The Emperor's Edge, no. 1

by Lindsay Buroker

  A warning instinct lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. She had been looking at Sicarius while she spoke but, in her musings, had stopped seeing him. Now, her focus sharpened.

  His expression had not changed, but he was very, very still, and his dark eyes were colder than ice shards. Amaranthe chomped down on her flapping lip and dropped her gaze to the floorboards. He hadn’t said a word, but she could feel the threat hanging between them. She might need his help, but with her information delivered, he didn’t need anything else from her. Probing into his past was not a good idea.

  “No,” Sicarius said after a long, uncomfortable silence. “Hollowcrest would not send me a message.”

  “Good,” Amaranthe said, trying for a bright tone and not quite achieving it. “Glad we’ve eliminated that possibility. Maybe he’s just getting old and feeling guilty over some of the choices he’s made of late. Or maybe he’s tired of his usual flunkies and wanted someone new to talk to. Or maybe,” she said with a self-deprecating eye roll, “it’s my friendly personality that got him chatting.”

  “Huh,” he said. It was ambiguous, but at least his tone was a little lighter. Less dangerous.

  Still, it wasn’t until he clasped his hands behind his back and turned toward the window that she dared look at him again. Despite his recent workout, his black shirt was tucked in, his pants free of wrinkles, and his low boots brushed clean of dust. No hint of beard stubble softened the hard angles of his jaw. Even his fingernails were trimmed and free of dirt. Only that uncontrolled nest of blond hair did not match his fastidious appearance. At the moment, she could hardly judge cleanliness, though, not when she could smell the stale sickness clinging to her body.

  She needed a bath and a change of clothing. But she still had to win him to her side. Delving into his history was apparently not the way to do it. She decided to go back to what had inveigled his assistance before.

  “I mean to save the emperor,” Amaranthe said. “Not just that. I want to stop Hollowcrest from drugging him and protect him from Forge’s assassins. I can’t do it alone.”

  “A monumental task.” At least he didn’t say, “What makes you think you can do it at all?”

  “With my plan, we can do it.”

  Sicarius faced her again. “What plan?”

  If this was to be played at all, it had to be played fearlessly. She took a deep breath. “One that requires me not smelling like a ten-day-old corpse. If you can get me a bath and a couple of changes of clothing, I’ll tell you everything.”

  His dark eyes narrowed, and once again Amaranthe remembered his knack for sensing deception. A long moment passed before he spoke, and it was only to say, “Agreed,” before he left the room.

  She sagged against the wall with relief. That conversation had drained her more than running the whole lake once had. She wondered how long it would take him to arrange a bath. Or more precisely, she wondered how long she had to come up with a plan. She laid on her back, intending to think of something brilliant. Instead, she fell asleep.

  A clank woke her. Amaranthe sat up, cursing the disease that left her so weak. Sicarius had produced a metal laundry bin. Inside, water shimmered yellow with the reflection of lamplight. He had even scrounged a towel and a bar of soap. She beamed with heartfelt pleasure for the first time in days. Sicarius dropped a nondescript set of utility clothing on her cot.

  Still clutching the blanket around herself, Amaranthe shuffled over to the tub and dipped a toe in. She withdrew it with a startled squawk. “This is ice water!”

  “Naturally.” Sicarius tilted his head toward the wall dividing the room from thousands of tons of ice.

  Amaranthe bent over the tub and picked out the remains of a block that had not melted completely. Her shoulders slumped. It was not that she had never taken a cold bath—the single room she had shared with her father as a girl had not had plumbing much less hot water. It was just that... She sighed. It had been a rough week, and she wanted a relaxing soak.

  She forced herself to thank Sicarius since he had, after all, dragged blocks of ice up there and melted them. Her expression of gratitude was somewhat muffled by the noise she made shoving the tub across the room until it was so close to the stove she would be hard-pressed to get in without searing something important.

  “Are you going to watch?” Amaranthe asked when Sicarius did not leave.

