Lindsay Buroker: Ice Cracker II

Without their foliage, the skeletal apple and maple trees lining the lake offered little cover. A hundred meters ahead, the industrial section of the city began. Deep, dark alleys ran between warehouses and factories whose smokestacks belched black ribbons into the low gray clouds. Anyone hiding in those alleys would have had to race across a field of snow to reach the soldiers though. Closer to her, a gas lamp sputtered at the head of the first of hundreds of docks lining the waterfront. The dark hollow beneath the boards held her gaze. Between the snow and the coming dusk, the lighting was poor; someone might well have hidden beneath the dock.

Even as she watched, a crunch sounded. Someone shifting weight on the snow? Her grip tightened on the sword.

The self-preservation part of her mind suggested returning to her jog and leaving this mystery to another. But thanks to a frame job by a late enemy, she was wanted for conspiring to kidnap the emperor. She wanted exoneration, and for that to happen she needed to seek out noble-and notice-gaining-tasks. This might be the opportunity she needed.

Amaranthe stepped off the trail. At first no footprints marred the bank, but, six or eight feet off the well-tamped path, fresh boot marks indented the snow. Quite a jump, but not impossible.

She followed the prints down to the dock. Anticipation quickened her heart, and quick puffs of breath appeared before her eyes. The snow muffled the city sounds; the waterfront stood eerily silent.

When she reached the dock, she crouched, half-expecting someone behind the pilings. Nobody was there. A couple of packs and bedrolls lay tucked in the shadows, however. Had the soldiers chanced upon this campsite and been killed for their discovery? She crept forward, intending to investigate.

Snow crunched behind her.

Instincts ruling, she lunged behind a thick piling. The sound of a sword whistled through the air inches behind her. But when she turned, using the piling for cover, she saw only the emptiness of the bleak white shoreline.

She kept her sword ready. Magic, it had to be. It was almost unheard of here in the heart of the empire, where imperial mandates hypocritically forbade its use and denied its existence, but she had bumped against it a time or two.

“What do you want?” Amaranthe did not know if she addressed a person, or some wizard’s minion, but it would likely not hurt to ask.

Silence.

Clothing rustled behind her. She threw herself to the side, rolled, and came up as a chunk of wood sheared off the piling. Amaranthe swung at the spot the attacker should have been, but connected with nothing.

Her gaze slid downward, though she lowered her eyelashes so her foe would not see. Maybe she could spot prints being made, even if her opponent was invisible.

There.

In the weak light, she had to strain her eyes, but the snow depressed in slow, deliberate steps. She drew some comfort from the normal boot-shaped prints; her attacker was likely human.

She stepped toward the piling and poked behind it, feigning clueless stabbing, even as she kept those footprints in the corner of her eye. The enemy circled toward her side, walking slowly enough not to make a sound. She continued jabbing in front of her until the prints grew closer. The invisible person lunged.

Amaranthe whipped her sword to the side, raking the air.

A man cursed in a foreign language. Drops of blood spattered the snow. Footsteps, loud and quick, announced a hasty retreat.

Amaranthe lunged out of the shadows, wondering how to stop the man.

A dark figure dropped from the top of the dock, landing beside her. She brought her sword up, her heart lurching, but she recognized the newcomer and almost laughed in relief.

“Sicarius. You-”

He stopped her with an upraised hand. His other hand held a throwing knife, and, after listening for a second, he hurled it toward the trail. The steel blade zipped through the falling snow.

A cry of pain ripped along the waterfront, and a man appeared. He pitched forward, landing face-first in the snow, the knife hilt quivering between his shoulder blades.

“Nice aim.” Amaranthe nodded appreciation toward her comrade.

If Sicarius felt satisfaction from the throw or gratitude for her compliment he showed neither. As always, his aloof, angular features remained masked, suiting the grim black he wore from soft boots to wool cap. Only his armory of daggers and throwing knives broke the monotony of his wardrobe. He was not the type of person one wanted to run into in a dark alley. Unless he was on one’s team.

“You’re late.” His voice was as emotionless as his face.

“How’d you know I’d be running the lake trail?” Amaranthe asked.

“Books beat you on the obstacle course this morning.”

She grimaced. Though pleased he cared enough to come looking, she was chagrined she was so transparent. Did the other men know she trained extra to keep up with them at physical feats?

“I expect to lose to you,” Amaranthe said, “but if I can’t even beat Books , then how can I…” She stopped herself short of saying “presume to lead the group.”

“Your words are what convinced him to train harder.”

“Yes, and I’m pleased at his progress. I just wish his progress was a teeny bit behind mine.”

“I see.”

Too much, probably. If one whined about whether or not one was fit to lead, one probably wasn’t. She lifted a hand to dismiss her comments and headed up the bank toward the body. Sicarius walked beside her, somehow gliding across the snow without a sound. He retrieved his knife, slipped a folded black kerchief from his pocket, and cleaned the blade meticulously.

“Kendorian?” Amaranthe nodded at the body.

“Yes. A shaman.”

The foreigner wore buckskins rather than the factory-sewn wool garments Amaranthe had on, and the thick blond braid and pale skin were unlike the darker coloring of imperial citizens. Tattoos of snakes and rats adorned the side of his cheek and neck-the rest of his face was buried in the snow.

“He has a friend.” She waved to indicate the blankets and bags.

“I saw.”

While Sicarius searched for other tracks, Amaranthe knelt and rifled through the Kendorian’s pockets. Nothing identified him, nor did a handy why-I’m-invading-the-empire-and-killing-soldiers note provide illumination. She checked the belongings under the dock but again found no identifying items. A small toolkit stirred her imagination though.

Sicarius returned. “No other recent prints.”

“Hm. Any idea what Kendorians would be doing down here?”

Other than the ice workers chiseling out blocks for the summer trade, little activity centered around the lake in the winter. The military’s ice-breaking ship kept the transportation lanes open for imports and exports, but the fishing boats and canneries lay dormant.

“Something important enough to warrant killing soldiers to avoid discovery,” Sicarius replied.

“Kendorians would kill our soldiers whether discovery was involved or not. The empire isn’t exactly loved by neighboring nations.” She stuck her hands under her armpits. Now that her body had cooled, she noticed the chill air probing her sweat-dampened clothing. “Still, most of them don’t travel a thousand miles in the middle of winter for random soldier-slaying.”

“We should go.”

True. With the bounties on their heads, being found loitering around murdered soldiers was not a good idea.

“Agreed.” Amaranthe picked up a jog again, heading for the broad street lining the waterfront. “We’ll need to hurry to have a shot at finding the second Kendorian before he does…whatever it is he’s planning.”

Sicarius matched her pace, but the long look he slanted her suggested that was not the “go” he had in mind.