* * * * *
Darkness was gathering in the streets when Amaranthe and Sicarius arrived at the gymnasium. The sprawling complex covered a city block and included a running track buried under a white field of snow, steam rooms, heated baths, and the area they approached: the rings.
“Remember,” Amaranthe said, “the goal is to recruit this fellow to work for us. We don’t want him killed or maimed.”
Sicarius slanted her a cool look.
“Of course, you know this already. I’m just concerned that your—” she groped to express her concern diplomatically, “—admirably honed assassin’s instincts might forget.”
Silence was her answer.
She tried not to feel nervous. It didn’t work.
They stepped inside a massive chamber open to the night on three sides. Intermittent columns offered the only barrier to the wind. Icicles like spears hung from the roof, which kept out the snow but little else. Bare-chested men, bodies too warm to notice the cold, sparred in circles chalked on the black clay floor. Spectators, and those waiting their turns, crowded the edges of the rings.
With a chill wind skidding fresh powder into the building, Amaranthe did not feel conspicuous keeping her hood pulled low over her eyes, the fur trim nuzzling her cheeks. Though they were in the upscale Mokath Ridge neighborhood, where low-paid enforcers would not make up any of the clientele, running into army officers was possible. Her encounter that morning left her inclined to keep her face hidden. Sicarius, striding along at her side, did not share her inclination. At least he was not wearing his knives and daggers openly tonight.
They passed small rings used for boxing and wrestling and weaved toward the larger circles. Amaranthe craned her neck, searching for Maldynado. Despite night’s approach, the area was well-lit by gas jets burning on the wall and braziers positioned between the circles.
A servant meandered through, offering water, towels, or bandages as needed. A musician wandered from fight to fight, beating an invigorating pattern on a hand drum. He held out his fur cap for donations between bouts.
“There he is,” Amaranthe said.
She pointed out Maldynado, who stood near the wall, behind rings full of men sparring with rapiers and sabers. Since their last meeting, he had changed clothes—or at least added a few. Clad in a velvety exercise outfit that probably cost a week’s enforcer salary, he was chatting with a balding man.
When they stepped within Maldynado’s line of sight, he nodded toward Amaranthe and took in Sicarius with an unconcerned boot-to-head survey. His gaze lingered above Sicarius’s eyebrows. Maldynado lifted a finger, walked over to a bag of gear, retrieved a card, and returned. He extended his arm toward Sicarius.
“My barber. He’s excellent.” Maldynado flicked his fingers at Sicarius’s tousled hair. “He can fix that rat’s nest.”
Sicarius did not accept the card. He gave Maldynado that flat, cold stare he did exceedingly well. Though Maldynado was broader and half a head taller, he was the one who shifted uncomfortably. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat and pocketed the card.
“Shall we begin then? Ado here will judge. First to five points wins.” Maldynado winked at Amaranthe. “And collects the reward.”
“A point is what?” Sicarius asked.
“Uhm, are you joking?”
“No.”
“Ah,” Maldynado said. “We use blunted swords and wear padded vests and helmets. Anything above the waist is a point. Anything below the waist is, well, no man should attack another man down there, eh? It’s off target, no point. You have to stay in the ring or it’s a penalty. Three penalties and you start losing points. Follow me. I’ll show you the communal gear.”
Amaranthe tagged along. Maldynado led them to an equipment chest jammed with bent and rusty blades. Another chest held equally dilapidated armor. Apparently, the serious folks had their own gear.
Maldynado set down his saber and shrugged into a pristine padded vest and grabbed a monogrammed helmet. With a wave, he indicated Sicarius should select from the chests and arm himself. Amaranthe crinkled her nose. She could smell the stale sweat from several feet away. Yellow stains marked the armpits of the vests and several sported dried blood spatters.
Sicarius selected a saber for his left hand and eschewed the armor. Amaranthe would have done the same, even if it meant death by impalement. So armed, he walked over to one side of a large circle and waited.
Maldynado nodded to Amaranthe. “What’s his problem? He trying to get hurt? I thought you were bringing a serious contender.”
“Oh, he’s serious.”
As she watched Sicarius waiting, dark eyes cold, face a mask, Amaranthe felt new twinges of uncertainty about engineering the match.
Maldynado shrugged. He ambled into the circle opposite Sicarius. He lifted his saber in a salute to his opponent and to the judge, then plopped the helmet over his curls. Sicarius did not return the salute. Amaranthe had heard of wine-stompers displaying more courtesy to the grapes in their vats.
