Lindsay Buroker

Ice Cracker II

THE FROZEN WATER TRADE

Snow skidded across the frozen lake, mounding against the ravaged body. Beside it, blocks of ice had been removed, and frigid black water lurked in the square pools. Gray clouds hung in the afternoon sky, bringing dusk early.

Amaranthe crunched toward the dead man, the snow and ice slick beneath her boots. At her side, her companion glided across the same surface, making not a sound.Hisstomach doubtlessly wasn’t sending queasy jolts through his body as they closed on the grisly scene.

“I guess this is the place,” she said.

Claws had torn canyons into the face and lacerated the dead man’s parka. Frozen blood stained the ice, the snow, and the tools beside him. His gloved hands still clutched the pick he had tried to defend himself with.

“What do you think did it?” Amaranthe tucked back strands of hair whipping her eyes.

“Cougar.”

Eyebrows arched, she turned toward her comrade. As always, an unreadable expression marked Sicarius’s cool, angular face. He wore black from soft boots to fitted trousers to parka, the monochromatic attire broken only his armory of daggers and throwing knives.

“Cougar?” Amaranthe asked. “We’re less than ten miles from the imperial capital, a city of a million people. This lake is under siege by noisy steam hammers and trucks stocking the icehouses. There’s no good game hunting for a hundred miles in any direction. No cougar is going to wander out of the mountains of its own volition.”

“I didn’t say it came of its own volition.”

“Ah,” she breathed. “You suspect…”

Habit kept her from saying the wordmagicout loud. In the same breath, the empire denied the existence of magic and forbade its use-a mandate punishable by death. Sicarius, who had traveled beyond the empire and had a more ecumenical education, had few such compulsions.

“I will investigate.” He inclined his head toward the body.

“Thank you.” Amaranthe was happy to leave corpses to him. “I’ll find our new employer.”

She hitched the strap of her repeating crossbow higher on her shoulder and touched the short sword hanging at her belt. She did not have to walk far to reach the camp. The man had been killed close to the shoreline where tents perched and fires burned in metal barrels. Bins of coal supplied fuel for the steam vehicles, and plumes of black smoke rose from their stacks. Despite the promise of a storm, clinks and rasps echoed as workers sawed and hacked the ice, struggling to fill truck beds before dark.

Amaranthe rounded a sleeping tent and strode toward a log cabin at the center of camp. She ducked under one of several ropes crisscrossing the area, attaching tents to the cabin and to each other. A cockeyed flap drew a frown, and she paused to straighten it.

Snow crunched behind her.

She spun about. A woman charged, an ice pick raised above her head. Amaranthe ripped her sword from its sheath.

The pick chopped down like a woodcutter’s axe. Amaranthe leapt to the side, evading the blow while keeping her attacker within reach. The pick slammed into the snow, even as her sword came up to rest on the woman’s collarbone.

“Problem?” Amaranthe did her best to keep her tone even.

The woman’s shoulders sagged. She held her arms out, gloved palms open. She wasn’t much older than Amaranthe, twenty-eight or thirty, but weariness stamped her face. Tears welled in her eyes and froze as they ran down cheeks chapped and red from the cold.

“I had to try,” the woman said. “The bounty…10,000 ranmyas. It’d be enough to… Please, understand. My husband died last year, and this job is so hard. We’re out here fourteen, sixteen hours a day. I never see my children and…”

“All right. What’s your name?” Amaranthe lowered the sword and leaned around the tent. Still out by the body, Sicarius knelt on the ice, touching something. Good, he had not seen. He was a stickler about killing anyone he considered a threat, and, for good or ill, he had spread his sphere of protection to Amaranthe as well.

“Merla.”

“Merla, I understand. My mother died when I was little, and my father worked a job like that. I never saw him growing up, but I knew he cared about me. I’m sure your children love you and understand, too.” Amaranthe sheathed her sword. “Don’t try again. My comrade, Sicarius, is nearby, and-”

“Sicarius,” Merla breathed, her ruddy cheeks turning pale. “Two million ranmyas.”

“Yes, his bounty is a lot more impressive, but he won’t think twice about killing you. He wouldn’t think at all; he’d just react, and then where would your kids be?”

“No, of course, I wouldn’t even think to-I mean-”

“Amaranthe!” A new woman jogged toward them.

Merla flinched and ran away.

“Nelli.” Amaranthe nodded to the newcomer.

“I’m glad to see you.” The smile didn’t reach Nelli’s eyes, but then happiness was not to be expected, not if she had lost as many men as her note said. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me or come even if you did. You and your team have become quite renowned.” She glanced about, pushing wisps of black hair back under her parka hood. “Are you alone, or did you bring them?”

“Just one.”

At that moment, Sicarius stepped around the tent, startling Nelli. She skittered back, though he made no threatening move. He just had that cold look that intimidated everyone. After a year working with him, Amaranthe still had not seen the man smile.

“Well,” Nelli lifted a hand in what might have been a wave or an apology to him. “I suppose he’d be the one to bring.” She turned back to Amaranthe. “You have to help. The enforcers, if they can even be bothered to leave their cozy headquarters building, just come and fill out reports. My people are being killed by…by…it’s something different every time. It’s got to be some kind of…” She licked her lips, and Amaranthe recognized the imperial reluctance to voice the word.

“Magic?”

Nelli nodded.

Fat snowflakes started falling, and a breeze gusted across the lake, ruffling the fur around Amaranthe’s parka hood. “We’ve seen such things before, even here, in the heart of the empire.”

“I knew it.” Nelli nodded again, more vigorously. “I knew you’d have the experience. What’s your price? I’ll pay anything to have the problem fixed.”

Amaranthe lifted her eyebrows. “Miss Magnusun would be shocked to hear you say that. Offering to pay any price without negotiating?”

“I’ve done well for myself, Am, and we’re not talking about tools and supplies here. My workers, people I know and care about, are being killed.”

“Sorry, I know.” As a formality, and because her old business-school mate expected it, Amaranthe withdrew a neatly penned estimate for their services. “It’s amazing what you’ve accomplished since graduating. Your company is the biggest in the city, I understand, supplying ice year around to three satrapies. How did you find the startup money for all this equipment?”

“My father.” Nelli frowned at the bill. “Is this a joke? I pay the ice grunts more than this. If you can rid us of this curse, I’ll give you a lot more.”

“We’re not in it for the money.”

Now, it was Nelli’s turn to arch her eyebrows. “Miss Magnusun would bereallydisappointed in you.”

Amaranth twitched a shoulder. “I do understand that you deliver ice to the Imperial Barracks. If we perform to your satisfaction, and you ever have the chance to mention our deed to the emperor or one of his advisors…” Another shoulder twitch.

“But you’re fugitives. Isn’t the emperor the one who put the bounty on your head? Both your heads?” She flicked a glance toward Sicarius, who stood silently, scanning the camp. “Or… Oh. Are you trying to clear your name? Redeem yourself? Were you wrongfully accused?” Again Nelli’s gaze went to Sicarius, who wasn’t even looking at her. “But, no, he wouldn’t…”

No, nobody who had seen the list of dead Sicarius had left in his path would suspect him of being wrongfully accused of anything.

“It’s a long story,” Amaranthe said. “One for after-”

“Nelli,” a stern male voice said. “Who are these people?”

Sicarius was already looking at the sturdy gray-haired man walking up. He looked familiar, but Amaranthe’s gaze locked on the two pistols hung at his belt before she could place the face. She tensed, hand going to her sword. Only military men were allowed to use black-powder weapons, and a soldier was as much danger to them as a bounty hunter.

“This is the friend from school I told you about, Da, and-”

“Sicarius!” The old soldier’s eyes widened.

His hand went for a pistol, and a throwing knife appeared in Sicarius’s hand. Amaranthe lunged in front of Sicarius even as Nelli blocked her father.

“He’s here to help, Da. They both are.”

“Wait,” Amaranthe gripped Sicarius’s arm. “Please, just wait.”

“Help?” Nelli’s father roared. “He’s an assassin! An imperial criminal. He’s killed dozens-hundreds! — of the soldiers who’ve tried to catch him.”

“Which makes him an excellent person to stop whoever is killing our people,” Nelli said. “Look, he works with Amaranthe now. You remember her. We sold candy apples in front of the house for a month that one summer. Remember?”

Amaranthe recalled the man’s face now. Sergeant Tollen had not been around much, but she had seen him a couple times. Though older, he still appeared hale.

He looked back and forth from her to Sicarius, and, though a dour glare marked his face, he moved his hand away from the pistol. Sicarius lowered his throwing knife.

Amaranthe let out a slow breath, meeting Nelli’s eyes through the falling snow. Maybe her old friend was right, and she needed to start charging more.

“Emperor’s warts,” the sergeant said, “this is ludicrous, Nelli. He may have been the one to kill your uncle. Ordin led a scouting party to find this criminal and never came back. We never even found the body for a funeral pyre.”

Amaranthe looked at Sicarius. His face was a stone mask. If he had history with this man, Sicarius was not going to show it here.

“We don’t need his help,” the sergeant muttered.

“I’ll check around the camp,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe nodded, relieved. She wanted to ask him if he had discovered anything odd about the cougar-mauled man, but now was a good time for him to leave the vicinity. The wind kicked the snow sideways, and he soon disappeared into the flurries.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?” Amaranthe suggested.

“Yes.” Nelli released her father’s arm. “Da, could you make sure the machinery is battened down and the workers all come in? It looks like fierce weather tonight.”

Sergeant Tollen was still staring after Sicarius, but he pulled his gaze back to his daughter. His eyes softened. “Yes, all right, but be careful. Stay within my sight. Don’t trust, no, don’t even go near that man. Not for a heartbeat.”

“Yes, Da.” She gave him a mock salute.

He snorted, but touched her shoulder as he walked away. Amaranthe felt a pang, remembering similar gestures from her own father.

Nelli started walking, leading Amaranthe through the camp and out onto the ice.

“He retired two months ago,” Nelli said. “He’s been working as my operations manager this winter. It was wonderful until this all started. I hardly ever saw him when I was a girl, but we’ve finally had a chance to spend time together.”

“Sounds nice.”

They stopped before a ragged gap in the ice. Unlike the neat square blocks removed elsewhere, this hole looked like something large had simply plunged through. A thin veil of new ice had formed over the water on the bottom.

“One of our trucks is down there,” Nelli said, raising her voice to be heard above the rising wind.