  “Your plan,” Sicarius said, implying he was waiting to hear it.

  You too, huh?

  “Well, I need to be clean before I can discuss anything of this magnitude.”

  His flat stare said he knew she was stalling. He probably knew she had nothing. Nonetheless, he was still waiting. Maybe he had faith she could come up with something. Or maybe he could not think of a plan either and was desperate enough to listen to a foolish woman who had almost gotten herself killed twice in the same week.

  “Fine,” Amaranthe said. “Stay and watch if you want.”

  She shucked the blanket and grabbed the soap. After stepping in, she scrubbed—and thought—furiously. The emperor was threatened from two fronts: Hollowcrest, and all those who were loyal to him, and Forge, who was nameless and faceless for the time. The organization had to consist of business people and was an entity large enough to present a threat to the emperor. That implied wealth and power. Both her adversaries had power. She had none. She had...desperation. And maybe the help of a trained assassin, if she could woo him with her plan.

  She shook her head. She needed to adjust her thinking. No general ever won a victory by pitting his weaknesses against the enemy’s strengths. It had to be the other way around. What were her strengths? Since she would soon be labeled a criminal, she supposed there was no need to be constrained by the law. She found that thought unsettling, but it inspired creativity. Criminals did all sorts of unorthodox things to get what they wanted from each other. What could she do? Use force? Steal? Blackmail?

  Amaranthe realized she had been lathering the same shoulder with the bar of soap for some time. She switched to a leg.

  Force was out. If she couldn’t bring herself to assassinate a murdering assassin, she doubted she could kill anybody else in cold blood either. Nor would stealing get her anywhere. Blackmail? What could she hold over both parties? Economic trouble? That would be a disaster for government and business alike, but she could hardly start a recession by willing one into existence. Not unless she could magically decrease the value of money. She supposed printing counterfeits would achieve that. The addition of fake paper money that was not backed by the gold in the Imperial Treasury could devalue all the real money out there, plus it would undermine people’s confidence in the ranmya. The threat alone might be enough to coerce Hollowcrest and Forge into dealing.

  Amaranthe let the soap fall from her fingers and leaned on the edge of the tub. You’re not actually considering this, are you?

  Deliberately sabotaging the economy. Her mind shied away from the potential for widespread devastation, the utter vileness of the idea. Of course, she would be operating on a bluff, with no intention of actually circulating the money. Forge and Hollowcrest would not know that. It would represent a tangible threat to them. In a period of hyperinflation, Forge’s fortunes would become meaningless. Hollowcrest would have to deal with the repercussions of millions of citizens terrified their savings would evaporate. Yes, she decided, it might just worry both parties enough to negotiate with her.

  She looked at Sicarius. He seemed lost in thought again and was not facing her direction. She experienced a surge of indignity that he did not find her interesting enough to peep at in the bath but forced herself back to more important issues.

  “I have finalized the details of my plan,” she announced.

  “Really,” he said dryly.

  “We’re going to produce counterfeit money.” She went on to explain her reasoning and emphasized several times her intent to bluff rather than unleash the fake bills. “We’ll have to make enough, however, to lend a sense of
verisimilitude to our operation.”

  Sicarius did not speak for a time after she finished. Amaranthe waited apprehensively, afraid he would reject her plan, point out a dozen reasons it was ludicrous, or simply walk out without saying anything.

  “I would not have expected such an idea from an enforcer,” he said.

  “But do you think it could work?”

  Sicarius made a noncommittal gesture with his hand. “Theoretically, it’s possible. To set everything up in two weeks is improbable.”

  “I could get some more men to help,” she said.

  “You have underworld connections? Money to pay people?”

  “No, but anyone can run a printing press once it’s set up. I’m sure I can explain the situation to a couple of folks and enlist their help.” Of course, she would have to get a press and find someone to engrave ranmya plates, but she would worry about that later.

