Free Ice Cracker II by Lindsay Buroker Page A

but connected with nothing.
    Her gaze slid downward, though she lowered
her eyelashes so her foe would not see. Maybe she could spot prints
being made, even if her opponent was invisible.
    There.
    In the weak light, she had to strain her
eyes, but the snow depressed in slow, deliberate steps. She drew
some comfort from the normal boot-shaped prints; her attacker was
likely human.
    She stepped toward the piling and poked
behind it, feigning clueless stabbing, even as she kept those
footprints in the corner of her eye. The enemy circled toward her
side, walking slowly enough not to make a sound. She continued
jabbing in front of her until the prints grew closer. The invisible
person lunged.
    Amaranthe whipped her sword to the side,
raking the air.
    A man cursed in a foreign language. Drops of
blood spattered the snow. Footsteps, loud and quick, announced a
hasty retreat.
    Amaranthe lunged out of the shadows,
wondering how to stop the man.
    A dark figure dropped from the top of the
dock, landing beside her. She brought her sword up, her heart
lurching, but she recognized the newcomer and almost laughed in
relief.
    "Sicarius. You—"
    He stopped her with an upraised hand. His
other hand held a throwing knife, and, after listening for a
second, he hurled it toward the trail. The steel blade zipped
through the falling snow.
    A cry of pain ripped along the waterfront,
and a man appeared. He pitched forward, landing face-first in the
snow, the knife hilt quivering between his shoulder blades.
    "Nice aim." Amaranthe nodded appreciation
toward her comrade.
    If Sicarius felt satisfaction from the throw
or gratitude for her compliment he showed neither. As always, his
aloof, angular features remained masked, suiting the grim black he
wore from soft boots to wool cap. Only his armory of daggers and
throwing knives broke the monotony of his wardrobe. He was not the
type of person one wanted to run into in a dark alley. Unless he
was on one's team.
    "You're late." His voice was as emotionless
as his face.
    "How'd you know I'd be running the lake
trail?" Amaranthe asked.
    "Books beat you on the obstacle course this
morning."
    She grimaced. Though pleased he cared enough
to come looking, she was chagrined she was so transparent. Did the
other men know she trained extra to keep up with them at physical
feats?
    "I expect to lose to you,"
Amaranthe said, "but if I can't even beat Books , then how can I..." She stopped
herself short of saying 'presume to lead the group.'
    "Your words are what convinced him to train
harder."
    "Yes, and I'm pleased at his progress. I just
wish his progress was a teeny bit behind mine."
    "I see."
    Too much, probably. If one whined about
whether or not one was fit to lead, one probably wasn't. She lifted
a hand to dismiss her comments and headed up the bank toward the
body. Sicarius walked beside her, somehow gliding across the snow
without a sound. He retrieved his knife, slipped a folded black
kerchief from his pocket, and cleaned the blade meticulously.
    "Kendorian?" Amaranthe nodded at the
body.
    "Yes. A shaman."
    The foreigner wore buckskins rather than the
factory-sewn wool garments Amaranthe had on, and the thick blond
braid and pale skin were unlike the darker coloring of imperial
citizens. Tattoos of snakes and rats adorned the side of his cheek
and neck—the rest of his face was buried in the snow.
    "He has a friend." She waved to indicate the
blankets and bags.
    "I saw."
    While Sicarius searched for other tracks,
Amaranthe knelt and rifled through the Kendorian's pockets. Nothing
identified him, nor did a handy
why-I'm-invading-the-empire-and-killing-soldiers note provide
illumination. She checked the belongings under the dock but again
found no identifying items. A small toolkit stirred her imagination
though.
    Sicarius returned. "No other recent
prints."
    "Hm. Any idea what Kendorians would be doing
down here?"
    Other than the ice workers chiseling out
blocks for the summer trade, little activity