“I assume that’s not the desired parking spot.”

Nelli snorted. “We drive on the ice constantly this time of year. It’s more than two feet thick right now. But the empty truck went right through.”

“Did the driver get out?”

“No.”

Amaranthe grimaced.

“This was the third incident. The first two were-”

Something black-and large-darted across the ice.

Amaranthe jerked a hand up. “Did you see that?”

Snow streaked sideways, reducing visibility to a few meters, and she squinted, trying to identify the shape.

“I-maybe,” Nelli said. “What is it?”

The wind shifted, blowing snow into Amaranthe’s eyes. Flakes gummed her lashes and stung her eyes, but she ignored them.

She slung the repeating crossbow off her shoulder and loaded five quarrels into the magazine. She had poison for the tips, but successfully applying it with the wind whipping across the lake was improbable. Besides, she had no idea what she was shooting at. Sicarius might be out here somewhere.

A screech pierced the wind, and a black creature raced toward them. Even on four legs, its head rose above theirs.

Amaranthe lifted the crossbow and fired. Yellow eyes flashed, and the black shape bounded away. It darted into the storm and vanished.

A long moment passed before she relaxed her grip on the trigger.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Nelli yelled. “You made that look easy.”

“Of course.” Amaranthe was glad the snow and her gloves hid her shaking hands. Though vaguely feline-shaped, that hadn’t been a cougar, panther, or any other animal she recognized. She readied the crossbow to fire again, but said, “Let’s get back to camp.”

When Nelli didn’t start walking, Amaranthe frowned and turned around. Heavier than ever, the snow obscured the bank. A vertiginous moment washed over her. Was camp over that way? Or that way? Somewhere the sun was setting, but the clouds smothered any light left in the sky.

She bit her lip. She couldn’t even see the hole in the ice any more. A wrong step could send one of them plummeting into the frigid lake.

A black shape loomed at Amaranthe’s elbow. She spun toward it, the crossbow ready.

A hand dropped on hers, pushing the weapon down.

“The storm is getting worse,” Sicarius yelled over the wind. “You should come back to camp.”

“We were just about to. Ah, care to lead the way?” Amaranthe shouldered the crossbow, grabbed Nelli with one hand, and put the other on Sicarius’s shoulder.

Without hesitation, he led the way. Soon, they stepped off the ice and onto a packed path through the snow. Sicarius found one of the ropes and followed it to the log cabin.

They walked inside, and relief flooded over Amaranthe. She pushed back her hood and breathed in warm air that smelled of sawdust and burning coal.

A man slammed the shutters shut on the last of four windows and locked it with a thick bar. A cast-iron stove glowed in a corner. The open cabin was parceled into an office space, a tiny kitchen and table, and a sleeping loft. Kerosene lamps hung from the walls and rafters. Several people, including Merla and Sergeant Tollen, were already hunkered inside, and Amaranthe’s relief dwindled. Great, a night stuck together in a small space with two men who would be happy to kill each other. Add, for good measure, a woman who would be thrilled to collect the bounty on either her or Sicarius’s head.

Amaranthe forced a smile. “I guess the investigation waits until tomorrow.”

Sergeant Tollen glowered their direction.

“Any idea what that thing you shot at was?” Nelli asked.

“A mare-cat,” Sicarius said. “There are at least four of them out there.”

“Mare-cat, as in nightmare cat?” Amaranthe asked after a moment of puzzled silence. “I’ve heard of them, but they’re over eight hundred miles north of here, right? Across the Frontier Divide?”

“That’s their habitat, yes.”

“And they’re kind of a cross between a panther and a bear? Except with longer claws and fangs than either?” Amaranthe swallowed, suddenly very glad her shot had not missed. She doubted she seriously wounded the creature, but she had deterred the attack.

“I’ve never even seen a mare-cat.” Tollen folded his arms over his chest and raised skeptical eyebrows. “And I’ve seen a lot.”

“Where were you stationed?” Amaranthe asked.

“I spent most of my years on the southern borders, guarding against the Kendorians and the savages from the desert.”

“Then you’ve probably seen magic before?” she guessed.

Tollen hesitated before spitting the, “There’s no such thing as magic,” line expected from a soldier.

Amaranthe took that hesitation to mean yes. “Well, something otherwise unexplainable is drawing unlikely predators to your camp. I readThe Gazettethis morning, and there was nothing mentioned about strange creature sightings elsewhere.”

“The enforcers who came out yesterday said the same,” Nelli admitted. She looked at Sicarius. “I assume those creatures are deadly?”

“Very.”

“I’ve got to get the rest of my people in here then. Tents won’t deter a predator that size. It’ll be crowded, but better than the alternative.” Nelli nodded to her father. “Will you help me, Da?”

“We’ll come, too,” Amaranthe said.

“We don’t need your help,” Tollen growled, thrusting out a hand to stop her.

Tempted to go anyway, Amaranthe stopped when Nelli shook her head.

“We’ll be fine,” she said. “It’ll just take a moment.”

As soon as the duo left, Sicarius caught Amaranthe’s eye and jerked his chin toward the loft ladder. She followed him up, and they found a small table in the back.

“What is it?” Wind railed at the roof, and she eyed the split-log ceiling. “Something worse than mare-cats?”

“You should know-” Sicarius looked at her steadily, dark eyes holding hers, “-I remember killing a Corporal Tollen near the Kendorian border.”

Amaranthe winced. “Uncle Ordin?”

“I don’t know his first name. Tollen was on his fatigue jacket. His body is in a canebrake in Deadscar Ravine, south of Fort Erstden.”

She dropped her face into her hands and rubbed her forehead. She had bumped up against Sicarius’s past a number of times and couldn’t claim to be surprised. With a million ranmyas on his head, bounty hunters were frequent visitors, and every soldier and enforcer in the empire had orders to kill him on sight. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an unjustly placed bounty. Long before she had met him, he had assassinated Lords Generals, satrap governors, famous entrepreneurs, and various other Important People. If he weren’t now in her employ, she would have a much easier time clearing her name, but she owed him her life a dozen times over. More, she knew most of his secrets, and she wasn’t entirely sure he would let her walk away with them in her head for any torture-happy maniac to discover.

“All right.” She leaned back in the hard wooden chair. Melting snow trickled down her collar. “Let’s not share that information. I suspect that’d push Tollen over the edge, and you’d defend yourself, and-” she sighed, “-it’s not good for business to kill the client’s father.”

No hint of a smile or appreciation for her humor cracked Sicarius’s facade. By now, she was used to it.

“I followed the cougar tracks to the lake’s edge,” he said. “They disappeared.”

She knew he did not mean he had lost the trail. “What do you think is going on here?”

“There are numerous possibilities. I need more information to make a useful guess.”

He produced a weapons cleaning kit and started removing knives and daggers. Amaranthe pushed back her chair and stood.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To get information.”

“Stay inside.”

“You don’t think I should interview the mare-cats, huh?” She smiled.

He didn’t.

Amaranthe shrugged, then descended the ladder. Her boots had barely touched down on the sawdust floor when a screech sounded above the wind. Shouts followed, and a cry of pain rose above it all. A pistol shot fired.

Sword in hand, she ran to the door. It burst open before she grabbed the latch. A mass of people tumbled through. A huge black form leaped inside, landing amongst them.

The creature spun and writhed like a cat, legs raking in every direction. Claws slashed people’s clothing and tore into flesh. Slavering fangs glinted with the reflection of lamplight before digging into a man’s shoulder. Screams of pain and desperation bounced from the timbers.

Amaranthe stabbed at the mare-cat’s hindquarters, but iron-hard muscle armored the creature. Her blade barely cut through the sleek fur. A long tail slapped her face. The fight rolled away before she could attack again.

“Close the door!” Tollen cried from the middle of the jumble.

Before obeying, Amaranthe glanced outside to make sure no more people were trying to get in. Two mare-cats leaped straight at her.

She slammed the door shut and lunged for the bar. It dropped into place just as the creatures crashed into the wood.

The impact flung her back a pace, and the timbers trembled. The door held-for the moment.

She whirled back toward the fight.

The mare-cat had its feet under it now and shook off attackers like a dog flinging water from its coat.

Nelli slipped in the blood-slick sawdust and pitched to the floor. The creature pinned her with one massive paw and raised the other to strike, dagger-like claws extended.

“No!” Tollen fired his second pistol.

The shot lodged in the creature’s shoulder, but it didn’t seem to notice.

A black figure dropped from the loft. Sicarius.

He landed on the mare-cat, arm wrapping under its great head. He pulled it back and slashed a dagger across the beast’s throat.

With blood spurting from the severed artery, the beast finally faltered. Men fell upon it with picks and axes. Even after it had stopped moving, they hacked, striking back at the fear that had haunted them the last couple days.

Tollen pulled his daughter back, but his gaze pinned Sicarius, who had backed away as soon as his part was done. Not a drop of blood splashed his skin or clothing. Elsewhere, it looked-and smelled-like a butcher shop. The expression painting Tollen’s face was neither gratitude nor jealousy, but anguish…defeat. The emotion surprised Amaranthe, and it took her a moment to make her way around the carnage to Nelli’s side.

“Are you all right?” Amaranthe helped her old friend to stand.

“Yes.” Nelli looked about, her lips moving as she counted heads. A couple men and women clutched at injuries, but no one’s wounds appeared life-threatening.

Outside the door, several screeches competed with the wind.

“We all made it,” Nelli said. “Thank you. Tell your man, thank you.”

“I will.” Amaranthe’s lip twitched into a half smile. Sicarius had mastered the art of appearing unapproachable, and she had grown accustomed to being the conduit through which messages traveled to him.

The crashes at the door continued. People cringed with each blow. How long could the bar and hinges hold against those heavy bodies? Occasionally the shutters rattled as well, as the cats tested the windows. Amaranthe thought them too big to enter that way, but who knew? Soon, footfalls sounded on the roof as something heavy prowled about up there. Every thump, every gust of wind, made people flinch.

No doubt to keep people’s minds occupied, Tollen started barking orders. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up, our people fixed up, and some food in bellies.”

Until they could take the body outside, there was a limit to what they could do, but Amaranthe helped sweep up the blood-drenched sawdust for later disposal. Sicarius returned to his weapons cleaning. Despite the crowded cabin, everyone gave him space. Merla started fixing soup in a pot over the coal stove.

“Hello,” Amaranthe said, coming up beside her. Time to start looking for information.

