Lindsay Buroker - The Emperor's edge

“Certainly, he’s the best.”

“Do you know what he charges?” Amaranthe asked, trying to add a hint of verisimilitude. She was supposed to be a businesswoman after all.

“Whatever it is, he’s worth it.”

“Oh? Have you met him?”

Anything more Amaranthe could learn about the assassin would be invaluable. Before running the lake trail that morning, she had sneaked into Enforcer Headquarters to retrieve Sicarius’s record, but it contained no personal information, and the arm-long list of kills had done little to bolster her confidence.

“Not personally, no,” Mitsy said. “They say he never fails an assignment though. They also say…” She shrugged, deliberately mysterious. “Let’s just say you’d do best to take care with him.”

“Temper?”

“No, he’s a cold one by all accounts. I know a fellow in Iskland-or rather I knew a fellow-who hired Sicarius for a retrieval operation, then decided he didn’t want to pay the agreed upon price.”

“I assume Sicarius got the money from him,” Amaranthe said.

“Cut his throat, actually. Left the money.”

“I see.”

“And then there’s that merchant in Komar who paid Sicarius but thought he would recoup his losses by tipping the local garrison to the assassin’s whereabouts. Sicarius killed the merchant and the soldiers who came after him.”

Mitsy smiled as she spoke, intentionally trying to rattle her guest, Amaranthe suspected.

“As much as I’m appreciating story hour,” she said, “I really just need to know how to get in touch with him. Can you get word to him for me? I’ve heard you have a vast network of contacts in the city.”

“I can get it out to my people. Whether it’ll reach his ears or not…” Mitsy shrugged.

“Good enough. Have them tell him the job won’t take long, but I’ll pay well. If he’s interested, he should meet me tomorrow at midnight in Pyramid Park.”

“Got it.”

Amaranthe thought about insisting Mitsy write it down but changed her mind after a brief survey of the clutter-Amaranthe could swear some of it was oozing toward her like a lava flow.

“What do I owe you?” she asked instead.

She reached into her purse and thumbed the bills Hollowcrest had given her. There were not a lot. If Sicarius demanded partial payment up front, she would have to sneak back to her flat and delve into her savings.

“Nothing, my dear,” Mitsy said. “I’ll do this favor for you, and someday mayhap, you’ll be in a position to do a favor for me.”

Amaranthe winced. She would rather have paid.

• • • • •

The gargantuan stone structure that gave Pyramid Park its name hogged four city blocks in the middle of the business district. Thousands of years old, the pyramid had been confounding city planners throughout imperial history. Various administrations had attempted everything from dismantling it to selling storage space inside. It had taken a graduate from Amaranthe’s school to make the structure profitable. The woman had bought the land and turned the old pyramid, with its labyrinthine tunnels and burial chambers, into a tourist destination replete with guides, food stands, and shops hawking tacky replicas. That was in the summer. In the winter, the pyramid stood silent and abandoned, locked steel grates barring the interior from the curious.

Amaranthe arrived at the park an hour before midnight. On the chance Sicarius was the type to likewise arrive early, she wanted to out-early him. More, she wanted to see him coming, and the top of the pyramid was the one place in Stumps that assured that opportunity. Thanks to previous vandalism problems, it was also well lit, with gas lamps lining the walkways and even the steps of the looming structure.

Though she had debated on a public meeting spot, she doubted a room full of people would keep Sicarius from killing her if things went badly. No, she would meet him alone, without distractions. The better to analyze him.

Nodding to herself, she strode toward the base of the pyramid. Stairs on the west side, slick from snow that had melted during the day and refrozen, led to the top. The steps were high but shallow, as if their makers had possessed tiny feet and abnormally long strides. The steepness and the lack of a railing made Amaranthe’s ascent cautious.

A single gas lamp burned at the top. She could cross the platform in five strides and see the lights of the city sprawled out in all three directions. Only to the west, where the frozen lake stretched, lay darkness. Four columns supported a flat stone roof adorned with a foot of snow. In the center of the platform, an altar held a headless statue. Two wings, clawed feet, and the suggestion of a furry chest remained. People had worshipped some odd things in those days.

Amaranthe slipped a mitten-clad hand into her parka and withdrew the thin stiletto that had replaced her enforcer-issue knife and sword. She examined the blade without enthusiasm. It was a believable weapon for a businesswoman to carry, but it felt flimsy to her.

“An infamous assassin is coming to meet me and I’m armed with a letter opener,” she muttered.

Amaranthe hid the weapon. If she got into a fight with him, it meant she had already fouled up beyond redemption anyway. Comforting thought.

She checked her pocket watch. Midnight.

Not a single person walked the streets near the park. She made a fist and dropped her chin on it. What if he didn’t come? What if Mitsy had not believed Amaranthe’s story and hadn’t sent the message? What if Sicarius had received the message but had seen through it?

She turned to check the view from the other side of the platform.

He was there.

Amaranthe jumped, dropping her watch. It clanked against the frozen stone and skidded into the base of the pedestal. Sicarius’s eyes never left her face. He was leaning against one of the back pillars, his arms folded across his chest.

Unlucky fallen ancestors, she cursed silently. How had he gotten up here without using the stairs? How long had he been there? Had he seen her checking the knife?

To give herself a moment to recover her composure, Amaranthe bent to pick up the watch. She wondered if her mittens hid how much her fingers shook as she grasped it.

As she slowly stood, her gaze traveled up his black boots, fitted black trousers, tucked-in black shirt, an armory’s worth of daggers and throwing knives, and came to rest on his face. He was the person from the sketch, no doubt, but unlike the menacing image Hollowcrest had given her, this man’s face bore no emotion at all. By the flames of the lamp, his eyes appeared black, and they gave no indication of feeling-or humanity.

He had the bronze skin of a Turgonian, but that pale blond hair was rare in the empire. It was short and damp around the edges. Whoever had cut it looked to have used hedge clippers instead of scissors.

“Thank you for being prompt,” Amaranthe said, relieved her voice didn’t waver or crack.

He said nothing. His eyes never left hers.

It was unnerving, though she dared not show it. It was time to play the role she had designed for herself. If he agreed to the job, they would travel together to Amaranthe’s fictitious warehouse in Itansa, which would involve a four-day locomotive ride. He would sleep sometime, and she would fulfill Hollowcrest’s mission then. Assassinate the assassin.

She remembered a piece of advice from a marketing class. Start out asking potential customers questions they have to answer with yes. Consistency is your ally. People are more likely to say yes to a sale after a string of positive responses. Just don’t let them start out saying no.

She cleared her throat. “I’m Amaranthe Lokdon. You are Sicarius, correct?”