“Hear something?” a man asked nearby.
“She’s down here somewhere.”
“Don’t see why we have to bother searching. Can just wait until the corpse starts to stink and find her then.”
They laughed, and armor and weapons clanked. There might only be two of them, but they were armed. Amaranthe had nothing, not even Sicarius’s dagger. Besides, she doubted she could best a five-year-old in her present condition. This had to work.
She held her breath and squinted through blurry eyes into the cloud of ash, looking for a disturbance.
There.
A draft coming from the floor swirled the cloud at foot level. She groped around the area, searching for a switch or button.
At chest level on the left side, she found a crease in the mortar that depressed when touched. A mechanism ground behind the wall. She winced, sure the guards would hear.
In front of her, a jagged edge detached like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming apart. Amaranthe had to set down the lantern and use both hands to open the heavy stone door.
She threw more ash behind her to obscure her footprints. She grabbed her light, stepped inside, and pulled the door shut.
Cobwebs and dust owned the tunnel she entered. Too tired to swat at them, she ran—no, stumbled—straight through. Her clumsy gait evoked resentment; already, this disease was sapping her muscles. Her breath whistled as if she were at the end of a hard run around the lake. She doubted she had much time left where she could do anything useful.
The tunnel ended at a steel grille blocking the passage. Outside, a pink sky filtered through bare, tangled limbs that screened the exit. Amaranthe found a lever to open the grate, and she pushed past the brambles. Thorns clawed at her hands and cheeks. A nearby sign read SEWER ACCESS POINT.
She snorted. Sure.
She stumbled forward, looking for a path out, and hoping she could make it to the lake without running into the enforcers. Strange to think those who should have been her allies would now be foes. When Hollowcrest learned of her escape, he would surely place a reward on her head. What crime would he make up to put on her wanted poster? Releaser of Deadly Bugs, reward 5,000 ranmyas. Cutter of Hollowcrest’s Arm, reward 10,000 ranmyas. Although, since he knew she was destined to die from the disease, he might not bother sending out search parties or alerting the enforcers. Too bad. She would rather be wanted than dead.
All she could do was make it to the lake and hope Sicarius would be there so she could deliver her message. After that...
She swallowed grimly. After that, it would not matter.
Dusk found Amaranthe curled on her side on a park bench beside the lake. Fevered and numb, breathing shallow, she didn’t recognized the black boots at first. Sicarius squatted on his heels beside her head. She had wanted to tell him something. What was it? Shattered pieces of thought flitted through her mind, too elusive a puzzle to fit together. She just remembered they were important.
“Emperor...Hollow—” She licked cracked lips. Speaking was too hard. She drew a shuddering breath between each word. “Forge...assassin...ation. Can’t...celebration. Tell...someone.”
Amaranthe panted, fighting to get out more words. The effort devoured her remaining strength. Darkness crept into her vision. She tried to push it back, but it overwhelmed her, and she lost consciousness.
7
Pain pulsed behind Sespian’s eyes. The words on the page blurred and danced. The medical journal from the Kyatt Islands was written in a language he wasn’t fluent in, but Kyattese used the same alphabet as Turgonian, and he had a language dictionary to reference. The translating should not be so hard.
Sespian slammed his pen down and grabbed his hair. What was wrong with him?
“Problem, Sire?” came a voice from the doorway.
Hollowcrest strolled into the library with a handful of papers. He stopped next to the table. Under his feet sprawled a massive floor medallion that depicted the muscled bulk of Agroth, the founder of Turgonia and the first emperor. From Sespian’s viewpoint, it looked like the ancient warrior’s sword tip was poking Hollowcrest in the ass—a rather pleasant notion.
“No,” Sespian said.
“Why are you reading that?” Hollowcrest frowned down at the book.
“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. When I woke up, the surgeon said nothing, but people my age aren’t supposed to collapse on the steps of their homes for no reason.” Now, if Hollowcrest pitched down some stairs, that’d be more understandable, but the lean old gargoyle would probably live forever.
