• • • • •
Amaranthe tugged at the collar of her blouse. The businesswoman’s outfit Sicarius had purloined for her was dressier than any of the clothes she had in her own closet—back when she had a closet—but she still felt grossly underdressed. She and Maldynado stood before the Onyx Lodge on a street lined with steam carriages. Chauffeurs chatted between the massive vehicles while their employers loitered inside. Replete with marble steps, gold-gilded trim, and ornate columns, the exclusive club had doubtlessly never invited an enforcer in without warrant-waving beforehand.
“Quit fidgeting,” Maldynado said.
“I’m not fidgeting; I’m adjusting.” Amaranthe
adjusted
the constricting collar again.
“You look fine. If you didn’t, I wouldn’t be seen with you.”
Maldynado had spent the morning arranging the meeting. Sometime during the hours he had been gone, he had also arranged attire fitting a scion of the warrior caste. Beneath his greatcoat, he wore an exquisitely-tailored black suit with a flamboyant red silk waistcoat. The cut of the clothes accentuated his broad shoulders, narrow hips, flat stomach, and all other physical characteristics men coveted and women drooled over.
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “What’s the name of the fellow we’re meeting?”
“Avery Mithsaranu Exaltuscrest the Fourth.”
“Is he as pretentious as the name makes him sound?”
“More,” Maldynado said.
Inside, a butler in clothing almost as fine as Maldynado’s took their coats. He led them to a parlor where low tables, leather sofas, and indolence-inspiring armchairs awaited. Dividers and indoor foliage made each seating area private.
They stopped at a table near a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a courtyard where bare-chested men boxed and wrestled in rings. Though the warrior caste might appreciate the luxuries their wealth bought, few forgot their roots.
Dressed in a suit accented with leopard furs, the man waiting at the table sneered at Maldynado and did not seem to notice Amaranthe. He might have been Maldynado’s age, but the thin hair swept over his head in an attempt to camouflage a balding pate made him look older.
“Maldynado,” Avery said. “Surprised to receive your message. Last I heard you were whoring yourself out to old hags.”
Amaranthe gaped. Those were not exactly the dulcet word choices one expected from a gentleman.
“Ave, always a pleasure to hear your gentile tones,” Maldynado said. “Though I’m sure you only agreed to meet so you could get the latest gossip on my life and update all your lowly cronies.”
“Lowly? You dare call anyone lowly when you’re the one who avoided military service because you were afraid some enemy might come along and break your pretty nose?”
“As opposed to the nine months you served in that tropical resort on the gulf—that is until your medical discharge. Ankles still swollen?”
“A congenital weakness, alas.”
The two men flashed edged smiles at each other, reminding Amaranthe of circling wolves, albeit extremely well-dressed wolves. It was a bad start to the meeting. She needed to jump in.
“Introduce me,” she mouthed as Maldynado pulled out her seat.
“Ave, this is my friend, Amaranthe,” Maldynado said.
“A businesswoman, how pedestrian.”
She forced a smile. “It’s good to meet you, Lord Exaltuscrest.”
“I know. For business peons like you, it usually is.”
And I thought Maldynado had an ego.
As if he heard her thoughts, a snicker escaped under Maldynado’s breath.
“Do you have an aversion to businesses?” Amaranthe asked.
“No,” Avery said. “Just the greedy money-mongers who run them. It’s disgusting the way people fawn over their coin nowadays, as if that meant more than blood.”
“I can see how that would be frustrating to you.” Amaranthe tapped a spoon and tried to think of a tactic to win over this man. Plates, tea cups, and more silverware than she knew what to do with lay before her. She nudged a slightly crooked fork into alignment with the neighboring utensils. “Maldynado tells me your family goes back hundreds of years.”
“We were on the boats that came over from Nuria. We built this empire. That’s why it’s irritating to see mixed-blood peasants, most of them descendants of people we conquered, stumbling their way into positions of power.”
A servant brought a platter of pastries. He set it on the table, then passed around mugs of steaming cider. Amaranthe debated on whether to take one of the sweets. She had not run since before her sickness. Maldynado grabbed a fat one and demolished half of it with a single bite. A smudge of creamy frosting stuck to his lip. He licked it with relish.
