“Who talked to you, woman? You can get gone. We here for him.” Again the thug pointed at Akstyr with his club.
“I’m not with the Arrows anymore,” Akstyr said.
“Sure you ain’t,” the big man said. “And that’s why you’re walking outta their territory just now.”
“It might be smart to run,” Akstyr muttered to Amaranthe.
No doubt, but the men blocked the street. If she and Akstyr ran, it would have to be back into Black Arrow territory. Even if she had parted on good terms with the leader, she had no faith in the safety of the neighborhood.
“Let’s be reasonable, gentlemen.” She decided not to reach for her sword. It wouldn’t deter them and might escalate the violence. “There’s nothing to be gained by-”
The attack was not unexpected. The men charged, one at Akstyr, one at Amaranthe.
Inspired by Sicarius’s style, Amaranthe also charged. A falter in her opponent’s step betrayed his surprise at her choice.
The snow did not give much room to maneuver, but she managed to sidestep the downward arc of the club without leaving the path. She jumped in close behind his swing. The man’s attack left him tilted forward, off- balance. She slammed her palm into the side of his jaw. His head snapped to the left, and he grunted in pain.
The blow might have hurt, but it did not incapacitate him. He grabbed Amaranthe’s wrist.
Beside her, Akstyr and his man floundered into the drift and started wrestling. Snow flew.
To distract her opponent, Amaranthe kicked him in the shin. She clamped her free hand on top of his, pried his grip loose, and forced his arm into a twisting arc that left his wrist upside down and her elbow on top of his locked arm. She leaned on him, forcing his arm against the joint. The thug folded in half, and something snapped. He yelled and pulled away from her.
She tensed for another attack, but he stumbled back, clutching his arm to his chest. After an incredulous look at her, he staggered away.
In the snow next to the path, Akstyr struggled with his opponent. They writhed, each groping for a devastating hold. She jumped out of the way as the two men thrashed and rolled through the trail and into the snow on the other side. They bounced off a wall, and the gang member came out with the advantage. He straddled Akstyr, hands wrapped around Akstyr’s throat.
Amaranthe lunged through the snow, came up behind them, and clapped her palms over the man’s ears with all her strength. He yelled, grabbed his head, and rolled away.
Akstyr lunged to his feet and kicked the thug in the stomach. He curled into a ball, but Akstyr kept kicking.
“He’s had enough,” Amaranthe said.
Akstyr showed no sign of hearing her. His face was contorted in rage that seemed to go beyond the fight.
“Akstyr!” This time, she gripped his shoulder.
Panting, he turned toward her.
“ Now is the time to run,” she said. “They may have friends.”
Akstyr stared at the bleeding and battered man for a moment, as if he could not believe he had been responsible. Finally, he managed a curt nod, and when Amaranthe ran from the scene, he followed.
They did not slow until they left the gang-run neighborhoods and reached a trolley stop. Amaranthe kept a nervous lookout until they boarded.
“I didn’t think you could fight,” Akstyr said.
“I’ve had the same training all enforcers have,” she said. “Those are the kind of brutes we’re drilled to subdue. Besides, imperial men tend to underestimate women since most of us don’t study combat.”
“So, you were sure you could take care of them?”
“Not really, no.”
Akstyr grinned. “That’s what I thought. I was surprised you…”
“What?”
“Stuck around when they gave you an out. Tuskar wouldn’t have, for the same reason he backed down in his office. He doesn’t start a fight unless he’s sure he can win.”
“That’s how most people are,” Amaranthe said. “It’s called a self-preservation instinct.”
“Yours broken?”
“I’m beginning to think so.”
“Well, uhm,” Akstyr said, “thanks. For staying.”
It was the first time he had thanked her for anything. She kept her show of pleasure to a simple smile. “You’re welcome.”
• • • • •
Amaranthe stepped outside of the cannery with an egg-and-flatbread sandwich for Sicarius. It was his turn on watch, and he stood at the base of the dock, talking to a man dressed in bland civilian clothing. Now who had stumbled onto their hideout?
Both men noticed her well before she reached them. Sicarius held out a staying hand, and the stranger turned his back to her to finish the conversation. She stopped. This wasn’t some random passerby, but someone Sicarius knew. A folded sheet of paper went from the stranger’s hand to Sicarius’s and, after a wary glance at Amaranthe, the man walked away.
Sicarius opened the note to read. Curiosity propelled her forward, and she glimpsed a couple lines of pencil before he turned his back to her. All right, what are we being so secretive about here?
After reading, Sicarius crumpled the note, turned back, and accepted the sandwich.
“News on the creature?” Amaranthe asked.
“No.”
“The emperor? Hollowcrest? Counterfeiting?”
“I need to leave.” Sicarius strode down the dock toward the cannery.
“For how long?” She tried not to feel like an attention-seeking puppy bouncing at his heels as she trailed him inside. “Are you coming back tonight?”
Sicarius did not answer. He walked past Books and tossed the crumpled note into a fire barrel. Amaranthe’s shoulders slumped. He wasn’t going to tell her what it said, and now she had no chance of reading it either.
“You are coming back, right?” she asked as he walked out the door.
Without answering, he was gone.
Amaranthe grabbed the burning paper out of the fire. Heat seared her fingers, but she managed to get it to the nearest counter before dropping it. She blew on the flames, but the note had already transformed into a charred ball. When the fire burned out, she could only stare glumly as smoke wafted from the illegible black remains.
Books slid onto a stool on the opposite side of the counter. “Sicarius isn’t sharing his secret missives with you?”
“This is the first secret missive that I know about. I’d trade my grandfather’s knife to read what it says.” She tapped a finger on the lacquered wood of the counter.
Maldynado’s snores competed with Akstyr’s in the sleeping area; they had both pulled long watch shifts the night before. She supposed she ought to go outside and take over Sicarius’s abandoned post.
“Hm.” Books lowered his chin to the table and squinted at the charred ball. “I wonder if it was written in pen or pencil.”
“It looked like pencil. Secret missives should be erasable, you know.”
“Hm.”
“You said that already,” Amaranthe said. “You don’t by chance know some way to read this?”
“I should not like to make promises, but the grease in pencil lead makes it fairly fire retardant. The words are likely still there. It’s just a matter of seeing them.” Books stood. “Let’s take a look in your cleaning supply closet, shall we?”
“Whatever you say, professor.” Amaranthe followed him to the cubby.
He pulled open the door and gaped.
“What is it?” she asked. “Did you find what you need?”
“It’s spotless in here. You cleaned the cleaning supply closet?”
