“Yes, sir.” The guard trotted after the others, mail jangling.
Amaranthe frowned after him. Tea?
Hollowcrest noticed she was still there and waved her toward the door. “I believe you have someone to hunt.”
“Yes, sir,” Amaranthe said.
She allowed her guide to usher her out of the building. This time, with thoughts spinning in her head, she didn’t notice the scenery. That meeting had left her doubting Hollowcrest’s veracity, though it hadn’t been surprising. She had no reason to believe the Commander of the Armies would tell a common enforcer everything. But if he was keeping secrets from the emperor… It sounded like the old relic was sedating Sespian. Maybe more. How could she accept a mission from someone who might be betraying the empire?
Yet what could she do? If she made a fuss or disobeyed Hollowcrest, he could destroy her career. Or worse.
If, on the other hand, she cooperated, assassinated Sicarius, and earned her promotion… Well, she could investigate her concerns later, when Hollowcrest didn’t have his eye on her. Yes, that’s how it had to be. First, she had to complete the mission.
She paused beneath a lamp in the courtyard and eyed the outlaw’s picture again. The cold face made her uneasy, and the idea of seduction seemed ludicrous, possibly suicidal. If she was going to take an experienced assassin down, she’d have to do something he wouldn’t expect.
Chapter 3
As soon as he entered his suite, Sespian Savarsin, emperor of the most powerful nation in the world, slapped himself on the forehead.
“Babbling idiot.” He paced the rug in the antechamber. “She thinks I’m a babbling idiot.”
A soft thud came from the bedroom, and an elegant tan-colored cat with a deep brown mask and paws padded into the anteroom. He hopped onto a desk abutting the window.
Too agitated to give the cat his usual pats, Sespian continued pacing. “The most serene, competent, beautiful girl-no, woman-I’ve met shows up in my hall, and I babble.” He pushed his hand through his hair hard enough to dislodge several strands. “And then I let Hollowcrest chase me off like a five-year-old child told to go to bed without supper. Although maybe I should thank him. He probably saved me from further embarrassing myself.” Sespian faced the cat. “It was bad, Trog. Very bad.”
Trog sat on the desk and swished his tail back and forth. A cobweb hung from his ear. Not surprising. His name was short for troglodyte, a label received due to a penchant for exploring dusty old ducts and passages in the Barracks. The swishing tail sent a sketch fluttering to the rug. Trog had no respect for artistic endeavors, but at least he listened.
“You should have seen her,” Sespian said. “She was so unflappable but not arrogant, not at all. An enforcer. Not some stodgy matron devoted to holding up the values of the warrior caste and not some manipulative businesswoman intent on selling you something. Someone who looks out for people. What a wonderful friend and ally she would make. Maybe more.” He smiled wistfully. “I made her uncomfortable though. Because I’m the emperor. Stupid social rules. I wonder what it would have been like if I were just some man off the street. What would she have said? Do you think I’m her type?”
Trog yawned and flopped down on his side, tail twitching.
Sespian raised an eyebrow. “It’s as if you’re trying to tell me that my piddling romantic ramblings, while of vast interest to me, are inconsequential to anyone else.” He sat in the chair in front of the desk and ran his fingers through Trog’s thick fur. “You’re probably right.”
Trog purred and stretched his legs out. He always liked being told he was right.
As Sespian stroked the cat, he gazed out the window, where falling snow blanketed the grounds. Amaranthe had been a delightful distraction, but with the event fading, his headache returned. Sespian sighed and tried to ignore it.
“I shouldn’t let him push me around anymore.”
Trog rotated an ear.
“Hollowcrest. When Father died, I had so many ideas. But after three years with Hollowcrest as regent… I guess I got used to following his orders.” Sespian grimaced. “And so did everyone else. I need to change that. I’m in charge now, and I need to be someone who can lead an empire-and maybe be someone Amaranthe would like, eh?”
A knock sounded.
“Come in,” Sespian called.
The familiar scent of apple herb tea accompanied the servant, Jeddah, into the suite. Steam rose from a porcelain cup on a silver platter. The man set the tray down on an ottoman.
“Thank you, Jeddah,” Sespian said.
The man bowed and walked out.
When Sespian stood, his headache intensified. He winced. The pain came every day now, a constant and loathed companion.
At least the tea seemed to help. It had been his mother’s favorite. More than a decade had passed since she died, but he still missed her. Father, the great warrior emperor, had been an obstacle to overcome-or avoid-but Mother had loved him and never failed to support him. Every night, when he drank the tea, he felt close to her, as if he were honoring her memory.
Sespian picked up the cup. He inhaled deeply, the pleasant blend of herbs tickling his nose. Not so sweet as spiced cider, it warmed and soothed as it flowed down his throat.
He soon finished the cup.
• • • • •
The next evening, Amaranthe visited the Maze. From the outside, it looked like little more than a warehouse, but the long line she stepped into promised something more entertaining. The establishment had only been around for a few years, but it was already more popular than any other gambling venue in the city. It was more profitable, too, though the question of the place’s legality had come up in more than one enforcer report. This was not her district, though, so she had never visited.
Dressed in parka, ankle-length skirt, leggings, and the fitted jacket of a businesswoman, she was a little out of place amongst the jostling folks wearing factory coveralls or labor uniforms under their coats. She hoped to meet with the owner, though, not mingle with the gamblers.
When the bouncer let her in, a moment of claustrophobia swallowed her. Hundreds of cheering men and women pressed from all sides. Thick tobacco and warkus weed smoke did not quite obliterate the stench of stale sweat and alcohol-swathed bodies.
Since the crowd kept Amaranthe from seeing the layout, she found a support pillar and climbed onto its concrete base. Rows of benches formed descending squares around a fifty-meter-wide pit filled with the ever- changing maze that gave the establishment its name. Even as she watched, a section of the wall detached and started moving. It slid along one of myriad tracks in the floor and clanked into a new slot on the far side of the pit. Two more walls began a different journey before the first finished. Within the maze, a stout fellow wearing a white tunic turned out of a dead-end and hunted for a new path. Four clackers, mechanical constructs with crab-like pinchers, rolled through the maze on treads. In the center of the labyrinth, a tiny alcove held a dais. A small chest rested on top, its lid open to display a pile of gold coins. Spectators cheered or booed for the lone player, depending on which way they had bet.
Amaranthe dropped off her perch. She had not come to watch the game but to see the owner. She slipped through the crowd until she found the betting cage near the back wall. Several bouncers with the prerequisite prodigious muscles kept the gamblers peaceful. The backs of their hands sported brands, inelegant feline faces with pointed ears and fat whiskers. The marks showed allegiance with the Panthers, one of the larger gangs in the city.
Amaranthe approached the closest bouncer, a man with a cleft chin and wavy black hair. Without the scowl,
