“Thanks for the history lesson, professor. What’re we going to do with the bodies?”
“Why don’t you search them for clues?”
“Me?” Maldynado asked. “You’ve already been close and intimate with them.”
Books wiped his hands on his trousers, wincing at the memory. “I assumed a scion of the warrior caste would not be squeamish.”
“Warriors stick swords in people’s bodies; they don’t grope them after the fact.”
“Let’s just search the pockets.”
A few minutes later, Maldynado and Books pooled their findings. A few coins, a metal ring with a fob and two keys, and a waterlogged envelope from the woman’s buttoned jacket pocket that snared Books’s curiosity.
He managed to open it and retrieve the paper inside without tearing it. The writing was in pencil and still legible. Legible but unhelpful. Two strings of numbers, one sprinkled with letters. The other had a decimal and might represent a monetary amount. A large amount, if so.
“Huh,” came a surprised grunt from Maldynado. He rubbed the flat circular fob on the key ring, and an oval in the middle glowed red. Even after he released it, the soft light continued. He touched it, then withdrew his finger quickly, as if he had brushed against something hot. “Magic? That’s not something you expect to see in the empire. Especially not in this subterranean portion of it.” He lifted his gaze toward the variegated mold decorating the ceiling.
“That came out of one of the men’s pockets, didn’t it?”
“Bald and Stubby, yeah.”
“Nice of you to create such respectful names for the corpses,” Books murmured, returning his attention to the paper.
“This thing looks handy.” Maldynado prodded the fob, causing it to glow red again. “You could see the keyhole to your flat late at night. I bet this is hot enough to light a candle wick too.” He squinted. “There’s writing on the back side. Ergot’s Chance. There’s an address.”
Books glanced up. “That could be useful. Keep that.”
“Oh, I am. This is a good find. Sorry yours isn’t as fun.”
“Different people, different definitions of fun.” Books tapped the numbers. “I wonder if this is some kind of secret message. Some cipher created by a cryptographer?”
“Or the work of a three year old using Father’s pencil. What’re we going to do about all this?”
“Consider ourselves fortunate.”
Maldynado’s jaw slackened. “How so?”
“Amaranthe’s birthday is next week and, with our limited funds, I didn’t think I’d be able to find her a gift.”
“So, you’re getting her…dead bodies?”
“Perfect, don’t you think?” Books smiled.
“Most women like jewelry and flowers.”
“Do you honestly believe she would prefer jewelry over a mystery to solve?”
Maldynado jiggled the key fob thoughtfully, then nodded toward the bodies. “Can we say one is from me?”
• • • • •
Amaranthe Lokdon sharpened the last pencil. She placed it in a holder on the desk and knelt to compare its height with the seven others in the cup. A hair too high still. She removed it, twisted it through the sharpener a couple more times, and checked the height again.
“Better,” she murmured.
A steam whistle pierced the air. In the factory outside the office, the fleet of sewing machines stopped. A hundred women and children grabbed brooms and dustpans, hastily cleaning their areas so they could go home.
“Finally,” Amaranthe said. “Maybe Ms. Klume will deign to meet with us now.”
“Likely,” Sicarius said, laconic as usual.
Clad in fitted black clothing that bristling daggers and throwing knives, he stood in the shadows against the wall, his gaze covering the door and the window. Neither his angular face nor his dark eyes gave any hint of impatience, but then they rarely hinted of anything.
“Good.” Amaranthe stood. Her thighs, still rubbery after the morning’s training session, twanged in protest. “There’s nothing left to tidy.” Thanks to her restless fingers, the trash bin now housed scraps of material, windowsill dust, and pencil shavings, all of which had plagued the office when she entered. The papers and files that had scattered the desk were stacked in a tidy pile, edges aligned with the corner.
“There’s an alphabetical misfile on the bookshelf,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe gave him a startled look, more surprised he had said something than that he had noticed. His expression never changed, but she thought she spotted a faint glimmer of humor in his eyes. She crossed the office, short sword swaying on her hip, and moved Marketing to the Imperial Mind to its proper place.
A shadow fell across the threshold, and Ms. Klume walked in. She wore a cream blouse, the top buttons unfastened, and a short plaid skirt that did not seem practical given the early spring weather. Vivid ruby paint adorned her lips, and clashing rings gleamed on every finger. The woman’s gaze slid past Amaranthe, as if she were a particularly bland piece of furniture, and landed on Sicarius.
“Ms. Klume. I’m Amaranthe and this is-”
“Sicarius.” Klume’s gaze roved from his black boots to his short blond hair, taking in everything in between. “You’re just what I expected.”
“We’re here because you have work to propose,” Amaranthe said, not sure whether she was more annoyed because the woman was ignoring her or because she appeared to be three seconds away from inviting Sicarius back to her flat. Maybe less.
“Is it true you single-handedly killed a platoon of soldiers?” Klume asked him. “And walked past Lord Satrap Dargon’s fleet of household security to assassinate him? And killed the empire’s most notorious bounty hunter with the throw of a knife?”
Sicarius stared at her in stony silence. If the woman’s interest affected him in any way, he kept it hidden behind an unreadable mask. For once, Amaranthe appreciated his standoffishness. She took a deep breath, telling herself it did not matter whether Klume spoke with her or Sicarius, and gave him a single nod.
“Your offer,” Sicarius told Klume.
The woman blinked, smiled, and glided to her workspace. “Business first, yes, of course.” Confusion flashed across her face as she noticed the tidy desk, but she recovered and located a fat file. “This is all the information I have on a Kendorian woman named Telnola. She’s the new owner of Farth Textiles. She’s an old wart who strode in the day Emperor Sespian enacted those tax incentives for foreign businesses and investors.” She mimicked spitting in the waste bin. Not a fan of the policy, apparently. “She bought out Farth, promptly tripled profits, and cut my business-the business of a loyal Turgonian citizen-in half. She hasn’t been to a proper school, and I’m certain this unprecedented success has to do with some magical aid. If she is using magic, it’s completely illegal here, and the punishment is death. If she isn’t…” Klume shrugged. “Either way, her success displeases me. I want her dead. I’m paying five thousand ranmyas for the job. An extremely fair price for a night’s work.”
Amaranthe sighed. She had feared the offer might be something like this.
Sicarius met Amaranthe’s eyes, and she sensed the question there, even if his expression did not change. Yes, he would have no problem taking the job, but that was not the image she wanted to establish for her team.
“I’m sorry you lost time contacting us,” Amaranthe said, “but we don’t do assassinations, Ms. Klume.”
The woman considered Amaranthe for the first time, though she pointed at Sicarius. “That’s not what his reputation says.”
“He’s changed.” Sort of. “He’s working for me now.” Amaranthe checked Sicarius for a response; though he had said as much, she still felt presumptuous and uncertain making such claims.
He merely stood, arms folded across his chest and back to the wall.
“I see.” Klume’s eyes narrowed as she glanced back and forth between them. She settled on Amaranthe. “You’re the agent and must see to your cut. Six thousand then.”