Amaranthe ran alongside the frozen lake,thighs weary, calves sore, ragged breaths steaming before her. Theshort sword belted at her waist felt ten times heavier than it was.An inch of fresh snow blanketed the trail, and thick flakes waftedfrom the steely sky. They stuck in her lashes and melted down herflushed cheeks.
The marker came into view, and she dug apocket 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 almosttripped over two bodies sprawled across the path, "-the deadsoldiers on the trail," she finished, voice cracking as the breezeshifted and the butcher shop stench enveloped her.
The soldiers, recognizable by their blackuniforms and military-issue pistols, had died recently: slitthroats poured steaming blood onto the white trail. A tangle ofscuffs and footprints trampled the snow around the bodies, but notrails led away from the scene.
Exercise forgotten, Amaranthe yanked hersword free. She crouched and surveyed her surroundings, wonderingwhere the killer had hidden to launch the ambush-and wondering ifthat killer might be there now, waiting to do it again.
Without their foliage, the skeletal apple andmaple trees lining the lake offered little cover. A hundred metersahead, the industrial section of the city began. Deep, dark alleysran between warehouses and factories whose smokestacks belchedblack ribbons into the low gray clouds. Anyone hiding in thosealleys would have had to race across a field of snow to reach thesoldiers though. Closer to her, a gas lamp sputtered at the head ofthe first of hundreds of docks lining the waterfront. The darkhollow beneath the boards held her gaze. Between the snow and thecoming dusk, the lighting was poor; someone might well have hiddenbeneath the dock.
Even as she watched, a crunch sounded.Someone shifting weight on the snow? Her grip tightened on thesword.
The self-preservation part of her mindsuggested returning to her jog and leaving this mystery to another.But thanks to a frame job by a late enemy, she was wanted forconspiring to kidnap the emperor. She wanted exoneration, and forthat to happen she needed to seek out noble-andnotice-gaining-tasks. This might be the opportunity she needed.
Amaranthe stepped off the trail. At first nofootprints marred the bank, but, six or eight feet off thewell-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 breathappeared before her eyes. The snow muffled the city sounds; thewaterfront stood eerily silent.
When she reached the dock, she crouched,half-expecting someone behind the pilings. Nobody was there. Acouple of packs and bedrolls lay tucked in the shadows, however.Had the soldiers chanced upon this campsite and been killed fortheir discovery? She crept forward, intending to investigate.
Snow crunched behind her.
Instincts ruling, she lunged behind a thickpiling. The sound of a sword whistled through the air inches behindher. But when she turned, using the piling for cover, she saw onlythe emptiness of the bleak white shoreline.
She kept her sword ready. Magic, it had tobe. It was almost unheard of here in the heart of the empire, whereimperial mandates hypocritically forbade its use and denied itsexistence, but she had bumped against it a time or two.
"What do you want?" Amaranthe did not know ifshe addressed a person, or some wizard's minion, but it wouldlikely not hurt to ask.
Silence.
Clothing rustled behind her. She threwherself to the side, rolled, and came up as a chunk of wood shearedoff the piling. Amaranthe swung at the spot the attacker shouldhave been, but connected with nothing.
Her gaze slid downward, though she loweredher eyelashes so her foe would not see. Maybe she could spot printsbeing made, even if her opponent was invisible.
There.
In the weak light, she had to strain hereyes, but the snow depressed in slow, deliberate steps. She drewsome comfort from the normal boot-shaped prints; her attacker waslikely human.
She stepped toward the piling and pokedbehind it, feigning clueless stabbing, even as she kept thosefootprints in the corner of her eye. The enemy circled toward herside, walking slowly enough not to make a sound. She continuedjabbing in front of her until the prints grew closer. The invisibleperson lunged.
Amaranthe whipped her sword to the side,raking the air.
A man cursed in a foreign language. Drops ofblood spattered the snow. Footsteps, loud and quick, announced ahasty retreat.
Amaranthe lunged out of the shadows,wondering how to stop the man.
A dark figure dropped from the top of thedock, landing beside her. She brought her sword up, her heartlurching, but she recognized the newcomer and almost laughed inrelief.
"Sicarius. You-"
He stopped her with an upraised hand. Hisother hand held a throwing knife, and, after listening for asecond, he hurled it toward the trail. The steel blade zippedthrough the falling snow.
A cry of pain ripped along the waterfront,and a man appeared. He pitched forward, landing face-first in thesnow, the knife hilt quivering between his shoulder blades.
"Nice aim." Amaranthe nodded appreciationtoward her comrade.
If Sicarius felt satisfaction from the throwor gratitude for her compliment he showed neither. As always, hisaloof, angular features remained masked, suiting the grim black hewore from soft boots to wool cap. Only his armory of daggers andthrowing knives broke the monotony of his wardrobe. He was not thetype of person one wanted to run into in a dark alley. Unless hewas on one's team.
"You're late." His voice was as emotionlessas his face.
"How'd you know I'd be running the laketrail?" Amaranthe asked.
"Books beat you on the obstacle course thismorning."
She grimaced. Though pleased he cared enoughto come looking, she was chagrined she was so transparent. Did theother men know she trained extra to keep up with them at physicalfeats?
"I expect to lose to you,"Amaranthe said, "but if I can't even beat Books, then how can I…" She stoppedherself short of saying 'presume to lead the group.'
"Your words are what convinced him to trainharder."
"Yes, and I'm pleased at his progress. I justwish his progress was a teeny bit behind mine."
"I see."
Too much, probably. If one whined aboutwhether or not one was fit to lead, one probably wasn't. She lifteda hand to dismiss her comments and headed up the bank toward thebody. Sicarius walked beside her, somehow gliding across the snowwithout a sound. He retrieved his knife, slipped a folded blackkerchief from his pocket, and cleaned the blade meticulously.
"Kendorian?" Amaranthe nodded at thebody.
"Yes. A shaman."
The foreigner wore buckskins rather than thefactory-sewn wool garments Amaranthe had on, and the thick blondbraid and pale skin were unlike the darker coloring of imperialcitizens. Tattoos of snakes and rats adorned the side of his cheekand neck-the rest of his face was buried in the snow.
"He has a friend." She waved to indicate theblankets and bags.
"I saw."
While Sicarius searched for other tracks,Amaranthe knelt and rifled through the Kendorian's pockets. Nothingidentified him, nor did a handywhy-I'm-invading-the-empire-and-killing-soldiers note provideillumination. She checked the belongings under the dock but againfound no identifying items. A small toolkit stirred her imaginationthough.
Sicarius returned. "No other recentprints."
"Hm. Any idea what Kendorians would be doingdown here?"
Other than the ice workers chiseling outblocks for the summer trade, little activity centered around thelake in the winter. The military's ice breaking ship kept thetransportation lanes open for imports and exports, but the fishingboats and canneries lay dormant.
"Something important enough to warrantkilling soldiers to avoid discovery," Sicarius replied.