“Yes, we should discuss that.” Hollowcrest slid into the chair across the table. “Surgeon Darrik was reluctant to speak his findings to you, but he confided in me.”
“Did he.” Sespian leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and eyed Hollowcrest.
“He was concerned you might not take his findings well and didn’t want to deliver them himself.”
A flutter vexed Sespian’s stomach. “What findings?”
Hollowcrest set down his papers, propped his elbows on the desk, and steepled his fingers. “There is a possibility—we don’t know for certain, mind you—that you have a brain tumor.”
The utter silence in the library made it possible for Sespian to hear his breaths quicken. “No.” He stared at his notes without seeing them. “No, I don’t believe that. I’m not that sick. I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s just...”
What? He had no idea. That was the problem.
“We’re not certain, so there’s always hope it’ll be something less problematic.” An attempt at a sympathetic smile creased Hollowcrest’s weathered face. “It would explain your headaches, though, and your fainting episode.”
“I didn’t faint, I passed out in a manly way,” Sespian muttered. “I’m probably not getting enough exercise or the right kind of food. Or something. I’m sure it’s not a tumor. The whole idea is just ludicrous. I’m too young. I haven’t done anything I wanted to do yet. I...” He barely heard his own words. He couldn’t believe this.
“There is, perhaps, still time to leave a legacy.” Hollowcrest pushed the sheets of paper across the table.
“What’s this?” Sespian grabbed them and looked at the top page. His hands were trembling. “A picture of a woman? What is this supposed to—”
“A suitable prospect for marriage,” Hollowcrest said. “There are several ladies there, all of flawless warrior caste bloodlines, all of child-bearing age.”
Sespian stared at the old man. “You just told me I’m going to die soon, and now you want me to get married?”
“As you’ve said, Sire, you’ve had little time to fulfill your desires as emperor. Do you not, before you die, want to at least produce an heir to carry on your blood and one day rule the empire?”
Sespian started to respond but stopped. Something was very wrong here. He needed to think before he spoke. Why were his thoughts so fuzzy? It seemed like a child’s puzzle was before him, but someone had blown out the lamps, and he had to assemble it in the dark.
He took the papers, stood, and walked to a window overlooking the snowy banks piled against the courtyard walls. If he died, leaving a babe behind, Hollowcrest could end up as regent for the next eighteen years. Theoretically, Sespian could name another regent, but would anyone listen to his mandates? As Sespian had so recently seen, Hollowcrest had the full support of the guards. Everyone else snapped to obey his orders as well.
I’m just a figurehead. It was so obvious; why had it eluded him all year? He kept trying to insinuate his ideas, but he crashed against walls everywhere he turned. It was as if Hollowcrest had never really stepped down as regent.
How had Sespian let it all come to pass?
He could feel Hollowcrest’s eyes boring into his back, so he pretended to peruse the papers. It was time to do some snooping and figure out exactly what Hollowcrest was doing.
“Take your time, Sire.” A chair scraped as Hollowcrest stood. “Let me k
now if you wish to speak further, or please talk to the surgeon anytime if you have questions.”
“I will.” Sespian had no doubt the surgeon was ready with just the answers Hollowcrest wanted him to have.
Once he was alone, Sespian lowered the papers and returned to the table. The book and his notes were gone.
Dreams and reality meshed for Amaranthe, creating a fevered realm of fear and confusion. Nightmares of Hollowcrest, enforcers, and those dreadful bugs mingled in her head. Sometimes she saw a tiny room with wooden plank walls and metal beams on the ceiling. Perhaps those were her waking moments. During them, she was alone and afraid.
In one of her dreams, Sicarius appeared, accompanied by a pale-skinned man with tattoos and long braids of gray hair. They spoke in a foreign language. The stranger touched her forehead, chanting as he traced symbols on her skin with a gnarled finger. Confused and alarmed, she tried to pull away, but Sicarius held her down. The ritual had the feel of an ancient death ceremony done by a priest to send her spirit off to some hypothetical afterworld. Amaranthe struggled to retain consciousness, afraid every slip into blackness would be permanent, but it swallowed her again.