The other woman shrank away.

“Rough night,” was all Amaranthe said.

It took more idle chatter before Merla seemed to realize Amaranthe was not going to bring up the earlier attack.

“I was supposed to be home tonight.” Merla sliced potatoes into the pot. “With my girls. Instead I’m here, doing a slave’s work, killing my back, hauling fifty-pound blocks of ice out of the lake, being threatened by mystery beasts.”

Amaranthe made an encouraging sound. Listening to the woman rant probably wouldn’t reveal anything crucial, but one never knew.

“I went to the same school you two did, you know,” Merla said.

“Oh?”

“You probably don’t remember. I was two years ahead, but then I got pregnant and had to quit. I was good at math, great at balancing books. I would have been… I always wished I could go back, but who has the money?”

Behind them, Sergeant Tollen finally sat down. He laid his pistols on the table and withdrew a cleaning kit. While his hands worked, his gaze shifted back and forth from the thuds at the door to Sicarius’s corner.

“Some birthday,” Merla muttered.

“Hm?” Amaranthe asked.

“He turns fifty tomorrow.”

Amaranthe waited until others sampled from the communal soup pot-she did not think Merla still wanted to kill her, but one could not take chances-and took two steaming bowls. She sat at the table next to Tollen and placed one in front of him. He ignored it in favor of glowering at her over his disassembled pistol. He ran a rag through the barrel, and the sharp tang of cleaning oil mixed with the soup’s cider and beef aroma.

“Your father must be disappointed in you,” he said before Amaranthe could start speaking.

She blinked. It wasn’t exactly what she had expected him to bring up.

“I remember talking to him once,” Tollen said. “He was sacrificing a lot so you could go to that school. He must be horrified that you’re walking around with that monster-” a head jerk toward Sicarius’s corner, “-and making pay as a cursed mercenary.”

If Amaranthe had been a hound, her hackles would have reared. As it was, she kept herself to a tightening of her fingers around the soup spoon. Most insults she brushed off, but the ones that thudded into the dartboard close to the target were harder to dismiss.

“Yes, I’m sure he would be disappointed,” she said, “if he hadn’t been dead for eight years.”

“Oh.” The glower softened. “How did he die?”

“Black Lung.”

“That’s right, he was a miner, wasn’t he? A slow, painful way to die, I imagine, but better than suicide.”

Suicide? Amaranthe’s anger drained, and she tapped her spoon on the edge of the bowl, wondering what had prompted the sergeant to mention suicide.

“He did contemplate that near the end, I believe,” she said.

“But he wouldn’t have done it, I’m sure. To destroy one’s soul for eternity…”

Amaranthe nodded. Thanks to the Mad Emperor Motash, atheism was the official “religion” of the empire, but memories of ancestor worship remained a part of imperial history, and the old religion promised an eternal soul for those who died as warriors-or in otherwise respectable ways. Suicide, considered cowardly, destroyed the soul and made it unavailable for descendants to consult.

“Sergeant,” she said, “there’s something I’ve been wondering. As you mentioned, my father made a lot of sacrifices to pay for my education. As a foreman in the mines, his salary would have been comparable to an enlisted soldier’s. We had very modest accommodations. As I recall, Nelli grew up in a nice house with a nanny. And she said you financed the startup of her business.” She did not want this to sound like an interrogation, so she stopped short of asking the question. But she waited expectantly.

“I gambled,” Tollen said.

“Successfully? Really? Was it pit fights? Strat Tiles? The Maze?” She knew numerous gambling venues but few people who beat the odds and won big enough to change their fortunes.

“One time, long ago. Uluaria, her mother, died in childbirth, and I was away so much, for months and years at a time. Soldiering was all I knew, but the border was no place to raise a girl. I had to…take chances, make sure she was cared for.”

“Of course, it certainly seems she’s doing well, present danger aside. And you’re here now to spend time with her. I know how much that must mean to her. My mother died when I was young, too, and I didn’t see my father often either.”

She kept her tone casual, conversational. There was something here, she knew it, but she didn’t want to accuse him of anything and raise his defenses.

Tollen glanced at his daughter, who sat on a stool across the cabin, bandaging a man’s arm. Then he leaned forward, pressing a finger into the table. “Did you ever resent him? For not being there?”

She almost said no, thinking it was the answer he wanted to hear, but he would probably appreciate honesty more. “Sometimes. As a child, I’d wish he would quit mining and get a job in the city, even if it meant having less.”

Tollen winced.

“But now I know he wanted to give me everything he could, no matter what sacrifices he had to make, and I understand. You’re right, I do fear he’d be disappointed with me now, but fate has played a hand in that. I never intended to become a fugitive or a mercenary. Itistemporary.”

A clank sounded above them. The metal stove pipe rattled. The cats were far too large to fit through it, but they seemed to be checking every part of the cabin for weakness.

Tollen picked up the barrel and started reassembling his pistol. Amaranthe withdrew a box from her parka and flipped it open. It held quarrels and a couple vials of poison. She liked the repeating crossbow, since it allowed her to fire several shots in as many seconds, but the tradeoff was power. The bolts lacked the chain-mail splitting oomph of a regular crossbow or a pistol.

“If I killed Sicarius, would you shoot me?” Tollen asked.

The question startled Amaranthe so much she almost dropped the vial of poison. Tollen was not looking at her, but staring at the freshly smeared quarrel tip.

“Uhm, if it were after the fact, I’m not sure. I’m not the avenger sort. I’d certainly defend him to the deathduringa fight.” Still watching his face, she sealed the vial. “But, if you’ll excuse my bluntness, you’re not a match for him.”

“Hm,” was all Tollen said.

Amaranthe finished with the quarrels and padded through the sawdust to sit next to Nelli, who had finished helping the wounded.

“A word?” Amaranthe asked.

“What is it?”

“Your Da. Has he seemed different at all to you since he retired?”

“Well, I’ve seen more of him this last two months than the last ten years.”

Amaranthe nodded, inviting more.

“He seems older, of course,” Nelli said. “And he’s been preoccupied since things started going wrong around here, but I assume he’s just worried for me. He keeps trying to get me to go home, insisting an ‘Operations Manager’ can handle this. I can’t stay home and be safe while my workers are being killed though. For all I know, this curse, or whatever it is, is my fault.”

“Oh? Feeling guilty about something?” Amaranthe smiled to make the question feel casual.

“I don’t know, maybe. I’ve had a lot of success with my business. Most people don’t become so successful so young. I used to assume it was just determination, hard work and talent, but I don’t know. You had all those traits back in school, and look at you now.”

“Thanks,” Amaranthe said dryly.

“I just mean…a lot of people who deserve success never achieve it. I’ve had a lot of luck. Maybe my luck has changed.” Claws scratched at the door, and Nelli jerked. “I wish they’d leave us alone. Tomorrow, when it clears up, I’ll show you everything else that’s been going on around camp. I know you’ll find the answers to the problem in something out there.” She stood and patted Amaranthe’s shoulder before crossing the cabin to join her father.

“The problem isn’t out there,” Amaranthe said softly. “It’s in here.”

As if in response to her thought, the screams outside ceased. Whatever had been worrying the roof stopped. The thuds at the door ended. Even the wind abated.

People lifted their heads. No one spoke, but their hope felt palpable.

The eye of the storm, Amaranthe thought.

She walked to the door and listened, sublimating the urge to unlock it and peek outside.

Sicarius glided out of the shadows, wearing all his weapons again.

“Going somewhere?” she asked.

“You know something,” he said.

Amaranthe turned her back on the room and spoke softly. “It sounds like events have been escalating for days. Even since we arrived, we’ve seen it.” She looked at a clock on a shelf. “It’s after midnight, so I don’t think that’s the deadline, but-”

“Deadline for what?”

Wind screeched, wood splintered, and iron warped. The door blew open.

Sicarius leaped before the entrance, pushing Amaranthe out of the way. He landed with daggers in hands. A step behind him, she drew her sword and dropped into a ready stance.

Snow and wind rushed in, and the kerosene lamps blew out. Shouts collided with one another, and scuffles and clanks sounded in the darkness.

A yellow light glowed outside.

Squinting into the snow, Amaranthe tried to relax. She would be better prepared to face whatever lurked out there without tense muscles slowing her reflexes.

Footsteps pounded up behind her. Sergeant Tollen. Behind him came Nelli.

A snow-free dome cleared around the cabin. Though flakes still swirled in the sky above, some force kept the air still and clear before the door.

Amaranthe blew out a long breath, then led the way outside. Sicarius, Tollen, and Nelli followed.

The snow’s absence revealed dozens of dark humanoid shapes ringing the yard, cloaks wavering in the breeze, cowls pulled low over dark holes where faces should have been. Each entity bore a two-headed axe, the blades and long handles black.

In front of the door, a giant muscular creature, also humanoid but larger than the others, stood bare-chested and bare-legged. Flames licked its skin and danced about its crimson hair. Two silver horns rose from its temples and curved down its back.

“Ifrit,” Sicarius said. “And its army of death fixers.”

Amaranthe was glad he recognized them because she had never seen nor heard of them. Before she could ask for details, the creature spoke, though not in a language she understood.

“Kendorian,” Sicarius said.

“What’s it saying?” Without turning her back to the ifrit, she looked at Tollen and Nelli. Nelli’s mouth hung open, and the whites of her eyes circled her irises. Tollen just looked grim. He wasn’t surprised.

“The warnings have not been heeded,” Sicarius translated. “The hour is-”

Tollen lunged and grabbed Amaranthe’s sword. Startled, she let him have it.

Weapon raised, blade gleaming with a fiery reflection, Tollen charged the ifrit. His target did not move, nor did the dozens of black wraiths ringing the cabin.

The sword swished through the creature as if through air. The ifrit tossed back its red-maned head and laughed at the night sky.

A spark of hope stirred in Amaranthe’s breast. Was this all an illusion?

Howling in frustration, Tollen spun on the nearest death fixer. This time, the sword struck something solid. It thudded against the figure’s arm, but did not penetrate. The blade might as well have hit steel.

The cowled figure turned its faceless head toward Tollen, who backed away.

“Our blades will not kill them,” Sicarius said. “They are not from the mortal realm.”

Tollen whipped out one of his pistols and fired at the hooded head. The ball clanged off and thudded into one of logs on the front of the cabin.

“Nor firearms, apparently,” Amaranthe said, her mouth dry.