  Sicarius’s blond eyebrows twitched upward. From him, it seemed a riot of emotion. Unfortunately, the emotion was skepticism.

  “If I can get a couple men to help with printing, and maybe someone who could assist with researching Forge, would you agree to stick with me for the duration? If Sespian’s birthday approaches, and it’s obvious this won’t work, I won’t begrudge you for leaving. If you have a better idea, right now, I won’t begrudge you for leaving. I suppose you could assassinate Hollowcrest and the Forge people, if you can figure out who they are, and then you wouldn’t need me and my crazy plan. As much as I’d love to clear my name by being the one to rescue the emperor, what really matters is saving him, period.”

  “I’ve never heard of Forge before,” Sicarius admitted. “With time, I could identify the leaders, but someone who could more easily move about the business world might make a less obtrusive and more efficient researcher.”

  Amaranthe bit back a smile. In other words he needed a girl, ideally one who had gone to business school before becoming an enforcer. At last she had something to offer him as an ally.

  “I’m sure someone from my old school could suggest a starting point,” was all she said.

  “I know someone who could be a feasible research assistant.”

  “Oh? A friend of yours?” Amaranthe tried not to grimace. One assassin was all she could imagine working with at a time.

  “No.”

  “But he’d help us?”

  “I’d have to threaten him to get him to work for me,” Sicarius said. “Perhaps you can recruit him by other means.”

  “I can. It won’t be a problem.” She was overselling herself, but for some strange reason she felt more exhilarated than terrified.

  “If you can get a team together, I’ll work with you.”

  Amaranthe just managed to curtail a triumphant fist pump. “That’ll be acceptable. Any other concerns? Any questions?”

  “One,” he said. “During what phase of this plan will you start wearing clothes?”

  She looked down. It wasn’t exactly that she had forgotten she was standing in icy water, stark naked; she’d just forgotten to care. Reminded of her state, she blushed and grabbed the towel.

  “Truly, Sicarius, if it weren’t for your sinister reputation, I’d suspect you of a sense of humor.”

  “Huh,” was all he said as he walked out the door.

  8

  A locomotive roared through town, rattling barred windows, and kicking up a newspaper that skidded across the icy street to smack Amaranthe’s calf. She shook it off with a sheepish glance at Sicarius. Dressed all in black—again—he waited at the base of steps leading up to the Brookstar Tenements. Only his panoply of daggers and throwing knives broke the monochromatic look of his attire. Fate, she supposed, would never be so blasphemous as to pelt him with trash.

  She adjusted the tight collar of her business suit. Where he had found the outfit, she did not know, but everything from the boots to gloves to the parka and fur cap fit reasonably well. And there were no grizzly bloodstains to suggest he had killed someone to get it. That was something, at least.

  “I’m ready,” Amaranthe called over the chugging wheels of the locomotive.

  Sicarius led the way up the cracked concrete steps. Black, textured mats covered the ice but did little to enhance the decor of the old brick building. At the door, Amaranthe paused to straighten a sign that promised the availability of rooms for monthly, weekly, nightly, or hourly usage.

  Inside, they stopped before a desk manned by a plump grandmotherly woman. Forehead furrowed, she did not look up. An abacus rested on the desk, and she alternately flicked its wooden beads and scribbled figures in a ledger.

  “Is Marl Mugdildor here?” Sicarius asked.

  “No.”

  “He may go by Books.”

  The landlady regarded them for the first time. “Yes, are you relatives? Are you here to pay his bill?”

  Amaranthe sighed. Sicarius’s acquaintance did not sound particularly reputable.

  “No,” she said. “We have some business with him. Can you direct us to his room?”

  The landlady eyed Sicarius with apprehension. “Books, he’s not a bad fellow, just had a rough time this past year. He doesn’t really deserve...” She cleared her throat and turned beseeching eyes toward Amaranthe, probably thinking they had come to collect on a loan.

  Sicarius did have the icy demeanor of a debt collector. If only he were that benign, Amaranthe thought dryly.