She woke alert and fever-free in the wooden room she had seen in her dream. Surprised, she struggled to prop herself up on her elbow. The effort made her heartbeat leap to double time.
A kerosene lantern squatting on a desk provided dim illumination. She was lying on a cot against a wall opposite a closed door. The only other pieces of furniture were a wooden chair and a stove burning next to a stocked coal bin.
A sickly odor permeated the air. Amaranthe lifted the scratchy wool blanket draping her and sniffed. Great. She was the source. Someone had removed her soiled clothing, but she badly needed a bath.
Abruptly, she laughed. Who cared if she reeked? She was alive!
But where was she?
On the nearest wall, a large rectangular panel of wood hung from hinges like some makeshift shutter. Curiosity won out over fatigue. She wrapped the blanket about herself and sloughed off the cot. Despite the heat radiating from the stove, the scuffed and dented wood floor wept coldness. She propped the panel open with a stick apparently there for the purpose. An optimist would have called the rectangular opening underneath a window. She decided “ragged hole sawed in the planks” was more accurate.
She looked out upon an enormous icehouse. One- to two-foot wide blocks formed a frozen mountain that stretched into the rafters. Her room was almost as high. A metal staircase to her right led down to the sawdust-strewn floor.
Motion drew her eye. Sicarius. He had pulled out a few blocks and was practicing kicks and punches from atop them. With agility that would have embarrassed a cat, he hopped from one slick perch to the next. Sometimes he spun and kicked midair, yet he never slipped when he landed. She expected him to look up and acknowledge her—without a doubt he had heard that panel creak up—but he continued his routine without pause.
Amaranthe dropped her forearms on the edge and watched him. Despite the chilly environs, he wore no shirt. Since his usual black shirts were fitted, the sculptors-would-pay-me-to-model physique wasn’t a surprise, but it was...eye-catching. The way his relaxed body flowed like water curling along its course before it contracted into steel for a strike was mesmerizing. He went into a series of open-handed blocks, each a demonstration in economy of motion, each followed by what she imagined were joint locks. With those shoulders, he would have no trouble twisting someone’s arm off.
After a long moment, she snapped herself out of her gawk with a shake of the head and a self-mocking snort. All right, girl, we are not going to be attracted to the amoral assassin.
Amaranthe moved away from the window and noticed a newspaper on the desk. The front-page headline gave her a start. Rogue Bear Kills Two More on Wharf Street.
“Bear?” she muttered. “Did a sober journalist write that?”
Paper in hand, she slumped down on the hard chair. Stumps was surrounded by hundreds of miles of farmlands and orchards. One rarely saw a raccoon in the city, and she couldn’t remember ever hearing of a bear sighting. A bear killing people sounded even more unlikely.
The Wharf Street part stood out for a different reason. She glanced toward the window and the frozen stacks beyond. All the ice houses in the city were near the docks, which meant this building was close to—maybe right on—Wharf Street. Something new to worry about. Wonderful.
Reading the story wasn’t enlightening, and she couldn’t help but think back to Hollowcrest’s admission that the papers didn’t always print the truth.
After finishing, she grimaced at the date. Assuming it was today’s paper, she had lost four days between the dungeon and the sickness. Only two and a half weeks remained until the emperor’s birthday celebration. What could she possibly do to stop Hollowcrest and Forge in so little time?
She had no money, no weapons, no idea who comprised Forge, nothing. She needed an ally, but now that she was on the less desirable side of the law, she could hardly go to her enforcer friends for help. The only one she could ask was someone already marked as a criminal....
Amaranthe laid the paper on the desk, edges lined up with the corner, and walked back to the window. Now Sicarius was sprinting through some sort of twisty footwork course he had constructed. If she didn’t say something, he’d be down there all day.
The next time he finished a lap, she cleared her throat nosily. Sicarius looked up at her.
“Just wondering why I’m alive,” Amaranthe called down. “And why we’re camped in an icehouse.”
Sicarius acknowledged her with a twitch of his hand, but continued his exercises.