“Attack me!” Tollen cried.

The creatures hovered motionless.

“Da!” Nelli raced up and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

Sicarius looked at Amaranthe.

“The rest of the translation?” she asked him. “What else did the ifrit say?”

“At dawn, the death fixers will kill everyone in camp if the terms of the trade have not been met. If anyone tries to leave before then, they will not allow it.”

“Trade?” Nelli demanded. “What trade?”

Tollen stood, chest heaving, head drooped. He dropped the sword.

“Nelli, Tollen, perhaps we should discuss it privately.” Amaranthe nodded at the people gathering in the doorway.

“We can talk in the loft.” After a long wary look at the invaders, Nelli steered her father inside.

Before going in, Amaranthe collected her sword and walked halfway around the cabin. Death fixers did indeed surround the entire structure. Snow flitted off the roof, and she looked up. The three remaining mare-cats paced above.

“We can kill them but not the ifrit or the death fixers,” Sicarius said when she returned to the door. “We’ll have no more luck escaping than these people.”

“I know.”

Before Amaranthe could pass through, he clasped her elbow.

“You weren’t surprised at the translation,” Sicarius said. “You know what’s going on. Tell me what the trade is; we have to make sure it’s honored.”

“I will. In a minute.” She looked over her shoulder at the fiery ifrit, who waited, a smile playing about its lips. Then she met Sicarius’s eyes. “Trust me.”

Several silent heartbeats passed. Finally, he released her arm.

“Wait downstairs.” Amaranthe climbed the ladder to the loft. Though he looked like he wanted to follow, Sicarius closed the front door and waited there.

She joined Nelli and Tollen around the table in the loft.

“The fiftieth birthday is the deadline, I assume,” Amaranth said to Tollen.

“Yes,” he said woodenly.

“Deadline?” Nelli asked. “Deadline for what?”

“Your soul, that’s the price?” Amaranthe asked. “You traded your soul for a good life for your daughter?”

“The ifrit was supposed to take it when I died,” Tollen said. “I was a soldier on the border-skirmishes every month. The promise of war ever present. I never thought I’d live the twenty-five years the deal gave me. I wanted to make sure Nell was taken care of-always.”

“Da?” Tears pooled in Nelli’s eyes. “Yoursoul?”

“It was worth it. I always thought I’d die long before this, serving the empire, a warrior’s death. Yet the day approached, and I lived still. As soon as the unearthly started happening around here, I knew what was behind it. I tried to shoot myself and hang myself, but I couldn’t. Some invisible force grabbed my hand and stopped me.”

“If the soul dies with a suicide, there’d be nothing left to give the ifrit,” Amaranthe reasoned.

“Apparently. When Sicarius showed up, I thanked the ancestors. I thought the solution had come, a chance for an honorable death, but then you-bothof you-stood in front of him. I couldn’t attack through my own daughter. And then the bastard saved Nelli’s life. I don’t know what to do.” Tollen thumped his pistol on the table in frustration. “If I had known others would die, I never would have… I would have figured out a way. I just thought the ifrit would come to collect personally. I didn’t know it’d destroy everyone around me at the same time. It must be angry-angry to have been kept waiting.”

“Da…” Nelli put a hand on his forearm. Her fingers trembled, but she lifted her chin. “We’ll all fight together. Maybe there’s a chance we can win. We won’t give up.”

“Whatever happens, Nell, I want you to know I love you. I…”

Amaranthe walked to the railing, leaving them privacy to say their goodbyes. Sicarius waited by the door, all in black, armed and deadly, not much different than the ifrit’s minions outside. And what does that make me, she wondered. The counterpart to the ifrit?

After a time, she looked back at the table. Father and daughter had stopped talking.

“Be ready,” Amaranthe mouthed to Sicarius and turned back to them.

She could have said “kill him,” she supposed, but Tollen wanted a warrior’s death, not a surprise dagger to the back. And there was one peace she could give to the family.

“Your missing brother-” Amaranthe set her sword on the table before Tollen, “-was he a corporal when he disappeared?”

Frowning, he looked up at her. “Yes…”

“You’ll find his remains in a canebrake in Deadscar Ravine to the south of Fort Erstden.” Amaranthe met Nelli’s eyes; the daughter would be the one to lead the hunt and build the funeral pyre. To Tollen, Amaranthe said, “You were right. Sicarius killed him.”

The stunned silence probably only lasted a heartbeat, but it felt much longer.

Tollen roared and grabbed the sword. He skipped the ladder and leaped out of the loft, weapon raised overhead. Nelli rushed after him. Amaranthe did not. She did not want to watch what she had orchestrated.

A very brief clash of steel echoed through the cabin. Tollen didn’t scream or cry out; it was Nelli’s weeping that told Amaranthe it was finished.

Slowly she descended the stairs, conscious of the gawking stares all around. His expression never changing, Sicarius handed Amaranthe her sword.

Nelli knelt in the blood-soaked sawdust, cradling her father’s head. Tollen, drawing his last ragged breaths, spotted Amaranthe. She took small comfort from the fact that he looked more peaceful than pained.

“Thank you,” he rasped. “Your father…wouldn’t be…disappointed.”

Dawn found Amaranthe trotting out of camp and onto the lake where Sicarius stood, a cloudless blue sky as his backdrop.

“Thanks for waiting,” she said. “I talked to Nelli and Merla. Merla is going to be promoted to Operations Manager.”

A slight eyebrow twitch implied what she already knew: he didn’t care.

She lifted a gloved hand in acknowledgement, and they started across the lake together. Before noon, they would be back in the city, the night’s events like a dream. No, she thought, too real for that. A memory.

“I apologize for using you as an executioner,” Amaranthe said.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“I know, but it bothers me.”

“Is your friend going to mention our work to the emperor?” Sicarius asked.

“After we killed her father and served up his soul for some vile underworld creature?” Amaranthe snorted. “I didn’t ask.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t get the opportunity to tease him often, so she let Sicarius walk in stony silence for a moment before adding, “But Merla said she would.”

The look Sicarius gave her wasn’t exactly a smile, just a faint stretching of the lips, but it was enough.

THROUGH FIRE DISTILLED

A green-feathered crossbow quarrel protruded from the distillery owner’s chest. Tall and gangly, with mussed salt-and-pepper hair, the man reminded Books of himself, albeit deader. Fresh blood saturated the brandy-stained shirt, and a rivulet meandered down the sloping cement floor and into a drain near the steam engine. The chug of the pistons and flap of the flywheel drowned out any disquieting dripping, but Books shifted with unease.

This had just happened.

He rested his hand on the hilt of his short sword as his gaze probed the distillery. Wooden barrels, apple crates, copper stills, and myriad pipes cluttered the cavernous room with potential hiding places. Dusk hovered beyond the high windows, and the intermittent lanterns created more shadows than they drove back.

“That’s a problem,” his comrade said when she stepped in and noticed the body. Amaranthe adjusted the repeating crossbow on her back and tapped her sword scabbard thoughtfully.

“A dead body usually is,” Books said, surprised he no longer felt shock at such things. Two years ago, he would have, but he had been a simple professor then, a content man with a handsome son who should have been starting classes at the University this fall. Contentment was more elusive these days.

“Especially,” Amaranthe said, “when it belongs to the person hiring you to investigate his-”

Boom!

Books ducked, and a pistol ball clanged off the nearest still. He started for the door, but four men blocked the way. Two brandished cutlasses, and two more aimed pistols.

“Cover!” Even as she barked the order, Amaranthe grabbed his arm and dragged him behind the steam engine. She already had her short sword out.

Just as Books reached for his, a second shot fired. It cracked against the flywheel, ricocheted, and shattered a window. Glass flew, and he threw up an arm to protect his face.

They rounded the back of the still only to jerk to a halt before two large, muscled men. One raised a broadsword, but the other, more startled, dropped a crossbow. It struck the floor, and a green-feathered quarrel skittered under the pumping pistons.

Books lunged at the unbalanced fellow, leaving the more prepared opponent for Amaranthe. He stabbed at the man’s hand, trying to end the fight before it began. But his opponent leaped back and found time to draw a cutlass.

They retreated and advanced, fishing for each other’s blades, trading testing blows. Beside Books, Amaranthe engaged her man.

Like so many before, he hesitated at the sight of an armed woman. Without pause, she hammered his longer blade wide and darted in. He backed into the still and ran out of room. Before he could align his blade to defend, Amaranthe thrust hers into his chest.

Books’s opponent advanced and lunged, slashing at his neck. Books parried, but the power of the blow forced him to the side, and his shoulder banged against the wall. With his blood surging, he barely felt it, but he lowered his sword and pretended a true injury. He retreated several steps. His assailant charged after, apparently forgetting about Amaranthe in his eagerness for the kill.

As they reached the flywheel, she stepped in behind the man. Her blade flickered, cutting through his hamstring. His legs crumpled, and she finished him. Books started to say thanks, but movement froze his mouth.

Two men, pistols reloaded, popped around the flywheel. Amaranthe tore her crossbow from her back and dropped to a knee. Books threw himself out of the way, and her quarrel zipped into one man’s cheek.

“Cursed ancestors!” They backed out of sight.

“They’ve got crossbows!”

“You’ve got guns,” someone growled. “Get back in there.”

“It’s a repeating crossbow,” Amaranthe called, “and I’ve got a full magazine, plus a box of quarrels in my pocket. Oh, and sorry about your friend there, but the tips are laced with deadly poison.”

Mutters came from the door, but no one else poked their heads around the flywheel or tried to approach from the other direction.

Amaranthe threw a wink at Books. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to still trembling hands. How could she so obviously be enjoying herself?

“Isn’t that just a temporary paralysis poison?” he whispered.

She held a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell them that.”

Between the crossbow, the sword, and the gray military fatigues, she should have looked like a hardened warrior, but she always wore a smile and, more often than not, a warm glint of humor sparkled in her brown eyes. Any man would have proudly taken her home to meet the parents.

She peered over the churning piston rods. “More of them. At least eight by the door. They’re milling around, talking.”

Books grimaced. “Sorry I’m not more help. You should have brought one of the others.”

“I should have broughtallof the others,” she said. “This was supposed to be an investigation of a haunted distillery and apple orchard, not an ambush.”

Yes, investigation and research were much more his realm.

“Besides, you looked glum this morning,” Amaranthe continued. “I thought you could use a distraction from whatever’s plaguing you.”

