The Emperor's Edge

The Emperor's Edge Ch. 17 Pt. 2

Amaranthe stepped outside of the cannery with an egg-and-flatbread sandwich for Sicarius. It was his turn on watch, and he stood at the base of the dock, talking to a man dressed in bland civilian clothing. Now who had stumbled onto their hideout?

Both men noticed her well before she reached them. Sicarius held out a staying hand, and the stranger turned his back to her to finish the conversation. She stopped. This wasn’t some random passerby, but someone Sicarius knew. A folded sheet of paper went from the stranger’s hand to Sicarius’s and, after a wary glance at Amaranthe, the man walked away.

Sicarius opened the note to read. Curiosity propelled her forward, and she glimpsed a couple lines of pencil before he turned his back to her. All right, what are we being so secretive about here?

After reading, Sicarius crumpled the note, turned back, and accepted the sandwich.

“News on the creature?” Amaranthe asked.

“No.”

“The emperor? Hollowcrest? Counterfeiting?”

“I need to leave.” Sicarius strode down the dock toward the cannery.

“For how long?” She tried not to feel like an attention-seeking puppy bouncing at his heels as she trailed him inside. “Are you coming back tonight?”

Sicarius did not answer. He walked past Books and tossed the crumpled note into a fire barrel. Amaranthe’s shoulders slumped. He wasn’t going to tell her what it said, and now she had no chance of reading it either.

“You are coming back, right?” she asked as he walked out the door.

Without answering, he was gone.

Amaranthe grabbed the burning paper out of the fire. Heat seared her fingers, but she managed to get it to the nearest counter before dropping it. She blew on the flames, but the note had already transformed into a charred ball. When the fire burned out, she could only stare glumly as smoke wafted from the illegible black remains.

Books slid onto a stool on the opposite side of the counter. “Sicarius isn’t sharing his secret missives with you?”

“This is the first secret missive that I know about. I’d trade my grandfather’s knife to read what it says.” She tapped a finger on the lacquered wood of the counter.

Maldynado’s snores competed with Akstyr’s in the sleeping area; they had both pulled long watch shifts the night before. She supposed she ought to go outside and take over Sicarius’s abandoned post.

“Hm.” Books lowered his chin to the table and squinted at the charred ball. “I wonder if it was written in pen or pencil.”

“It looked like pencil. Secret missives should be erasable, you know.”

“Hm.”

“You said that already,” Amaranthe said. “You don’t by chance know some way to read this?”

“I should not like to make promises, but the grease in pencil lead makes it fairly fire retardant. The words are likely still there. It’s just a matter of seeing them.” Books stood. “Let’s take a look in your cleaning supply closet, shall we?”

“Whatever you say, professor.” Amaranthe followed him to the cubby.

He pulled open the door and gaped.

“What is it?” she asked. “Did you find what you need?”

“It’s spotless in here. You cleaned the cleaning supply closet?”

She blushed. “Possibly.”

“I assume there’s soap in...ah, there. And an atomizer, excellent.” Books tossed Amaranthe a bar of soap, then puffed a rubber ball attached to an empty glass bottle. It hissed a few times. “Shave some soap into this and fill it with water. I’ll find a couple panes of glass.”

Trying not to feel bewildered—and dumb—Amaranthe completed her task and met Books at the counter. He nudged the charred ball onto a dirt-free square of glass and picked up the spray bottle. He shook the soapy water and squirted the ball. Mist dampened the black paper.

Amaranthe leaned forward, not sure what to expect, but barely breathing. Once it was wet, Books eased the crinkled mass apart. Instead of crumbling into ash, the black paper slowly but surely flattened onto the glass.

“The soap makes it stay together?” she asked.

“The glycerol in the soap.” Books laid a second pane of glass on top of the first, sandwiching the black paper between them. “Here, hold it up to a light.”

Amaranthe lit one of their kerosene lamps. After a glance at the door, she picked up the glass by the corners.

One of Maldynado’s chickens squawked. She fumbled and almost dropped the glass.

Books watched her, and she feared a mocking comment about her nerves, but only grimness marked his face. “You realize if he finds out we did this, he’ll kill us,” he said.

“Maybe it’s just a grocery list.” Amaranthe tried a smile, but her mouth felt dry and her lips couldn’t manage the position.

“You read it. I’ll wait outside.”

“And leave me holding the condemning evidence?”

“Precisely,” Books said. “He likes you more than me.”

“Warn me if you see him coming.”

Books waved and stepped outside.

Alone except for the snoring men, Amaranthe hesitated. Should she really be spying on Sicarius? If she wanted him to trust her, shouldn’t she be someone he could trust? But if they were at cross-purposes, ignorance of it could be fatal. She chewed on her lip. The obvious attempt at justifying her actions did not sit well with her conscience. Still, she did not set the note down.

She lifted the glass before the lamp, and the light illuminated the pencil through the black paper.

It was not a grocery list.

The past is forgiven. Your old job awaits. Name your price.