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.
Chapter 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