She grabbed a pastry.
I’ll run tomorrow.
“So,” she said, meeting Avery’s eyes, “your family must have fought at some of the greatest battles in history. Frontier Hill, the Aquifer Wars, the Southern Railroad Scandals?”
“Yes, of course. There was a General Exaltuscrest at Frontier Hill who went on to become the first Commander of the Armies.”
“Truly? I confess, I know little of the origins of that title.”
Avery leaned forward. “It’s quite fascinating actually. The emperor used to personally lead troops into every battle, but as the empire increased in size, we often faced enemies on multiple fronts. The position of Commander of the Armies was created so someone with imperial authority could lead the troops when the emperor was elsewhere. Turgonia was glorious back then. We were a nation run by true warriors, not administrators. Lord General Exaltuscrest, now he was a warrior. He…”
Amaranthe was not sure she found the information as fascinating as Avery did, but at least he had an interest in the topic. She nodded and offered encouraging comments between bites of her pastry. Apple, cinnamon, and frosting danced on her taste buds. It was the best thing she had eaten in days, maybe weeks. Maldynado devoured two more.
Avery’s lecture transitioned from military heroes to stories highlighting the dangers of the early frontier days. Any time he slowed, Amaranthe prompted him with questions. The man had at least one relative in every major event in imperial history. She could only trace her lineage as far back as a grandfather who had died in a logging accident when she was three, the same year the Southern Blood Fever had taken her mother. She wondered what it would be like to have a claim to all that history. Easy to get lost in it, she guessed, watching her host.
As Avery’s stories spun into a second hour, Maldynado’s expression vacillated between boredom and bemusement—but mostly boredom.
Avery drained his third cup of cider and checked his watch. “I need to go soon. I forgot, was there something you needed?”
“I’m hoping to find a pair of invitations to Larocka Myll’s pit fights tonight,” Amaranthe said. “I hear those are good events for burgeoning businesswomen to make useful contacts. Maldynado said you were the one to see since you have connections with everyone in the city.”
“Quite, quite, the old boy actually got something right.” Avery assumed the edged smile again, this time only directed at Maldynado.
Maldynado sneered back.
“I’ll arrange the invitations,” Avery told Amaranthe. “Be careful on the Ridge at night though. There’s something hunting the streets.”
A boy with a bin came in and cleared their plates.
“Yes,” Amaranthe said, “I’ve read about it in the newspapers, but I didn’t think this neighborhood had seen any deaths.”
“It hasn’t,” Avery said, “but yesterday before dawn, Sassy Inkwatercrest said she saw a giant brown creature run across her yard and leap the ten-foot fence as if it were a street curb. Others on the Ridge have made similar claims over the last couple weeks.”
Amaranthe leaned forward. “Anyone able to identify it? Say for sure what it is?”
“Nobody knows. It’s nothing that’s been seen in the city before.”
Avery insisted on paying for the cider and pastries. Amaranthe thanked him and signaled to Maldynado it was time to go. She almost tripped over the dish boy as she left. She frowned at him, finding it strange he had lurked and listened to their conversation. After starting guiltily, he scampered into the kitchen.
A
s the wan winter sun dropped below the horizon, Amaranthe and Maldynado hopped off a trolley on Mokath Ridge. Mansions dotted the plowed streets, each on a park-sized lot with a view of the lake. On the sloping lawns, children skied, sledded, and hurled snowballs. A lovely neighborhood on the surface, but Amaranthe did not expect Larocka’s house to be so idyllic.
They strolled along the sidewalk checking addresses. Squirrels chattered in maple branches overhead, and one darting critter dislodged a clump of snow. It smacked Amaranthe’s cheek and slid down the front of her blouse. With an amused Maldynado watching, she wriggled and untucked to free herself of the icy intrusion.
“I hope that isn’t some indication of how the night’s going to go,” she muttered, smoothing her clothing.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Maldynado offered a lazy wink as he pointed out an errant button. “I rather enjoyed the show.”
After a brief glower, she checked to make sure she still had not dislodged the small pad of paper tucked inside her parka. If she had the chance to take illuminating notes tonight, she would not be unprepared. Her knuckles brushed against her grandfather’s knife—also tucked inside her parka. Note-taking could be dangerous.