“So you arranged a band of twenty mercenaries to attack us?” Books raised his eyebrows. “Very thoughtful, thank you.”

“Nah, it’s only-” she checked on them again “-twelve now.”

“Give it time.”

“See, glum.” She quirked an eyebrow his way. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Now?”

“Well, wearestuck here.”

“It’s nothing,” Books said. “It’s just, today is-would have been-my son’s birthday.”

“Ah.” She gripped his shoulder. “That’s not nothing.”

“I know, but it’s not-” He broke off, not able to say important. “It’s not our primary concern now. We need to escape.”

“Or figure out what’s going on.” Her gaze lifted toward a set of stairs on the other side of the distillery. They led to a room with a couple small windows, an office most likely.

The first shot had dulled Books’s interest in the haunted-distillery mystery, but the room did look like a better place to make a stand than behind a steam engine. Besides, maybe it had a nice window to the outside that would allow them to climb down and escape into the orchards. Unfortunately, getting there would involve crossing open territory where every one of those twelve men could take shots.

“Think us a way up there, professor.” Amaranthe raised her voice toward the door. “By the way, folks, we’re not on anyone’s payroll yet, seeing as you’ve killed the owner who was going to hire us. There’s really no need to risk your men’s lives attacking us. We could all just walk away.”

“We ain’t going anywhere until we get the other half of our money,” someone growled. “Or the equivalent in brandy.”

Chortles of agreement followed.

Books eyed the machinery-filled wall they were trapped against. He could rig the boiler to explode, but that would bring down the building and kill everyone, themselves included.

“We don’t have it!” Amaranthe called back.

“Maybe not, but we know who you are. There’s only one woman mercenary leader working around the capital. Amaranthe Lokdon, and you’ve got a bounty for 20,000 ranmyas on your head. That’s a heap more than we were offered for this gig. And I’ll bet your gangly friend there has a bounty on his head, too.”

“Technically we’re fugitives, not mercenaries.” If the mention of the bounty worried her, Amaranthe did not show it. “While we do take occasional freelance jobs to pay the bills, our ultimate goal is to impress the emperor with tales of our patriotic heroics so he’ll grant us pardons.”

That earned so many laughs the building seemed to reverberate with the noise.

“Why doesn’t anybody ever believe that?” Amaranthe asked.

“I have an idea.” Books tugged her closer to the furnace. “Draw some fire.”

“Next to the boiler? Is that wise?”

Books ticked his sword against the wrought iron cylinder. “A pistol ball isn’t going to bother this. Failures are caused by internal pressure.”

“If you’re sure…”

Amaranthe leaned around the boiler and shot toward the door. She ducked back as a pistol fired in response. The ball clanged against the iron plating above her head.

“Look out!” Books shrieked. “They ruptured the boiler. It’s going to blow!”

The wide-eyed concern Amaranthe launched his direction said his act had been convincing. She caught on promptly though.

“Wouldn’t the explosion be instantaneous?” she whispered.

Books raised a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell them that.”

Pounding feet, shouts, and curses came from the door.

“Get back, get back!” someone cried.

With the mercenaries distracted, Amaranthe and Books charged across the open floor toward the stairs. He glanced out the door. The men were darting behind trees. The front door was still not an escape option, but Books and Amaranthe ought to have time to-

A shot cracked, and a pistol ball skipped off the cement floor in front of his feet. Urging his legs faster, he pelted up the stairs after Amaranthe.

They made it to the top, only to find the door locked.

“Cursed distiller’s ancestors,” Books spat as Amaranthe rattled the knob.

“Shoot them when they come out!” someone in the trees ordered.

Books glanced at the door again. It would not take the mercenaries long to figure out they had been duped, and that he and Amaranthe were not coming out.

“Lock picks?” he asked.

Amaranthe hammered a sidekick at the wood. The bolt gave, and the door flew open.

They leaped inside as a pistol ball cracked into the railing, shattering a baluster. Amaranthe slammed the door shut, and the knob clunked to the floor.

“Lock picks.” She nodded.

“Indeed.”

A startled squeak made Books whip around, eyes searching the small office. A desk squatted in the center, a lamp burning on one corner. In the back, jugs of applejack and bottles of brandy shared shelf space with tomes on brewing and distilling. A toolbox rested on the floor by the door, a screwdriver and a hinge set next to it. A lone window looked out on the darkness, unfortunately not large enough to crawl through.

“Under the desk,” Amaranthe whispered.

Books spotted a pair of boots scrunched against thin legs. He walked around the desk, pulled out the chair, and peered beneath.

A boy of nine or ten hunkered there, staring out with wide, terrified eyes. For a moment, Books saw his own son, and he blinked several times to clear the illusion. Other than similar scruffy haircuts, the two looked little alike, though this boy needed help, as Enis once had. Back then, Books had failed to pay attention and provide it in time.

“It’s all right.” He held out his hand, palm up. “We won’t hurt you.”

Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Amaranthe opened the door wide enough to shoot two rounds. A yelp of pain promised that at least one hit home.

“Need another sword?” Books asked.

“Not yet,” she said. “If they all charge at once… Well, at least they can only come at us two at a time on the stairs.” Keeping the door cracked and one eye on the mercenaries, Amaranthe slid a few replacement quarrels into her magazine.

“Who are you?” Books asked the boy. “Do you want to come out?”

The child shook his head, and his bangs flopped in his eyes.

“That was probably his father,” Amaranthe said, nodding toward the front of the distillery.

Books felt as if one of her quarrels had thudded into his chest. Of course.

“I’m sorry, son,” he rasped. “We didn’t kill your father, but we’re going to stop the men who did.”

“I killed him,” the boy whispered.

Books knelt to lean closer. He could not have heard correctly. “What?”

“I killed him. It’s my fault. I made them come.” The boy hiccupped and tears swam in his eyes.

“I’m sure that’s not possible,” Books said. “Ah, what was your name?”

“Terith.”

“Ask him what these mercenaries are doing here.” Amaranthe leaned out the door and popped off another shot. “And if any more are on the property. It’d help to know how many we ultimately have to deal with, especially since you just promised him we’d take care of everyone.”

“Er.” This hardly seemed the time to interrogate the boy-had he witnessed the quarrel strike his father down? Books had seen the knife go into his son’s chest, though he had been too far away to do anything. He rubbed his face, trying to push back the memories. This “distraction” was proving anything but. “How’d you bring the mercenaries?” he asked gently.

“I just wanted to help.” Terith pawed at tears in his eyes. “Mother died last winter. She ran the business stuff. Father knew about trees but not the rest. He didn’t like running things.” The boy sniffled mightily.

“What happened after your mother died?” Books groped for a path to relevance in the boy’s rambling response.

“Father tried to run the business. He tried real hard. But he hated it. I wanted him to be happy again and not yell all the time. I made him think this place was haunted.”

Amaranthe’s head jerked away from the door. Yes, here was the link to the story that brought them out here.

“How?” Books asked.

“Hid stuff, moved stuff, said I saw ancestor spirits.” Terith shrugged. “I thought Father would think Mother’s spirit wanted him to sell the business, and he could go work on someone else’s trees and be happy again. But he thought somebody was trying to scare him off his land, and he got real mad. He decided to hire mercenaries.”

An explosion hit the stairway, and the office trembled.

“Howmanymercenaries?” Amaranthe peeked out, frowning at whatever she saw.

Terith shook his head. “Father asked a bunch. He wasn’t sure if any would come.”

“Trust me, boy,” Amaranthe said. “If you own a distillery, it’s never a problem enticing mercs to work for you.”

“They shot him. He didn’t have enough money, and they wanted to take all the brandy, and he wouldn’t let them, and they-” Terith’s voice broke off in a choked sob. “It’s my fault.”

“Easy, son.” Books gripped his shoulder. “We’ll work that out later. Now, we have to get out of here.”

He frowned at the small window. Terith might be able to crawl through it but neither Books nor Amaranthe could.

“Is there another way besides the stairs?” Book asked.

Amaranthe’s crossbow twanged. A pistol ball thudded into the frame above her head, raining splinters. She slammed the door shut.

“They’ve got, or they’re making, explosives,” she said.

“How many quarrels do you have left?” Books asked.

“Five.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Her usual smile was bleak.

“Terith.” Books resisted the urge to shake the boy. This had to be done gently, or Terith would break down altogether. “We really need your help. Is there another way out?”

Terith dragged a sleeve across his eyes. “There’s an attic, but the trapdoor is out there.”

“Of course, it is,” Books muttered.

He grabbed the toolbox, hopped onto the desk, and knocked at the ceiling. The first solid thud made him grimace, but he found a hollow spot next to it. If he could cut a hole between the joists, maybe they could squeeze through.

As he withdrew hammer, chisel, and saw, another explosion boomed, this time right below them. The desk jumped, and drawers slid out, crashing to the floor. Books almost pitched over, too.

“I don’t suppose you could keep them from doing that,” he said, setting to work.

Amaranthe looked out the door. Smoke wafted into the room, carrying the sound of ominous snaps and crackles.

“You boys won’t be able to collect my bounty if my body is charred beyond recognition,” she yelled.

“You’ll jump down before that happens,” one called back.

Shouts and laughter mingled with the increasing roar of a fire.

“I think they’re trying to drop the supports for this room,” Amaranthe said. “You might want to hasten the trapdoor-creation process.”

Books sawed. “It’s going to be more of a hole than a door.”

“I’m not fussy. Terith, you fussy?”

With his story told, the boy had fallen silent. He stood in the corner, watching them.

“He’s not fussy,” Amaranthe said.

Books lowered a ragged circle of plywood. “Hand him up, and we’ll see if we can cut our way out on a side where the mercenaries aren’t watching.”

A thunderous crash came from beyond the door, and the room quaked. The stairs had collapsed.

Amaranthe lifted Terith onto the desk. Still silent, the boy allowed Books to push him into the attic. A moment later, Books clambered up himself. He bent to offer Amaranthe a hand, but she gave him the lamp and jumped. She caught the edge and pulled herself up without trouble.

Heat radiated through the floor of the attic, and the smell of warming bat and squirrel dung competed with smoke from below. The lamp spread a wan bubble of light, and metal glinted at one end. At first, Books feared more swordsmen up here, but the metal merely marked a vent.

“We can get out over there,” he whispered.

