Amaranthe sighed and accepted the age-worn alder box. She traced the faded yellow canary painted on the lid. Her mother, whom she barely remembered, had made it for her father when he first started working in the mines. This is all that’s left of my parents and my past.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Amaranthe turned and took a few steps from Sicarius before lifting the lid. Her savings were still there, nestled next to an old but well-kept knife that had belonged to her grandfather. She removed both. She had never been able to wear the blade at work, since it was not enforcer-issue, but no one was around to set rules now. After a look at drawings of her parents and grandparents, she folded them and laid them to rest amongst running medals from the Junior Games, a marksmanship pin from the Academy, and silly treasures from her childhood.
“I located a fish cannery that’s not used in the winter.” Sicarius had moved to the stairs and laid out his weapons for cleaning. The tang of blade oil mingled with the aromatic cedar. “It has the prerequisite floor space, and there is little traffic on the street outside. We should not have to worry about someone hearing the creaking of the printing press.”
“It’ll have to wait for morning.” Amaranthe took a deep breath and faced him. “You have a duel this evening.”
“A what?”
“A duel. The recruit of one gentleman-” remembering the loincloth, Amaranthe almost choked over that title, “-is contingent on your besting him in a sword duel. I apologize for committing you without asking, but our time is limited.”
“I don’t duel.”
Amaranthe had expected refusal or reluctance but not that statement. She surveyed the array of weapons in front of him. Garrote. Dagger. Throwing Knives. Dagger. Utility knife. Serrated jackknife. No swords. A flash of panic clutched at her chest. What if he had never used one? Maldynado, her only near-sure thing, might poke a thousand holes into her assassin, and where would her mission be then?
“Surely,” Amaranthe said weakly, “you’ve some familiarity with swords.”
Sicarius finished sharpening a dagger. “I can use a sword. I do not know the rules of sport dueling or much about it.”
Great, neither did she. All she knew was that young members of the warrior caste found it fashionable as a means to acquire a scar or two before heading off to officer candidacy school.
“Who’s my opponent?” Sicarius asked.
“His name’s Maldynado. According to his current, ah, employer, he’s highly ranked amongst the city’s duelists. You say you’ve never dueled?”
“Never.”
“This should be interesting then.”
“I imagine so,” Sicarius said.
• • • • •
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
