Larocka. Perhaps a year ago is when they first hooked up, and through her influence he’s become someone notable who…”
“What?” Books asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s using her for something.”
“Sleeping his way to prominence and power?”
“You never know,” Amaranthe said.
“Well, this is all I have. I’ll leave the papers for you to look over in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
Before he left, he put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Think about what I said regarding Sicarius, please. For all our sakes.”
• • • • •
When Amaranthe woke, early morning light slipped between the boards across the windows, streaking the maze of hanging papers with slashes. She could have slept longer, much longer, and quickly identified the sound that had roused her.
Maldynado was chasing a chicken around the building. Shrill squawks bounced from the walls.
“Isabel,” he called. “Come back here, girl.”
Isabel? Amaranthe rubbed crud out of her eyes. He had named the chickens?
Books, manning the press, said, “Apparently you’re not as smooth with the women as you claim.”
“Oh, be quiet. You could help. Isabel, stop running!”
“I have real work to do.” Books had shaved his matted, unkempt beard, and would have looked good, except for his red-rimmed eyes and snow-pale face.
An alarmed curse brought her attention back to the chicken chase. After ramming his hip on a counter, Maldynado fell behind. Isabel rounded a corner and sprinted for the exit, her tiny claws clacking on the floorboards.
Sicarius appeared in the doorway. The chicken squawked and tried to dart past him. He bent and deftly plucked it from its escape route.
Maldynado skidded to a stop, arms flailing to keep from crashing into Sicarius. A stricken expression twisted his face as he looked back and forth from bird to man, as if he feared Sicarius would snap Isabel’s neck. Surprisingly, the agitated chicken calmed in his grip. Though his slitted gaze was cool, he extended his arms so Maldynado could take her.
Shaking her head, Amaranthe swung her legs over the edge of the bunk. Sicarius might be pragmatic to the point of deserving Books’s ‘utterly heartless’ tag, but he was not sadistic.
Maldynado accepted the chicken and headed back to the makeshift pen he had constructed. Isabel promptly began fussing in his tight grip. Amaranthe almost smiled, imagining Maldynado as an overprotective father, until Sicarius strode her way. Wholt’s slashed throat invaded her mind again. She closed her eyes against the vision.
When she opened them, Sicarius stood before her. He held out a sealed envelope. “A boy came to the dock with a message for you.”
Ugh, she wasn’t supposed to be getting mail here. That meant people knew where she was and possibly what she was doing.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I would not presume to read your private correspondences.” His tone was as warm as the ice under the dock.
Maybe Books was right. Maybe she should apologize. It wouldn’t hurt her, though it seemed a betrayal to Wholt’s spirit. Would it even mean anything to Sicarius? He never said “please” or “thank you” or seemed to have any use for social rituals.
She fiddled with the envelope. “Did you question the boy?” Perhaps it was one of the children she had seen spying on her.
“No.”
Amaranthe frowned up at him. “Why not?”
“If you would curse me for defending you from enforcers, I suspect you’d want me to interrogate a child even less.”
“I said question, not interrogate.”
“I don’t differentiate,” he said bluntly.
Jaw slack, she stared as he walked across the room and out the door. No, she did not need the image of a broken and battered child joining Wholt’s dead body in her mind. Emperor’s teeth, she would have to be careful what she asked Sicarius to do in the future.
Maybe you shouldn’t be working with him at all.
She broke the seal on the note and read: Time to redeem your favor. Mitsy.
“Feh.” Amaranthe glared at Maldynado and Isabel, wishing neither had conspired to wake her.
• • • • •
By day, the towering building that housed the Maze loomed silent and lifeless. Amaranthe tightened her parka against a breeze that whipped at the fur edging her hood. A twinge of trepidation stirred in her belly. What could Mitsy want?
“Thanks for inviting me to come,” Books said as they navigated an icy sidewalk toward the steel double doors. “I needed a distraction.”
“How long since your last drink?” Amaranthe asked.
“A couple-three days maybe.” Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “It’s been hard to sleep, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I hope I can be of use to you today.”
“Me too. I don’t trust Mitsy. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t owe her a favor. And, now that I know the Forge folks have their fingers in the gambling arena, I wonder if she may be a member of the coalition.” Still, Mitsy deserved to know Hollowcrest’s men were rounding up her gang members for medical experiments in the Imperial Barracks’ dungeon. Maybe sharing the information could help turn her into an ally.
“What’s her full name?” Books asked.
“Mitsy Masters.”
“I didn’t come across it in my research.”
“She leads the Panthers gang. I’m not sure she’d be quick to volunteer her life’s details to journalists.”
Amaranthe tapped on the steel double doors. They swung inward with a hiss of escaping steam. No one waited on the other side.
She and Books walked into the empty building. Before, the crowded arena had instilled claustrophobia, but the absence of people made the place feel eerie, like a long-abandoned ruin. Not a single janitor, bouncer, or maintenance man moved through the descending rows of benches. Nothing moved behind the dark window of Mitsy’s office in the rafters. In the corridors of the Maze, the ambulatory walls stood immobile, and no treasure sat on the dais.
“Maybe we’ve arrived prematurely,” Books said.
A hiss of steam came from behind. Amaranthe turned in time to see the big doors swing shut. The clang echoed through the building. She ran to them, grabbed a handle, and yanked. The door did not open.
“Oh, I think we’re perfectly mature,” she said.
Two internal doors on opposite walls flew open. Five bouncers marched out of each, veering straight for Amaranthe and Books. Their heavy footfalls echoed from the walls and rafters. The bouncers bore a mix of muskets and repeating crossbows, all loaded and aimed toward Amaranthe.
Books tried the door, as if he might have better luck opening it. “This is more of a distraction than I had in mind,” he said, fear creeping into his voice.
“Stay calm,” she murmured, as much for herself as for him.
The men fanned out and surrounded Amaranthe and Books. Mitsy entered from the door behind the bettors’ cage.
“You didn’t need to send out quite so many men, Mitsy,” Amaranthe said. “I’m just an average fighter without any special training in dodging crossbow quarrels and musket balls.”
Mitsy stalked across the aisles. Her frosty eyes felt more dangerous than the weapons. “I thought you would