She returned to the cot. Just walking around the tiny room left her depressingly weak. And cold. She nudged the cot closer to the stove and pulled the blanket more tightly around her. It smelled of sawdust and more pungent sickbed odors.
A few minutes later, Sicarius entered, fully clothed again.
“The icehouse happened to be near where you collapsed on the trail,” Sicarius said. “There was a limit to how far I could carry you through the city without drawing attention. It is also fully stocked, so the workers have moved on to filling another warehouse down the block. Disturbances have been infrequent.”
“Thank you,” Amaranthe murmured. “How did you, ah...I wasn’t expecting... They told me the disease was always fatal.”
“Yes, unless healed by someone who understands the mental sciences. I recognized the symptoms of Hysintunga and found a shaman.”
The mental sciences? A strange synonym for magic.
“A shaman in the empire?” she asked. “In Stumps? You can be hanged for reading about magic. I can’t believe anyone would risk practicing it here.”
Or that it existed. Even when the surgeon had casually discussed magic in the dungeon, it had failed to penetrate her long-held beliefs. Or disbeliefs rather. Amaranthe prodded her arm where the bug had bitten her. Nothing remained of the wound. Perhaps it was time to question those beliefs.
“Most people in the empire either do not believe in the mental sciences or would not recognize them being practiced regardless,” Sicarius said. “Though this is not an easy place for foreigners to live, sometimes it is safer than what they leave behind, especially if they are hunted by fellow practitioners.”
Fugitive magic users? In her city? Amaranthe rubbed her face.
“He must not have been too bad of a fellow if he was willing to help me,” she reasoned.
“He was paid well.”
“Oh.” Amaranthe swallowed. She had only meant to seek Sicarius in order to relay information to him. She had not thought he would be able to save her, or that he would bother even if he could. “Thank you,” she said again, the words inadequate. “I owe you—”
“An explanation.” Sicarius regarded her intently. “Clarify the situation with the emperor. I could not understand the incoherent jumble you spit out before falling unconscious.”
So, he had helped
her because he wanted her information, not out of kindness. That was not surprising, but it reminded her how much talking she was going to have to do to convince him to become her ally.
Amaranthe gave a detailed description of the conversations she had shared with Hollowcrest. She recited the words on the letter verbatim. Those experiences, when she had thought she was dying, were indelibly imprinted in her mind.
Sicarius’s face remained unreadable throughout her narrative. At the end, he gave her that cool stare he did so well.
“Hollowcrest gave his reasons for wanting you killed, described the tea he’s using to drug Sespian, and explained why he feels the need to manipulate the emperor in the first place.” He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “To you.”
His tone didn’t change to suggest it was a question, and it wasn’t until he tacked on the last two words that Amaranthe realized it was a statement of disbelief.
It hadn’t occurred to her that he might think she was lying. Before, when she had been lying to him, he had sensed it. She stared back at him and willed him to sense she was telling the truth now.
“Yes, he did,” she said.
“Hollowcrest had no reason to tell you anything, and he doesn’t explain himself, or justify his actions, before killing people.”
“Honestly, I was surprised myself, especially when he came to chat in the dungeon,” Amaranthe said. “Do you suppose... Could he have thought I’d escape—or that you’d come get me and help me—and that this was a message meant for you?” She looked up at him, again trying to read his face, but it was still expressionless. “You’re obviously connected with him somehow. Based on the fact that Hollowcrest and Sespian both recognize your dagger, I’m guessing you were the court assassin or something of that nature, although assassination isn’t supposed to be the Turgonian way. Still, I think Hollowcrest is a sneaky old sod, and he wouldn’t have minded having someone like you around. From what I remember of Emperor Raumesys, they were similar types. Your enforcer record—your list of public assassinations—started up, what, five years ago? That was the same time as Raumesys died. Maybe Sespian, being a rather good human being, didn’t want an assassin on the payroll, and gave you the boot, so you had to go out and find other work. Of course, that doesn’t explain why...”
The Emperor's Edge, no. 1 Page 8