The Emperor's Edge

The Emperor's Edge Ch. 8 Pt. 1

A locomotive roared through town, rattling barred windows, and kicking up a newspaper that skidded across the icy street to smack Amaranthe’s calf. She shook it off with a sheepish glance at Sicarius. Dressed all in black—again—he waited at the base of steps leading up to the Brookstar Tenements. Only his panoply of daggers and throwing knives broke the monochromatic look of his attire. Fate, she supposed, would never be so blasphemous as to pelt him with trash.

She adjusted the tight collar of her business suit. Where he had found the outfit, she did not know, but everything from the boots to gloves to the parka and fur cap fit reasonably well. And there were no grizzly bloodstains to suggest he had killed someone to get it. That was something, at least.

“I’m ready,” Amaranthe called over the chugging wheels of the locomotive.

Sicarius led the way up the cracked concrete steps. Black, textured mats covered the ice but did little to enhance the decor of the old brick building. At the door, Amaranthe paused to straighten a sign that promised the availability of rooms for monthly, weekly, nightly, or hourly usage.

Inside, they stopped before a desk manned by a plump grandmotherly woman. Forehead furrowed, she did not look up. An abacus rested on the desk, and she alternately flicked its wooden beads and scribbled figures in a ledger.

“Is Marl Mugdildor here?” Sicarius asked.

“No.”

“He may go by Books."

The landlady regarded them for the first time. “Yes, are you relatives? Are you here to pay his bill?”

Amaranthe sighed. Sicarius’s acquaintance did not sound particularly reputable.

“No,” she said. “We have some business with him. Can you direct us to his room?”

The landlady eyed Sicarius with apprehension. “Books, he’s not a bad fellow, just had a rough time this past year. He doesn’t really deserve...” She cleared her throat and turned beseeching eyes toward Amaranthe, probably thinking they had come to collect on a loan.

Sicarius did have the icy demeanor of a debt collector. If only he were that benign, Amaranthe thought dryly.

“We aren’t going to hurt him,” she promised.

“He’s usually in the common room on the third floor.” The landlady scooted around the desk. “I’ll show you up.”

“Thank you,” Amaranthe said.

A threadbare carpet led them up two flights of stairs permeated with the scent of lye, which did not quite overpower the underlying urine stench. At the end of the hall, the landlady stopped before a door and held up a finger.

“Let me just straighten him, er, the room up.” She shuffled inside, shutting the door part way behind her.

For a moment, Amaranthe thought the lady meant to warn Books that someone was looking for him and that he should run, but exasperated words soon tumbled out, eliminating the concern.

“Books? Wake up, there’s a pretty young lady here to see you. Are you drunk already? Here, comb your fingers through that, that, why can’t you find someone to give you a haircut? And a shave? And, gah, why don’t you use the baths? Give me that bottle. It’s too early to be drinking. By the emperor’s teeth, why don’t you do something with yourself? You owe me three months back rent. Straighten up. You’re slouching like a—”

“Leave me be, you meddling shrew!” The male speaker, voice raspy from disuse, sounded hung over.

Amaranthe put her hand over her face and shook her head. She looked at Sicarius through her fingers. As usual, his expression was unreadable.