through an alley between buildings.
The gate came into sight, but the busy square stretched before it. Dozens of soldiers streamed here and there. Two more men guarded the exit, but at least it was a different pair than at dawn.
Amaranthe lifted one of the cakes with her free arm and walked into the square.
“Fresh flatcakes! One for two ranmyas, two for three.” She waved the sweet and meandered toward the gate. “Get your flatcakes right here! No need to wait until chow call for a tasty snack. You, sir. You look hungry. Just two ranmyas for a sumptuous sweet.”
A soldier brushed past her but did not look up. Excitement thrummed through her limbs. Maybe this would work. The men barely noticed her. Soldiers who would have pounced on a fleeing prisoner avoided eye contact with a pushy vendor.
She was halfway to the gate and congratulating herself when a hand clamped onto her shoulder. Amaranthe turned, locking the expression of an eager merchant onto her face.
“Sir,” she said to the corporal who restrained her. “I can see you’re a man who appreciates the delicious taste of a fresh flatcake. My sweets use superior ingredients and—”
The corporal growled and jerked her around. He propelled her, not toward a jail cell, but toward the gate.
“How did you get in here? How many times have I told you people the fort is off limits to civilians? Sell your junk outside the walls if you must.”