  “We aren’t going to hurt him,” she promised.

  “He’s usually in the common room on the third floor.” The landlady scooted around the desk. “I’ll show you up.”

  “Thank you,” Amaranthe said.

  A threadbare carpet led them up two flights of stairs permeated with the scent of lye, which did not quite overpower the underlying urine stench. At the end of the hall, the landlady stopped before a door and held up a finger.

  “Let me just straighten him, er, the room up.” She shuffled inside, shutting the door part way behind her.

  For a moment, Amaranthe thought the lady meant to warn Books that someone was looking for him and that he should run, but exasperated words soon tumbled out, eliminating the concern.

  “Books? Wake up, there’s a pretty young lady here to see you. Are you drunk already? Here, comb your fingers through that, that, why can’t you find someone to give you a haircut? And a shave? And, gah, why don’t you use the baths? Give me that bottle. It’s too early to be drinking. By the emperor’s teeth, why don’t you do something with yourself? You owe me three months back rent. Straighten up. You’re slouching like a—”

  “Leave me be, you meddling shrew!” The male speaker, voice raspy from disuse, sounded hung over.

  Amaranthe put her hand over her face and shook her head. She looked at Sicarius through her fingers. As usual, his expression was unreadable.

  Maybe this was a test. If she couldn’t get this Books to help them, Sicarius would know she wouldn’t be able to deliver on her other promises either. If that was true, she had better win this fellow to their cause.

  She lifted her chin and pushed the door open, entering even as the landlady was on the way out. Arms laden with wine bottles, crusty food plates, and newspapers, she wore a harassed expression but struggled to smile for Amaranthe.

  “All yours,” the landlady said, as if she had done some great favor in “straightening” Books for his guest. If anything, the man would be harder than ever to talk to after that nagging session.

  “Thank you,” Amaranthe said anyway and plucked a half-full bottle off the top of the passing stack.

  Inside a spacious common room, three men sat near a clean but cracked window, chortling in the aftermath of the landlady’s ire. A game of green Strat Tiles sprawled over their table like creeping ivy. A young fellow with the mien of a university student sat reading near another window. When Amaranthe saw the textbooks on mathematics and engineering stacked next to him, she sighed wistfully. Why couldn’t this have been Sicarius’s acquaintance?

  In
the darkest corner of the room, in a faded floral chair, sat an unkempt man with gray peppering his bushy beard and scraggily black hair. He glared at Amaranthe, or maybe just at the door in general. Wine stained his shirt in multiple places.

  When Sicarius glided in, the man’s brown eyes bulged.

  “Dark Vengeful Emperor!”

  “That’s not the name he gave me,” Amaranthe said with a smile, “but details aren’t important.”

  The man hunkered deeper in the chair.

  Sicarius cleared his throat. The gamers and the student looked at him.

  “Leave us,” he said.

  Amaranthe was glad the cold voice was not directed at her. The four men considered him, and the small armory he wore, for only a second before obeying.

  Making no effort to greet—or even acknowledge—Books, Sicarius walked over to a window overlooking the street. It seemed Amaranthe was on her own.

  She strolled closer to Books, forcing herself to keep the smile, despite the miasma of alcohol and unwashed armpits clinging to him. His gaze latched onto the bottle she had purloined from the landlady.

  “I’m Amaranthe,” she said. “Do you have a few minutes? I could use your advice.”

  His mouth sagged open. He made a show of sticking his finger in his ear, cleaning it out, and turning it toward her. “You’re a woman, and you want my advice? You don’t want to give me advice?”

  She wondered how many tirades he had suffered from the landlady and felt a sympathetic twinge. “What would I advise you on? I’m sure you can handle your own problems.”

  “Then by all means, join me.”

  “Marl Mugdildor, right?” She deposited the wine bottle in his lap, dragged over a lumpy chair, and placed it closer to him than her nose suggested wise. “Or do you prefer Books?”