The Emperor's Edge by Lindsay Buroker Page A

hearing of a bear sighting. A bear killing people sounded even more unlikely.
    The Wharf Street part stood out for a different reason. She glanced toward the window and the frozen stacks beyond. All the ice houses in the city were near the docks, which meant this building was close to—maybe right on—Wharf Street. Something new to worry about. Wonderful.
    Reading the story wasn’t enlightening, and she couldn’t help but think back to Hollowcrest’s admission that the papers didn’t always print the truth.
    After finishing, she grimaced at the date. Assuming it was today’s paper, she had lost four days between the dungeon and the sickness. Only two and a half weeks remained until the emperor’s birthday celebration. What could she possibly do to stop Hollowcrest and Forge in so little time?
    She had no money, no weapons, no idea who comprised Forge, nothing. She needed an ally, but now that she was on the less desirable side of the law, she could hardly go to her enforcer friends for help. The only one she could ask was someone already marked as a criminal….
    Amaranthe laid the paper on the desk, edges lined up with the corner, and walked back to the window. Now Sicarius was sprinting through some sort of twisty footwork course he had constructed. If she didn’t say something, he’d be down there all day.
    The next time he finished a lap, she cleared her throat nosily. Sicarius looked up at her.
    “Just wondering why I’m alive,” Amaranthe called down. “And why we’re camped in an icehouse.”
    Sicarius acknowledged her with a twitch of his hand, but continued his exercises.
    She returned to the cot. Just walking around the tiny room left her depressingly weak. And cold. She nudged the cot closer to the stove and pulled the blanket more tightly around her. It smelled of sawdust and more pungent sickbed odors.
    A few minutes later, Sicarius entered, fully clothed again.
    “The icehouse happened to be near where you collapsed on the trail,” Sicarius said. “There was a limit to how far I could carry you through the city without drawing attention. It is also fully stocked, so the workers have moved on to filling another warehouse down the block. Disturbances have been infrequent.”
    “Thank you,” Amaranthe murmured. “How did you, ah…I wasn’t expecting… They told me the disease was always fatal.”
    “Yes, unless healed by someone who understands the mental sciences. I recognized the symptoms of Hysintunga and found a shaman.”
    The mental sciences? A strange synonym for magic.
    “A shaman in the empire?” she asked. “In Stumps? You can be hanged for
reading
about magic. I can’t believe anyone would risk practicing it here.”
    Or that it existed. Even when the surgeon had casually discussed magic in the dungeon, it had failed to penetrate her long-held beliefs. Or disbeliefs rather. Amaranthe prodded her arm where the bug had bitten her. Nothing remained of the wound. Perhaps it was time to question those beliefs.
    “Most people in the empire either do not believe in the mental sciences or would not recognize them being practiced regardless,” Sicarius said. “Though this is not an easy place for foreigners to live, sometimes it is safer than what they leave behind, especially if they are hunted by fellow practitioners.”
    Fugitive magic users? In her city? Amaranthe rubbed her face.
    “He must not have been too bad of a fellow if he was willing to help me,” she reasoned.
    “He was paid well.”
    “Oh.” Amaranthe swallowed. She had only meant to seek Sicarius in order to relay information to him. She had not thought he would be able to save her, or that he would bother even if he could. “Thank you,” she said again, the words inadequate. “I owe you—”
    “An explanation.” Sicarius regarded her intently. “Clarify the situation with the emperor. I could not understand the incoherent jumble you spit out before falling unconscious.”
    So, he had helped her because