The chisel made short work of the screws, and fresh night air greeted them. Darkness had descended over the orchard beyond the distillery, but a few lampposts dotting the property provided intermittent light. Below the vent, the roof of a firewood lean-to offered an easy way down.

“That’s convenient,” Books said.

“Unless there are mercenaries in it,” Amaranthe said.

“Now who’s being glum?”

She snorted and stepped up to the hole. Her crossbow caught on the edge for a moment, but she shifted and dropped quietly to the roof. Books lowered Terith, then jumped down after them. He dislodged a shingle, and his foot slid. With an “oomph,” he flopped onto his backside, and the angled roof sent him over the edge.

At least he managed to land on his feet in a crouch. “So much for convenient.”

Something slammed into his back. The force sent him sprawling, and black dots slithered through his vision.

Expecting a second attack, Books rolled sideways and tried to get his feet under him. A blast of fire streaked into the ground he had just left.

A blond-haired foreigner stood below the edge of the roof, a sword in one hand and a staff in the other. The now-flaming grass illuminated green and black tattoos swirling across his cheeks and forehead.

“A shaman,” Books groaned.

The foreigner growled something in his own language.

“Are you here for the job, too?” Books asked. “It’s off, you know. The distillery owner is dead.”

The tip of the carved wooden staff lowered toward him. It glowed red, like a poker left too long in the fire, and Books hurled himself to the side.

Another gout of flame seared the grass and singed the hairs from his arm. His shoulder struck a rock, and he grabbed it.

Hurling it at the shaman disrupted whatever attack was coming next. Books scrambled to his feet and yanked his sword free.

Snarling, the shaman stepped out from under the roof and aimed his staff again.

With her target now visible, Amaranthe dropped, sword angled for a killing blow. Somehow, the shaman sensed her silent descent. He whirled, sword hefted, and metal screeched as their blades met.

Her attack sent him back a step, but he kept his feet and parried the succession of blows that followed.

The shaman’s eyes widened when the burning foliage highlighted Amaranthe’s face. He pointed his staff at her and growled, “Lokdon,” in a heavy accent.

“Even foreigners are interested in collecting my bounty these days?” She shifted to the side so the shaman turned, opening up his back for Books. “I’m flattered.”

Books started in, but two mercenaries pounded around the corner of the building.

“Great,” he muttered.

His darting gaze chanced on Terith, balanced on the edge of the roof. Amaranthe had removed her crossbow for the sword fight, and the boy now held it. Their eyes met, and Books pantomimed firing it at the approaching men. Not sure whether Terith would understand-or had any idea how to use the weapon-Books found his ready stance, and braced himself for the coming attack.

Then a quarrel clipped the shoulder of the closest mercenary. He jerked to a halt, grabbed the bolt, and stared at the tip. No doubt, he remembered Amaranthe’s promise about the poison.

“Shoot any others who come close,” Books called.

The boy was fumbling-trying to figure out how the lever loaded another quarrel-but the threat made both mercenaries sprint back around the corner.

Books leapt a patch of flaming grass and angled toward the shaman’s back.

Again sensing the attack, the foreigner shifted and blocked Books’s swing. Blond braids flying, the agile man retreated under the lean-to and put his back against the woodpile. He kept Amaranthe at bay with his sword and Books back with the staff.

Growling, Books tried to hack through the carved wood, but magic reinforced it. His blade did not even chip it.

Though the shaman seemed unable to concentrate on magic while whipping his weapons about, his defensive skills could have made brick walls jealous. He pursued no killing strikes, but all he had to do was last until more mercenaries showed up with guns. Books and Amaranthe had to end this soon.

Books’s elbow thudded into the pole supporting the lean-to. At first he cursed the obstacle, but realization flooded over him: his sword might not cut the shaman’s staff, but no magic reinforced the poles.

“Let’s be loggers!” Books barked, trusting Amaranthe to catch on-and hoping the shaman, who would have to translate to his native tongue, wouldn’t until too late.

Books jumped back, coiled his body, and whipped his sword about with all the momentum he could summon. Steel cracked through wood, and the pole snapped.

A second crack echoed through the night as Amaranthe sliced through the other support. She kicked the startled shaman, hurling him backward into the woodpile before the roof came down.

Remembering Terith, Books dropped his sword and caught the surprised boy as the lean-to collapsed. Wood splintered and flew, and dust clogged the air.

A hand clawed its way out from the wreckage, but as soon as the shaman’s bloodied head appeared, Amaranthe finished him.

Before Books could congratulate her, Terith pointed. Four mercenaries remained, and they all stood by the corner of the building, staring. Battered and singed, they did not appear that threatening, but Books groaned at the idea of more fighting.

With one hand, Amaranthe grabbed her crossbow, which had tumbled down with Terith. With the other, she brandished the bloody sword. Books lowered the boy, pushing Terith behind, while he grabbed his own blade.

“I’m warmed up now,” Amaranthe announced for the benefit of the mercenaries. She jerked her chin at Books. “You?”

“Oh, yes.” Pretending his battered backside, shoulder, and elbow were not crying out with admonitions about age-appropriate activities, he also pointed his sword at the mercenaries.

The men appeared more crestfallen than eager for battle though. Their downcast eyes took in the dead shaman and the duo before them, and before they could even discuss the situation, the back two spun and ran into the night.

“Uhm,” one of the remaining two said.

“Er.”

“We, ah…”

“You can go now,” Amaranthe said.

“Yes, good idea.”

A moment later, only Books, Amaranthe, and Terith remained. Only when they were alone did Amaranthe sink to the ground, rubbing her dirt- and soot-grimed face. Though she managed a bleary smile, her hands trembled. She was human, after all.

With no pretensions to the contrary, Books collapsed on the blackened earth. “As I was saying, next time you notice a glum cast to my face, you need not arrange such a grand distraction.”

“I’ll remember that,” she said.

Terith sat between them, pulling up the remaining strands of grass.

“Do you have any relatives, Terith?” Amaranthe asked him.

“An aunt and uncle in Korgar,” Terith muttered.

“We can take you to them,” she said.

A part of Books wanted to take the boy himself, for surely he would understand Terith’s pain better than anyone else. But the boy probably deserved someone who understood happiness instead. Besides, a fugitive had no right raising a child. Someday perhaps, when they were pardoned. Not today.

Books put a hand on Terith’s shoulder. “Son, you’re not responsible for any of this, you understand?”

The boy shook his head. “It’s my fault.”

“You had good intentions. You wanted your father to be happy.”

“If not for me, Father wouldn’t be dead,” Terith whispered.

“No, it’s not your…” Books trailed off when he caught a knowing look from Amaranthe. She knew his story, how his son had died, and how he had never stopped blaming himself and never would. “All right, Terith, maybe you’re right and you do share some responsibility here. You were trying to help your father, but you weren’t honest 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 beatBooks, then how can I…” She stopped herself short of saying “presume to lead the group.”

“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.

“Yes. A shaman.”

The foreigner wore buckskins rather than the factory-sewn wool garments Amaranthe had on, and the thick blond braid and pale skin were unlike the darker coloring of imperial citizens. Tattoos of snakes and rats adorned the side of his cheek and neck-the rest of his face was buried in the snow.

“He has a friend.” She waved to indicate the blankets and bags.

“I saw.”

While Sicarius searched for other tracks, Amaranthe knelt and rifled through the Kendorian’s pockets. Nothing identified him, nor did a handy why-I’m-invading-the-empire-and-killing-soldiers note provide illumination. She checked the belongings under the dock but again found no identifying items. A small toolkit stirred her imagination though.

Sicarius returned. “No other recent prints.”

“Hm. Any idea what Kendorians would be doing down here?”

Other than the ice workers chiseling out blocks for the summer trade, little activity centered around the lake in the winter. The military’s ice-breaking ship kept the transportation lanes open for imports and exports, but the fishing boats and canneries lay dormant.

“Something important enough to warrant killing soldiers to avoid discovery,” Sicarius replied.

“Kendorians would kill our soldiers whether discovery was involved or not. The empire isn’t exactly loved by neighboring nations.” She stuck her hands under her armpits. Now that her body had cooled, she noticed the chill air probing her sweat-dampened clothing. “Still, most of them don’t travel a thousand miles in the middle of winter for random soldier-slaying.”

“We should go.”

True. With the bounties on their heads, being found loitering around murdered soldiers was not a good idea.

“Agreed.” Amaranthe picked up a jog again, heading for the broad street lining the waterfront. “We’ll need to hurry to have a shot at finding the second Kendorian before he does…whatever it is he’s planning.”

Sicarius matched her pace, but the long look he slanted her suggested that was not the “go” he had in mind.

As her mind whirred with possibilities, the weariness from her run bled away. If the second man could turn himself invisible, too, he could be anywhere. It would take some lucky guessing to suss out his destination.

When they reached the ice-free channel fronting the merchant and naval docks, she slowed. Could one of the trade vessels be a target? Most ships sat dark. The gathering night and the snowfall had sent folks home for the day. Only one pier was lit up, its great steel steamship sending a few black wisps from its stacks. TheIce Cracker IImust be heating the boilers in preparation to leave in the morning. Soldiers paced the dock. Crewmen strode about the deck, stowing cargo, and-

Amaranthe halted so abruptly she almost tripped. “That’s it.”

Sicarius turned, watching her face.

“The ice-breaking ship,” she explained.

“You think that’s the target?”

“What else would a Kendorian be after at this time of year on the waterfront? The snow’s already too high in the passes for the locomotives to plow the rail tracks. If the shipping lanes freeze over, the capital city goes without imports for the rest of the winter. Not to mention we’d be unable to get more troops in if something happened to the city. It’d be especially bad this year, since theIce Cracker Iwas decommissioned last month. There aren’t any other ships in the Seven Lakes that can break ice.” She hammered a fist into her open palm. “That’s it, it has to be.”

Sicarius pulled her into the shadows of a dark warehouse. “You have no evidence.”

“No, but I have this lovely hunch, and it’d be downright uncivil to ignore it.”

“We have no way of knowing the Kendorian is on board,” Sicarius said. “Wedoknow there are a hundred soldiers and sailors. Maybe more. Men who would be duty-bound to shoot us if they saw us.”

“I know.”

“Even if the Kendorianisin there, he can turn invisible. We can’t.”

“I know that, too.”

Two soldiers marched along the street, rifles balanced on their shoulders. Amaranthe put her hand on Sicarius’s forearm and guided him into an alley.

