with him, and he got himself into trouble because of it. I don’t blame you, but it’s true that you inadvertently played a role in his death.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped lower, but he nodded. This, he believed. Books saying none of it was Terith’s fault rang false, just as it did for Books when people tried to tell him he could not blame himself for his son’s death.
“You’ll probably never forgive yourself either,” Books said, “but eventually there’ll be days when you can forget about the pain and find purpose and…contentment in life again.”
“Is that enough?” Terith whispered.
Books met Amaranthe’s eyes again, and she raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.” He gave her a faint smile. “Especially if you have plenty of distractions to keep things interesting.”
ICE CRACKER II
Amaranthe ran alongside the frozen lake, thighs weary, calves sore, ragged breaths steaming before her. The short sword belted at her waist felt ten times heavier than it was. An inch of fresh snow blanketed the trail, and thick flakes wafted from the steely sky. They stuck in her lashes and melted down her flushed cheeks.
The marker came into view, and she dug a pocket watch free as she passed it. She groaned at the time, shoulders slumping.
“Maybe I can blame the snow,” she muttered. “Or the cold. Or maybe I can blame-” She rounded a bend and almost tripped over two bodies sprawled across the path, “-the dead soldiers on the trail,” she finished, voice cracking as the breeze shifted and the butcher shop stench enveloped her.
The soldiers, recognizable by their black uniforms and military-issue pistols, had died recently: slit throats poured steaming blood onto the white trail. A tangle of scuffs and footprints trampled the snow around the bodies, but no trails led away from the scene.
Exercise forgotten, Amaranthe yanked her sword free. She crouched and surveyed her surroundings, wondering where the killer had hidden to launch the ambush-and wondering if that killer might be there now, waiting to do it again.
Without their foliage, the skeletal apple and maple trees lining the lake offered little cover. A hundred meters ahead, the industrial section of the city began. Deep, dark alleys ran between warehouses and factories whose smokestacks belched black ribbons into the low gray clouds. Anyone hiding in those alleys would have had to race across a field of snow to reach the soldiers though. Closer to her, a gas lamp sputtered at the head of the first of hundreds of docks lining the waterfront. The dark hollow beneath the boards held her gaze. Between the snow and the coming dusk, the lighting was poor; someone might well have hidden beneath the dock.
Even as she watched, a crunch sounded. Someone shifting weight on the snow? Her grip tightened on the sword.
The self-preservation part of her mind suggested returning to her jog and leaving this mystery to another. But thanks to a frame job by a late enemy, she was wanted for conspiring to kidnap the emperor. She wanted exoneration, and for that to happen she needed to seek out noble-and notice-gaining-tasks. This might be the opportunity she needed.
Amaranthe stepped off the trail. At first no footprints marred the bank, but, six or eight feet off the well- tamped path, fresh boot marks indented the snow. Quite a jump, but not impossible.
She followed the prints down to the dock. Anticipation quickened her heart, and quick puffs of breath appeared before her eyes. The snow muffled the city sounds; the waterfront stood eerily silent.
When she reached the dock, she crouched, half-expecting someone behind the pilings. Nobody was there. A couple of packs and bedrolls lay tucked in the shadows, however. Had the soldiers chanced upon this campsite and been killed for their discovery? She crept forward, intending to investigate.
Snow crunched behind her.
Instincts ruling, she lunged behind a thick piling. The sound of a sword whistled through the air inches behind her. But when she turned, using the piling for cover, she saw only the emptiness of the bleak white shoreline.
She kept her sword ready. Magic, it had to be. It was almost unheard of here in the heart of the empire, where imperial mandates hypocritically forbade its use and denied its existence, but she had bumped against it a time or two.
“What do you want?” Amaranthe did not know if she addressed a person, or some wizard’s minion, but it would likely not hurt to ask.
Silence.
Clothing rustled behind her. She threw herself to the side, rolled, and came up as a chunk of wood sheared off the piling. Amaranthe swung at the spot the attacker should have been, but connected with nothing.
Her gaze slid downward, though she lowered her eyelashes so her foe would not see. Maybe she could spot prints being made, even if her opponent was invisible.
There.
In the weak light, she had to strain her eyes, but the snow depressed in slow, deliberate steps. She drew some comfort from the normal boot-shaped prints; her attacker was likely human.
She stepped toward the piling and poked behind it, feigning clueless stabbing, even as she kept those footprints in the corner of her eye. The enemy circled toward her side, walking slowly enough not to make a sound. She continued jabbing in front of her until the prints grew closer. The invisible person lunged.
Amaranthe whipped her sword to the side, raking the air.
A man cursed in a foreign language. Drops of blood spattered the snow. Footsteps, loud and quick, announced a hasty retreat.
Amaranthe lunged out of the shadows, wondering how to stop the man.
A dark figure dropped from the top of the dock, landing beside her. She brought her sword up, her heart lurching, but she recognized the newcomer and almost laughed in relief.
“Sicarius. You-”
He stopped her with an upraised hand. His other hand held a throwing knife, and, after listening for a second, he hurled it toward the trail. The steel blade zipped through the falling snow.
A cry of pain ripped along the waterfront, and a man appeared. He pitched forward, landing face-first in the snow, the knife hilt quivering between his shoulder blades.
“Nice aim.” Amaranthe nodded appreciation toward her comrade.
If Sicarius felt satisfaction from the throw or gratitude for her compliment he showed neither. As always, his aloof, angular features remained masked, suiting the grim black he wore from soft boots to wool cap. Only his armory of daggers and throwing knives broke the monotony of his wardrobe. He was not the type of person one wanted to run into in a dark alley. Unless he was on one’s team.
“You’re late.” His voice was as emotionless as his face.
“How’d you know I’d be running the lake trail?” Amaranthe asked.
“Books beat you on the obstacle course this morning.”
She grimaced. Though pleased he cared enough to come looking, she was chagrined she was so transparent. Did the other men know she trained extra to keep up with them at physical feats?
“I expect to lose to you,” Amaranthe said, “but if I can’t even beat
“Your words are what convinced him to train harder.”
“Yes, and I’m pleased at his progress. I just wish his progress was a teeny bit behind mine.”
“I see.”
Too much, probably. If one whined about whether or not one was fit to lead, one probably wasn’t. She lifted a hand to dismiss her comments and headed up the bank toward the body. Sicarius walked beside her, somehow gliding across the snow without a sound. He retrieved his knife, slipped a folded black kerchief from his pocket, and cleaned the blade meticulously.
“Kendorian?” Amaranthe nodded at the body.
