“You misunderstand me, ma’am,” Amaranthe said. “We’re not assassins or simple mercenaries. We only take on work that helps the city or the Turgonian people. We call ourselves The Emperor’s Edge because we aim to win Emperor Sespian’s approval.” And pardon. And a place in the history books.
“Your negotiation tactics are shrewd, but I don’t believe you. You’re fugitives with bounties on your heads. His bounty-” Klume pointed at Sicarius, “-is signed by the emperor himself.” She lifted her chin. “Seven thousand.”
“What you say is true, but my bounty is a misunderstanding, and Sicarius has…uhm…decided to work toward exoneration.”
“Eight thousand.”
Amaranthe closed her eyes. Trying to explain was a waste of time. “I think we’re done here.” She headed for the door.
“Wait,” Sicarius said. “Leave us,” he told Klume.
Though no warmth softened his words, Klume smiled triumphantly and gave Amaranthe a we’ll-see-who’s-in-charge look as she strode out.
Amaranthe pushed the door shut and faced Sicarius. “No.”
“We need the money,” he said. “Books’s job in the pumping house isn’t enough to outfit six. To create the force you wish, we need better gear, practice swords, armor, firearms, and a steam carriage so we don’t have to use the trolleys and risk running into bounty hunters and enforcers.”
“I’m aware of that, but we aren’t assassinating people, especially not for the crime of being good at business.”
“If she’s using the Science, she’s violating imperial law.”
“What Kendorian would be dumb enough to use magic in a city where it’s not only forbidden, but where people are so superstitious they’ll turn you over to the enforcers just for talking about it?” Amaranthe shook her head. “No assassinations.”
“You don’t need to come,” Sicarius said.
“We’ll get money another way.”
“Sespian need never know.”
“No.” Amaranthe slashed her hand through the air. “You can’t work to earn the emperor’s favor in the open while sneaking about in the dark, committing vile crimes. Why do you think he hates you?”
It was the wrong thing to say, and she regretted the last sentence as soon as it came out. Sicarius’s expression never changed, but those dark eyes grew flinty. He stalked past her and opened the door.
“I’m sorry,” Amaranthe said. “I didn’t mean to-”
Ms. Klume, who stood outside the door, raised her eyebrows as Sicarius strode by. Amusement curved her ruby lips when Amaranthe burst out, hand stretched after him.
She lowered her arm and stopped. If she wanted outsiders to believe she led the group, chasing after Sicarius like a spurned lover would not help. Coolly and calmly, she faced Ms. Klume.
“Thank you, but we won’t be accepting your offer.”
Though she doubted she fooled anyone, Amaranthe clasped her hands behind her back and strolled through the factory, chin lifted. Since the number of workers had dwindled, she wondered if anyone would stop her if she chucked a wrench into one of the steam looms. Alas, that would probably not create the image she wanted for her team either. Disgruntled by the whole encounter, she yanked her parka off the hook by the door and strode outside.
Rain pelted the sidewalk. Streams ran down the concrete street toward storm drains. Gray clouds promised an early dusk, and gas lamps already burned at intervals. She did not see Sicarius, only workers with their collars turned up. They hustled toward trolley stops or peddled bicycles vigorously to reach dry destinations.
She tugged her parka on and pulled the hood over her head, trying not to see the dismal weather as a portent for the future. She had only been the leader of her group of outlaws for a couple of months, so she supposed it was natural for everyone to assume Sicarius, with his years as an assassin, was in charge of their outfit. He had agreed to work for her because she had proven she was a creative-technically, crazy was the word the men used-schemer who could surprise victory even from powerful opponents. And the team had worked well together in the past weeks, doing more than a few good deeds. The problem was nobody important knew about them. It was time to change that. It was time to find high profile work that would attract attention. Maybe the woman Klume hated was worth investigation, if not assassination. Maybe there was something suspicious about such rapid success.
A sharp report sounded behind her.
Something whizzed past her ear. Stone cracked and sheered off the corner of the building beside her. Amaranthe darted toward a nearby alley, glancing down the street as she ran.
Not ten paces back, a figure pointed a smoking pistol her direction. Though a cowl obscured the owner’s face, she glimpsed a brand on the hand gripping the weapon. In the fading light, she might not have recognized the symbol, but she had seen it often as an enforcer: a skull and an X. The Buccaneers gang.
“Idiot!” Amaranthe shouted at the man. “The mark is up ahead. Didn’t you listen to anything Coxen said?”
She sprinted into the alley, hoping her invocation of the Buccaneers’ leader would befuddle the man momentarily. She pounded up narrow stairs between two towering factories. A question floated back, too muffled to hear clearly. Amaranthe turned into another alley paralleling the main street. The last corner fell behind her, and she raced down a cobblestone slope slick from the rain. Only when she neared the main thoroughfare again did she slow, softening her footfalls.
She peeked around the corner. The pistol shot had cleared the streets of everyone except the cloaked man. His back was to her. He finished reloading the pistol, drew a short sword, and crept toward the first alley she had turned up.
He called out, but the rain drowned his words.
Silently, Amaranthe slid a dagger and her own sword out. She slipped after him. The man reached the alley and stuck his head around the corner. He drew back and peered about. Knowing a single glance back would reveal her approach, Amaranthe turned her stealthy advance into a run.
The man must have sensed it. He turned, cowl spilling around his shoulders. Amaranthe sprinted the last few yards.
He raised his pistol. Without slowing, she hurled the knife.
Though it was not balanced for throwing, the hilt clipped his hand, knocking the pistol from his grip. It clattered to the sidewalk, firing when the hammer struck. The man cursed and jumped, probably afraid the wayward ball would hit him. It gave Amaranthe time to close the remaining distance.
Rushed, he threw a wild first strike. She parried and startled him by darting past him instead of launching a jab of her own. A kick to the back of his knee stole his balance. She grabbed his flailing arm, wrenched it behind him, and twisted his hand against the wrist. His sword clattered to the sidewalk beside the pistol. She pressed the point of her blade against his kidney.
She said, “Tell Coxen-”
A throwing knife spun out of nowhere and lodged in the man’s neck. Startled, Amaranthe jerked back, releasing him. The thug died before his body crumpled to the ground.
Sicarius glided out of the shadows across the street.
“Why did you…” she started, but he pumped his arm and threw a second knife.
In the dim light, Amaranthe could not follow its path. A pained grunt came from the roof above her. A heartbeat later, a man smashed onto the sidewalk, the throwing knife lodged in his eye. A repeating crossbow flew into the street, and the impact sent a bolt flying. It skidded into a curb beneath a gas lamp, revealing a green smudge of poison on the tip.
Amaranthe rested her hand on the damp stone of the building for support. Maybe it was time to get more serious about looking for a disguise to wear in public. The fact that she had the most common eye, skin, and hair color in the empire had served her well so far, but apparently no more.