“I know this is dangerous,” she said, “probably more dangerous for you than for me-my poster just says wanted, yours says shoot on sight-but this could be a chance for both of us.”

For years, he had assassinated politicians, warrior-caste scions, and wealthy entrepreneurs, never for the money, always for the challenge. While she had won many victories in her adventures, her greatest might have been in convincing him the most worthy challenge was in becoming a man the emperor might one day be proud to know.

“But,” Amaranthe continued, “you’re going to have to be seen doing some empire-saving heroics before the emperor will consider lifting that mountain-sized bounty on your head.”

“Heroics aren’t my specialty,” Sicarius said.

“No, but I’m partial to them.” She squeezed his arm. “And I know when the current’s too strong for my swimming level. I need your help for this.”

A trolley clanged in the distance. A clump of snow fell from the gutters. Pale flakes gathered on Sicarius’s dark shoulders.

“What’s the plan?” he finally asked.

She rubbed her hands together. “I’ll get on the ship, get some information, and get the crew hunting for intruders. You start looking for the Kendorian.”

“How do we get on?”

“I’ll go my way, you go the assassinly way.”

“Assassinly?”

“You know, skulk under the docks to the ship, climb the dark side of the hull without so much as a rope, slip unnoticed onto the deck, ghost through the shadows without a sound, and surprise the enemy in the act.” Amaranthe quirked a smile at him. “Isn’t that your usual method?”

“I might use a rope,” he said mildly.

“You didn’t bring one. Also, make sure to come find me before you leave. I’m guessing getting on board will be easier than getting back off again.”

“Likely.”

“One more thing,” Amaranthe said before Sicarius could disappear into the shadows. “Youcan’tkill anyone.”

A moment passed before he looked back at her, and she imagined an inward sigh despite the lack of expression on his face.

“Heroes don’t leave trails of dead soldiers behind, no matter how practical it may be to dispose of anyone who wishes to harm you.”

When he had disappeared into the shadows, Amaranthe shook the tension out of her limbs and strode toward theIce Cracker II. On this section of the waterfront, frequent lampposts drove the shadows away, and soldiers spotted her long before she turned down the dock. The two privates standing guard at the base of the gangplank watched her coolly, rifles cradled in their arms, cutlasses hanging in their sheaths.

As she neared them, Amaranthe held her hands well away from her own blade. “I need to report an incident. Is your captain available?”

“He’s busy.”

“Would the knowledge that two soldiers were murdered on the trail a couple miles down un-busy him?” she asked. “Oh, and there’s a dead Kendorian, too. Looks like he might have done the murdering.”

The two men exchanged concerned looks, but the speaker merely said, “You’d need to report that to someone at Fort Urgot. We’re detached to theIce Crackerand don’t patrol the city.”

“It’s snowing and dark. I’m not running five miles to the fort. I just thought I’d try to help you boys out. It looks like someone inimical is around causing trouble.”

Amaranthe turned to walk away, but a hand clamped onto her shoulder.

“Who are you and what were you doing out there in the first place?”

“I was jogging,” she said, intentionally ignoring the first question. She doubted anyone was going to recognize her through the snow and wan lighting, but her name might set their steam clocks to whistling.

“With a sword?”

“One never knows when one might have to defend against…” Bounty hunters? Soldiers? Enforcers? “Opossums.”

Judging from the matching scowls that blossomed on their faces, they did not appreciate her humor. The soldier who had grabbed her arm shoved her toward the other.

“Remove her sword and take her to the LT. She’s all kinds of suspicious.”

Amaranthe tamped down a smile as she was marched up the gangplank. Step one, get on the ship, was complete.

The wardroom might have been a decent place to spend time, if Amaranthe’s wrist was not shackled to a post. She sat in the one chair she could reach, tracing the whorls on a teak table, the only piece of wood in sight. Brass kerosene lamps hung on the walls, casting yellow reflections on the ubiquitous bland steel surrounding her. The scent of lye soap added to the sterile feel.

The main hatch creaked open. Two bulky grunts strode in and assumed guard positions to either side of the entrance. A graying man with gold bar-and-sail pins on his collar followed. He had a cleft chin, intense brown eyes, and a nose sharp enough to break ice without the aid of his ship.

Amaranthe stood. “Greetings, Captain. I came to discuss-”

He slid a sheet of paper onto the table before her. Her wanted poster. The guards murmured to each other, and one eyed her with calculation.

“-something of more importance than that,” she finished.

“I’ll bet.” Though chilly, the captain’s voice was not hostile, and his dark eyes seemed to be weighing her. “We found the bodies you mentioned. There was no sign of any Kendorian.”

Amaranthe’s stomach went for a swim amongst the table legs. The second Kendorian must have circled back and hidden his comrade’s body. That was bad, very bad. That meant-

“My XO thinks we should shoot you outright. He suspects you of slaying the men yourself, especially since your wanted poster says you traffic with that cur-licking, soldier-slaying assassin, Sicarius.” The captain glowered at her, brow furrowed.

She kept her chin up and met his eyes. “But you know I wouldn’t have been foolish enough to turn myself over to your guards if that were the case.”

The captain snorted. “Perhaps you are a diversion while Sicarius sneaks aboard my ship to attempt some sabotage.” He thrust a finger toward her nose. “If my commanders learned that fiend was within a mile of my ship and I didn’t shoot him, I could be accused of treason and booted out of the service. I’d lose my warrior caste title, my military rank, my home, my land, everything.” A flash of real fear haunted his eyes.

Amaranthe grimaced in sympathy. “Sicarius isn’t the one you need to be worried about. I’m here because I don’t want to see some scheming Kendorian sink this ship. I believe one may be aboard even now.”

“TheIce Cracker IIis unsinkable,” the captain growled. “Its reversible steam-piston engine has redundant screw repellers in case of failure, and the reinforced steel hull can smash through ice over two meters thick. It can withstand more than two thousand pounds of pressure per square inch along the waterline. If we ran into a rock, the rock would be pulverized, and there wouldn’t be a scratch on the bottom of my girl.”

“It sounds like a significant upgrade to theIce Cracker I.” Amaranthe leaned against the pole, attempting to look casual. She had chanced upon his passion, and nobody liked to talk as much as someone discussing his passion.

“Drastically. That moldy tub was made of wood with only the bottom reinforced with iron. It’s a wonder it didn’t sink years ago. Though only that drunk lout, Captain Mekam, could ram his ship into a cliff on a lake.”

“Cliff? The newspapers said the ship was decommissioned.”

“The papers don’t-” The captain frowned at her, eyes narrowed.

“Was it an accident? Ineptitude?” Amaranthe knew the captain had realized he was saying too much, but hoped she might squeeze another drop out regardless. “Or maybe the Kendorians were at work even then.”

“Or maybe you’re about to spend the night in the brig.” The captain gestured for the guards to take her and stalked out.

Amaranthe barely noticed as the soldiers unlocked her and marched her out the hatch, her arms clamped in their hands. Her mind dwelled on that new information. TheIce Cracker I, not decommissioned, but destroyed. What if-

“How’re we going to do this?” one of her escorts asked, voice low.

“We’ll split it. Gotta make it look like she tried to escape.”

Emperor’s eternal warts, her soldiers were going to get greedy instead of taking her to the brig. She eyed the bleak gray corridors, textured flooring, hanging lanterns, and intermittent ladders and hatches. Sicarius would be aboard by now, but he would be hunting for the Kendorian, not looking to rescue her in some random passageway.

“This is good. Nobody’s around.” The men slowed. “Get your sword out. We’ll-”

“Are you really intending to risk your careers for a chance at my meager 10,000-ranmya bounty?” Amaranthe asked, hoping a little chitchat might distract them.

An alcove ahead held a bucket of sand, an axe, and a hand pump. Though she wondered what there was that could possibly burn on the metal ship, the firefighting station offered hope.

“Hush, woman.”

“10,000 is a lot. And ain’t nobody going to object to your death.”

“10,000 isn’t enough to live on for more than a couple years, and you have to split it, right? A mere 5,000 each.” She stopped to trade looks with them. In truth, she just wanted to take a break in front of that axe. “What you really need to do is get Sicarius. He’s worth millions.”

“Naw, too dangerous. He’s a sincere killer.”

“He’s on the ship. It wouldn’t be hard to set something up.”

She had their full attention now. The axe was in reach, if she could just get a hand free.

“He trusts me,” she said. “I could easily set a trap. I wouldn’t dare go against him alone, but with help…”

“Maybe we could-” one of the soldiers started.

“No, don’t be stupid,” his comrade said. “Sicarius would kill us easier than spit.”

She twisted her neck to look behind them. “Then you’ll be concerned that he’s standing behind you.”

The soldiers’ eyes bulged, and they whirled about. She yanked her arms free. She grabbed the bucket and threw the sand just as they turned back and reached for her. Their arms flailed. They cursed as grit pelted their eyes.

Amaranthe snatched the axe and swung at the closest soldier. She turned her wrists and struck with the flat of the blade. It thudded against the man’s head. As he dropped, she tore his cutlass free. He struck the floor and clutched at his head, oblivious. She released the axe in favor of the lighter weapon.

The other soldier recovered from the sand barrage and unsheathed his own blade as well as his pistol. He opened his mouth, but she did not have time for conversation now. She sidestepped and kicked the pistol out of his grip.

Cutlass leading, she lunged and slashed, hoping to catch him by surprise. As a soldier, he would have had hours of drills pounded into him, though, and he parried easily. Reluctantly, she settled in for the obligatory exchange where they gauged each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Someone could turn down the corridor any moment, and now that she was armed, soldiers would not be her allies.

His cutlass flashed toward her head. She recognized the feint-even with his greater arm length, his lunge would not bring him close-and only dropped her own blade in anticipation of a second attack. Steel screeched as cutlasses met before her thigh.

She used the momentum of the rebound to riposte, flicking at his wrist. A line of blood appeared in his flesh.

Though the small wound could not have hurt much, his eyes flickered with surprise. It was too small a victory to celebrate triumph, but first blood was often enough to rattle an opponent.

Attacking with more care, the soldier pressed her with additional strikes. He had reach and strength, but she had sparred often with Sicarius. Parrying his lightning strikes made everyone else’s blade thrusts seem molasses-like.

The soldier was careful not to leave himself open, and she parried and gave ground, studying him, waiting for an advantage. He cycled through a handful of combination attacks, and they soon became predictable.