She walked to the side where the judge stood. It might not hurt to get on friendly terms with him. “Good evening. Have you known Maldynado long?”
“Yes.”
“Is he as good as he claims?”
“He has a lot of talent, but he doesn’t train enough. Everything’s a game to him.”
As opposed to Sicarius, who had probably never played a game in his life. I think I made a mistake. She nibbled on a fingernail.
Maldynado assumed a ready position, elbow bent, weapon raised, side facing his opponent. Sicarius stood casually, sword lowered. Wind gusted through the columns and stirred his short blond hair.
“Ready?” the judge asked the combatants.
Maldynado bounced on his toes. “Ready!”
Sicarius gave a single nod.
The judge clapped his hands. “Begin!”
Sicarius charged like a locomotive, crossing the ring in less than a heartbeat. Maldynado side-stepped and stuck out his sword so his attacker would run into it. Sicarius anticipated the move and blurred past the weapon. He darted to the outside, coming up behind Maldynado. Sicarius grabbed Maldynado’s far shoulder, snaked his foot between the bigger man’s legs, and thrust up with his hips even as he pulled down with his hand.
Maldynado toppled backward, accelerating to the ground. When he hit, his breath whooshed out, and his helmet spun into the air.
Sicarius went down with Maldynado, albeit in a more controlled manner. Sicarius pinned his opponent and jammed the blunt blade against Maldynado’s throat.
Both combatants froze in tableau. Maldynado’s helmet hit the ground, clattering as it bounced several feet.
Blunt weapon or not, Sicarius could have killed his opponent easily. Amaranthe read the fear in Maldynado’s eyes, a reflection of what she had felt in nearly the same position.
The judge choked out a series of protests. “Warning for illegal use of the feet, body, hands. Out of bounds. No point!”
Sicarius rose lithely and returned to his side of the ring. The judge launched into a lecture on the rules while Maldynado groped for his helmet with a shaking hand. Sicarius listened without expression.
Amaranthe rubbed her face. What was he doing?
Maldynado pushed himself to his feet. He plopped the helmet back on his head. It obscured his features, but Amaranthe could read the reluctance in his sagging posture as he stepped back into the ring.
Perhaps sensing more than a practice bout, other men drifted over. Amaranthe resumed nibbling on her fingernail and watched the crowd. This was far too public. She should not have let Maldynado choose the meeting area.
Two of the onlookers whispered and pointed at Sicarius. Making bets or discussing the number of wanted posters they had seen him on?
“Point,” the judge called.
Amaranthe started. She had missed the resumption of the match. She glanced at the judge in time to see him stab a finger at Sicarius.
“Begin,” the judge
said after the two fighters returned to their sides.
This time Amaranthe watched. Sicarius charged across the ring again. Maldynado skittered aside, but not before Sicarius tapped him on the ribs with his saber. Maldynado’s attempt to parry came too late.
He was rattled. Sicarius’s opening strategy became clear. What man could concentrate on a game when he was afraid his opponent would kill him?
Maldynado charged the next time. That did not keep Sicarius from doing the same. They met in the middle. Maldynado feinted and lunged only to find Sicarius’s blade pressed against his chest, his own uselessly wide.
“Three to zero,” the judge said.
Shaking his head, Maldynado returned to his side. The onlookers nodded their admiration for Sicarius’s speed and accuracy.
“Watch his footwork,” someone said.
“It’s amazing.”
On the next round, Sicarius feinted to the head before gliding under Maldynado’s raised guard to prod him in the side. Unlike Maldynado, Sicarius never seemed to lunge. He was just there. Amaranthe had seen men with lightning-fast hands before. She had never seen anyone’s feet move so quickly. The last point came when Sicarius side-stepped Maldynado’s vain charge and jabbed him in the kidney.
Maldynado, blade drooping, stared at Sicarius’s feet as he walked away. Maldynado saw it too. But too late to figure out a way to compensate. If he could.
“Match over,” the judge said. “Winner.” He pointed to Sicarius, though he grumbled to himself.
“Not a typical bout?” Amaranthe asked.
“It got off to an appalling beginning. Your comrade has poor sportsmanship.”
“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.”
The Emperor's Edge (a high fantasy mystery in an era of steam) Page 17