“I wish we had Sicarius along,” she said.
“Why?” Maldynado tapped the emerald-jeweled hilt of his saber, a different weapon than he had worn to the Onyx Lodge—he probably had a sword to match every outfit. “I’m not big and intimidating enough?”
“You’re…big, and you do tower over people nicely. It’d just be reassuring to have Sicarius watching our backs. I didn’t realize the invitations would have our names on them.” She had almost handed Sicarius the second invite anyway, but Akstyr had implied the house’s guardian wards would detect name swaps.
“We’ll be fine,” Maldynado said. “These aren’t the kinds of people who loiter at Enforcer Headquarters, eyeballing the wanted posters.”
“I’m more concerned about the Forge folks than enforcers,” Amaranthe said.
“We have invitations. And we’re just going to their party to watch the fun. What could happen?”
“I’m not going for fun; I’m going to snoop.”
“Snoop? This morning you said you were going to
observe
.”
“Maybe it’s the enforcer in me, but I’ve always thought the terms have a great deal of overlap.” Amaranthe veered to avoid branches with more frolicking squirrels. They were fat. Someone in the neighborhood must run a nut buffet.
“Well, I don’t think Sicarius would fit in up here. These sorts of events have dress requirements.”
“Perhaps with the right costume,” she said.
“Not unless you could separate him from his knives. He sleeps with them, you know.”
“Does he?” Amaranthe asked. “I’ve yet to see him sleep.”
“I’ve yet to see
you
sleep.”
Amaranthe yawned. Too true. When she returned that night, she hoped to succumb to a twelve-hour slumber. The others could handle the press and watch shifts while she did.
“There it is.” Maldynado pointed to a mansion.
Like something from ancient history, the five-story structure boasted stone walls, arrow slits, turrets, and even a crenellated rooftop. Modern additions such as picture windows, glass doors, and new wings crafted from brick and timber suggested the building had seen numerous renovations over the years. They did little to dilute the impression that Amaranthe and Maldynado were visiting a fortress.
They headed up a long walkway with gas lamps burning at intervals. Flagstone steps led to a vast porch swept clean of snow. Waterfalls on either side of the entrance emptied into steaming pools, and the smell of lilacs wafted from them. Amaranthe rolled her eyes at the ostentatious display. If the house was any indication, Larocka was not in need of extra funds.
Then why is Forge blackmailing Hollowcrest for tax breaks?
Before Maldynado could knock, the door opened. A majordomo dressed in a crisp red uniform held out his hand. His thick arms and the pair of long knives at his waist suggested he was as much security guard as greeter.
“Invitation, please,” he said.
Maldynado offered the envelope Avery had supplied. The majordomo opened it and inspected it as if forgeries were common.
No, we don’t counterfeit invitations. Only money.
“Very good, Lord, ma’am. The other guests are downstairs.”
A grand foyer opened before them, but the majordomo directed them to stairs directly to the right of the door. There was no chance for snooping around the mansion or even the main floor. They went down a long flight and turned a corner to travel another batch of stairs before reaching the bottom.
The cavernous basement reminded Amaranthe more of a construction zone than a chic entertaining venue. Pallets of bricks, slabs of limestone, a steam-powered cement mixer, and other lesser tools and materials cluttered the floor along the walls. Massive posts and reinforced steel beams supported the high ceiling. Vehicle doors almost as high stretched along the back wall.
More than a hundred people milled, gravitating toward a central pit with wooden bleachers on two opposing sides. Like Maldynado, many of the men bore swords, gold- or silver-gilded affairs they wore as a woman might jewelry. Women modeled flowing dresses draped with exotic furs such as grimbal, tiger, and black leopard.
On the way to join the crowd, Amaranthe and Maldynado skirted a second pit, a recent excavation with a mound of dirt piled next to it.
“Not done with your renovations yet, Larocka?” someone called.
Recognizing the name, Amaranthe searched for the speaker, or more specifically to whom he spoke.
“Not yet,” came the response, a female voice, “but before long, this place will be ready for two fights at a time and it’ll hold five times as many spectators.”
“We’ve been busy planning a big celebration for the emperor’s birthday,” a male voice added.