Someone moved behind him, and she winced. Amaranthe had to finish this before the second soldier got back into the fray.

When the high slash toward her head came again, she was ready before he fully launched it. She ducked, tossing out a parry in case his blade came down, and darted in close. She sliced her cutlass against his ribcage, even as she continued past and came out behind him.

He grunted with pain and started to turn toward her, but she launched a sidekick that could have busted down a door. His boots left the ground as he sailed backward. His head struck one of the hanging lanterns. It broke, and he went down amongst shattering glass.

Amaranthe whirled, expecting the second soldier. The black-clad figure standing before her was no soldier though.

“I trust you, and you could easily set a trap for me?” Sicarius held out her short sword, eyebrows arched.

She grinned. “Even these two shrubs weren’t buying that. They must know you sleep with your knives.”

She dropped the cutlass, belted on the familiar blade, and glanced around him at the second soldier. The prone man was more unconscious than she had left him; she hoped he was not dead.

Amaranthe knelt to truss her soldier, intending to use his bootlaces to bind ankles and wrists.

“Don’t bother,” Sicarius said. “We have to go. Now.”

“Why? Did you find the-”

“The engineers are dead, the safety valves on all four boilers have been tampered with, and the Kendorian is down there shoveling coal into the furnaces.”

Amaranthe stared. “Why didn’t you-”

“There’s a trap at the door. I watched two soldiers run in and get incinerated by flames. There’s no way into the boiler room right now.”

“Show me.” Amaranthe started past him, heading for the closest ladder, but he gripped her elbow.

“This isn’t worth risking your life for,” Sicarius said.

She turned and looked him in the eyes. “Hundreds will die if this ship explodes. And what happens if the city can’t import food for the rest of the winter? There are a million people in the capital. Local stores aren’t enough to feed everyone.” Again, she tried to step toward the ladder, but he did not release her. She might as well have been bound by steel.

“We’ll survive.”

A frustrated rant leapt to her lips, but, cursed ancestors, there was no time for arguing. He said so himself. Grasping for calm, she spoke evenly: “Let me go.”

Even now, his face was unreadable. Only those dark eyes held extra intensity. A heartbeat passed-it seemed like hours-and he released her.

Amaranthe sprinted for the ladder. Ignoring the rungs, she slid down to the bottom of the ship. Heat bathed her as she stepped into the corridor. She expected to run into crew and soldiers, but the lanterns on the walls illuminated an empty passageway.

The chugging and clanking of machinery led her to the engine room. At the hatchway, she passed the first body: a man in a gray engineer’s smock, throat cut, his blood pooled on the deck.

Nine-tenths of the crew did not know there was a problem; the other tenth was dead. Great.

She raced through the engine room, a jungle of colored pipes, gauges, and machinery. A railing surrounded the churning pistons of the engine. More corpses clogged the twisting walkways.

Two blackened bodies blocked the hatchway leading to the boiler room. Only the dead men’s boots, which stuck out toward Amaranthe, had not been marked. Such intense fire had charred their clothing and features that little more than melted lumps remained. The smell of roasted flesh rose above the odors of machine oil and burning coal.

A hand landed on her shoulder. She jumped, but it was only Sicarius. He did not say anything, but she would have had trouble hearing over the machinery anyway.

He crouched, removed one of the dead men’s boots, and tossed it. A curtain of crimson flames flashed across the hatchway. Heat poured out and light flared. Amaranthe stumbled back, shielding her face with her arms. The boot was incinerated.

When the flames disappeared, leaving only a border of glowing red along the bulkhead and floor, she waited for Sicarius to voice an I-told-you-so. He merely watched her. Expectantly. He must think she had an idea, for why else would she insist on racing down here? She smiled bleakly.

It took a few seconds for the crimson borders to dim and wink out, leaving the bulkhead with no signs of a trap.

“Huh,” she muttered.

Amaranthe unlaced two more boots, forcing her mind away from the grisly knowledge that she was disrobing some poor engineer who had been living but moments before. She tossed the first boot. The fire curtain burst forth. As soon as the hatchway grew dark again, she threw the second boot. It flew through and landed on the other side.

She and Sicarius exchanged significant looks.

Only when the border faded, heartbeats later, did the trap reset. Sicarius removed the last boot and nodded for her to stand beside him. He tossed it, waited for the flames to come and go, and they jumped through together.

Though she feared there would be other traps-or they would run into the invisible saboteur-she ran to the first pair of boilers. Pipes rattled, gauges quivered, and needles pushed into the red. There was no time for caution.

Steel squealed just behind her. Amaranthe spun, sword ready.

Sicarius landed in a crouch, a dagger in each hand, and a pair of buckskin fringes wafted to the floor. The Kendorian must have attacked.

“Find the blow off valves,” Sicarius yelled over the clamoring machinery. He glided into position at her back. “I’m here.”

How could one defeat-or even defend against-an invisible foe? Especially here, where noise and smell drowned out the other senses? He would have to figure it out.

She spotted the safety valve on the first boiler, and her shoulders slumped. Warped and melted metal made the handle inoperable. For a lost moment, she stared at the tangle of pipes, gauges, and wheels. Heat roared from the furnace, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Why couldn’t there be a blessed engineer alive?

Sicarius brushed her back, and someone cried out. A bevy of Kendorian curses followed. She glanced back to see Sicarius lunge. Despite his speed, he connected with nothing.

A nearby wall held another firefighting station. Amaranthe spotted the axe.

“Back in a second,” she said to Sicarius.

She sprinted over and grabbed the axe. If she couldn’t engineer a solution, brute force might work. She ran back, tool raised. As soon as she reached the boiler, she smashed the warped valve.

Steam burst free, and she barely threw herself to the side before it blistered her face. It worked, though, and the gauge’s needle dropped out of the red.

“Got one,” Amaranthe said.

She darted toward the second boiler, but tripped over something she could not see. Lightning flashed and an electrical force pounded her. Energy crackled about her. Agony tore through her body, and she dropped the axe, crumpling to her knees.

As abruptly as the pain came, it disappeared. Sicarius rolled past, grappling with their invisible assailant.

Amaranthe shook off the attack, snatched the axe, and launched herself at the second valve.

“Two of them,” Sicarius barked.

Amaranthe smashed the valve. Again, steam whooshed out, parting around an invisible figure. It lunged toward Amaranthe.

She whipped the axe across, hoping to keep the attacker at bay. The heavy blade slammed into flesh with a moist meaty thump.

A scream buffeted Amaranthe’s ears, and she released the axe. The invisibility spell flickered out. A blonde woman collapsed. She struck the floor, gasping, curling around the axe head lodged in her gut.

Movement pulled Amaranthe’s gaze to the side. A Kendorian male lay on his back, a dagger protruding from his chest.

Sicarius rolled to his feet with a second blade in his hand. He sliced the woman’s throat.

“The other boilers,” Amaranthe remembered, forcing her gaze from the dying Kendorian.

Sicarius tore the axe free and finished the task. Legs rubbery, Amaranthe walked around to each boiler, double checking gauges to make sure the threat was over. She pushed damp strands of hair out of her eyes with trembling hands. Sicarius appeared as calm as ever, though sweat dampened his hair. She tried to catch his eye to give him a nod of thanks, but he faced the other direction, a throwing knife in hand.

Amaranthe stepped around a boiler, and the hatchway came into view. “Cursed ancestors,” she groaned.

With the Kendorians’ deaths, the trap had disappeared.

The captain stood in the hatchway, pistol aimed at Sicarius. A squad of men had entered and fanned out on either side, swords ready, firearms raised. All weapons focused on Sicarius.

Though she was not sure it would stop anyone from shooting, she stepped in front of him, arms spread. She met the captain’s eyes. How much had the men seen? Did they know she and Sicarius had saved the ship? Even if they did, would it matter?

The captain closed his eyes for a long moment, then told his men, “Lower your weapons.”

“Sir?” a nervous corporal squeaked, his wide eyes toward Sicarius.

“You heard me,” the captain said. “Lower your weapons and step aside from the hatch.”

Amaranthe swallowed, emotion choking her throat. With this many witnesses, there was no way the captain’s superiors would fail to learn he had let Sicarius go.

She waved for him to sheath his weapons, and slowly, very slowly, they started for the hatch. For Sicarius to walk past armed soldiers, leaving them at his back, must have gone against every instinct ingrained in him, but he did. He and Amaranthe made it to the captain without incident.

“Thank you,” she murmured as they passed.

“Thankyou.” He looked at her, at Sicarius, and back at her. “Just don’t make me regret giving up…” A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” she said.

Snow sifted from the heavens. A pile rested atop the trolley stop sign. Amaranthe’s watch promised they were in time for the last run of the night. The flame in a nearby streetlamp sputtered and hissed.

She watched Sicarius survey their surroundings. Even with the streets empty and the city silent, he remained vigilant. He had not spoken since the fight in the boiler room, and she wondered what he thought of the night. Even his “heroics” had ruined a man’s career. Perhaps he never would escape his past. Still, they had helped the city, and she had to believe word would get back to the emperor one way or another.

To lighten his mood, or perhaps hers, she waited until his back was to her, then swept the snow off the sign and patted it into a tidy ball. She chucked it, grinning at the thought of a satisfying splat.

Just before it hit, Sicarius blurred into motion. She was barely conscious of him evading the projectile before a snowball splattered against her chest.

“I asked for that, didn’t I?” she groaned, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Cocky to think I could surprise you.”

Sicarius strolled over and leaned against the post next to her. “You do know that whether you outrun, outfight, or out-snowball-throw your men is irrelevant, correct?”

Amaranthe tilted her head toward him, eyebrows raised.

“That you concoct, and lead the way into, crazy schemes that not only succeed but make us look like better men than we are…that is why we follow you.”

She dropped her chin and brushed the snow off her sweater in order to hide the flush creeping into her cheeks. Hugging him for the compliment probably would not be professional, so she merely said, “Crazy, huh?”

“Utterly.”

The trolley chugged into view, a plow at the head churning snow off the track.

“As far as the obstacle course is concerned,” Sicarius added as it slowed for their stop, “strength exercises and footwork drills would help more than endurance training.”

“Oh? Perhaps tomorrow afternoon we could-”

“Start at dawn.”

She groaned again. “I asked for that, didn’t I?”

Content

Lindsay Buroker
Ice Cracker II

THE FROZEN WATER TRADE

THROUGH FIRE DISTILLED

ICE CRACKER II