formidable force. Opposing us would be just as pointless as staying loyal to those who are destined to fall. Give me the information I seek, and you may walk away unharmed. I have no wish to see one of my former students, however misguided she may be, tortured.”
Those vision-filled eyes never wavered, and Amaranthe started to believe the offer might be sincere. It didn’t matter.
“You’re wrong, Ms. Worgavic.” Amaranthe turned her head away from the woman and stared up at the claw entrapping her. “Loyalty doesn’t begin to have a point until it puts you on the wrong side.”
Major Pike stepped into view, a three-bladed trench knife with a brass knuckle-guard in one hand and a rolled up canvas kit full of tools in the other. “Time to begin, eh?”
“Get the information,” Worgavic said, “nothing more.”
“Of course.” Pike’s smile was tight, his dark eyes gleaming. “Of course.”
Ms. Worgavic strode out of sight, disappearing through a door that opened automatically and closed behind her. Surprisingly, Retta didn’t follow her. Amaranthe wouldn’t have thought her the type of person who’d want to watch a torture session.
Pike nodded toward her.
Retta hesitated, but only for a heartbeat beneath Pike’s hard stare. She propped her monocle over her left eye and opened her book to the page she’d been holding. Her lips moved as she mouthed a few lines. After a moment, she closed the book, moved to the end of the table, and touched something on the side.
A click sounded, and pain slammed into Amaranthe from six directions. Her back arched, and she tried to buck off the table, but the claw held her fast. Something sharp-like swords being driven through her body-had sprung from the pincers, piercing her body at the thighs, wrists, and shoulders. Moving, what little she could budge, only increased the pain. Those blades had pierced straight through her body in each place, all the way to the table beneath her. She took short, quick breaths, trying to control the pain. It didn’t work.
“I better go now,” Retta whispered and hustled toward the door. Not before Amaranthe glimpsed distress in her eyes.
Little good that did. Pike, a smile on his lips, remained at Amaranthe’s side, stroking his wicked knife.
Chapter 4
Twilight darkened the banks of the Goldar River by the time Maldynado and Yara neared Crow Landing, an old mill yard that had been turned into a park after the timber industry waned. Lights burned in nearby cottages, but this quiet part of town lacked the gas lamps and multi-story tenements of the busier city across the water. No lamps at all burned in the park, though Maldynado could make out old donkey engines and cutting blades taller than men that had been turned into sculptures. In the fading light, they cast strange, dark shadows across the fields and trails.
Maldynado expected the emperor and the rest of the team to be waiting near the park entrance, but nobody called out when he and Yara arrived.
“Nobody’s eager to try on their new clothing?” Maldynado asked, voice loud enough to carry.
Maybe the others were simply being cautious and staying out of sight. Not a bad idea. Maldynado had seen more soldiers patrolling the streets on the way out of the city core. It’d been so nice of Sicarius to run around assassinating people so that all of the authorities were on edge. One of the guards on the bridge had questioned why Maldynado and Yara were leaving the city so soon, and at night. Fortunately, Maldynado had annoyed the men into waving them through by overzealously handing out business cards and touting the clothing at Madame Mimi’s Evenglory Boutique.
“Perhaps they’re worried your outfits will accentuate their curves,” Yara grumbled.
Maldynado shouldn’t have mentioned her outfit. She hadn’t seen the clothes yet, but she’d commented several times already that they’d be too frilly to be practical.
“The only thing curving on Basilard are his dagger blades. I have, on occasion, accused Books of having womanly attributes, but I don’t think breasts are among them.” Maldynado sniffed. “I smell a fire. Maybe they found a camp spot by the river.”
“It’s cold. Most of the houses around here have stoves going.” Yara waved toward the homes abutting the park.
“Coal stoves, yes.” Maldynado started down an unlit trail that seemed to head toward the shore. “I smell a wood fire. And is that the scent of cooking fish? Basilard must be making something for the emperor.”
“I hope it’s an improvement over those meat bars.”
Though the gravel trail wasn’t wide, Yara insisted on walking beside Maldynado on it. Perhaps she relished the idea of bumping arms and hips with him. He didn’t mind, but figured it more likely that she simply refused to acknowledge him as her leader.
“Basilard’s a fine chef. You’d be amazed at what he can do with roots and herbs scavenged from the middle of the woods.” Maldynado patted his belly, intentionally bumping Yara’s arm with his elbow. She scowled at him, and he smiled. “He’ll fill our bellies with palatable victuals. A good thing too. Meals have been infrequent this week, and my pants are fitting too loosely. Women like to run their hands along your chiseled muscles; they’re less enamored by the touch of boney ribs. I’m sure you’d agree.”
“I don’t let women touch my chiseled anything. I-what’s that?” Yara pointed to the trail ahead.
Maldynado stopped. A shadowy form lay across the path, dark against the pale gravel. He sighed. “Given how things go for this crew, I’d guess a body.”
“One of your people?” Yara’s hand dropped to the short sword belted at her waist.
“I’d be terribly disappointed in their training if that were the case.” Maldynado kept his tone light, but a tendril of concern wormed its way into his stomach. He set down his shopping bags, so they wouldn’t encumber him in a fight.
“Someone one of your people killed?” Yara’s tone grew harder.
While they spoke, Maldynado eyed their surroundings. The sculptures and hedges lining the park, along with the darkness itself, provided countless hiding places. Frogs croaked by the river. An owl hooted from the direction of an old mill, a two-story timber building a hundred meters away. Maldynado seemed to remember that it had been refurbished and turned into a dance hall at some point in the past. Right now, darkness blanketed it, and his imagination conjured not dancers but snipers crouched in the loft, observing the park through the open windows.
“Watch my back,” Maldynado murmured and continued down the trail.
This time Yara let him go ahead. Hand on the hilt of his rapier, Maldynado crept closer to the still form. It was definitely a person, though low foliage on either side of the trail blocked the view of the head and legs. Black clothing covered the body. Good. Nobody on their team had been wearing black, unless Sicarius had come back for the purpose of dying on a random park path. That was about as likely as the man developing a sense of humor.
Maldynado drew his rapier and prodded the body. It didn’t move. He crouched for a closer inspection and wished he’d thought to pick up lanterns while he’d been shopping.
Blood stained the gravel and saturated the person’s shirt. Maldynado rolled over the body, revealing a man with short-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. A soldier, perhaps, though the tight-fitting black outfit was more suited to an assassin’s trade than the battlefield. A crumpled hood lay next to the head. Someone else had been there, trying to identify the man.
Soft crunches sounded behind him-Yara edging closer.
“Knife fight, I think,” Maldynado whispered.
“You think?”
“Sorry, identifying killing techniques by starlight isn’t something my boyhood tutors covered.”
“If you hadn’t spent so much time selecting curve-enhancing outfits, we could have stumbled across it in daylight.”
Maldynado wasn’t sure if that was a criticism or a joke. Maybe some of both. “I don’t think it would have been here then. His skin is still warm.”
