The Assassin's Curse by Lindsay Buroker

Part I
     
    The afternoon sun beat onto ducks floating in
the lake shallows and turtles basking on logs. Amaranthe Lokdon
would have turned herself over to bounty hunters for a chance to
float or bask. Instead, out in the middle of an inlet, she
struggled to keep her head from going under as waves sloshed into
her mouth and eyes.
    Using both hands, she held a ten-pound brick
in front of her face while her burning thighs rotated beneath the
surface, kicking furiously to keep her afloat. Barely. Despite the
cold lake water, sweat dribbled down her face. Her leaden arms
ached and threatened to let the brick dip below the surface.
    A few feet to her side, Sicarius, notorious
assassin and fellow outlaw, held a heavier brick higher out of the
water. No hint of strain flushed his cheeks, and a calm,
expressionless facade masked his thoughts. He didn’t disturb the
water with his kicks, and neither his face nor his short blond hair
were damp. The summer heat might be enough to wilt normal men’s
ambitions toward physical activity, but apparently this miniscule
workout wasn’t enough to make him sweat.
    Though Amaranthe appreciated his fitness and
dedication to his training, there were times when she wished he
were less perfect. More... human.
    Feeling all too human herself, she groaned
and ducked her head beneath the water to cool her face. The brief
reprieve felt good, but she was careful not to let the brick dip
below the surface. If she failed to keep it up there for long
enough, he would make her start over. For the third time.
    Amaranthe was in charge of their group of
mercenaries, but she bowed to him in matters of training. She
wasn’t sure whose idea that had been, but she was beginning to
regret it.
    “How much... longer?” she asked when she came
up.
    “You grow weary?” Sicarius asked.
    “Of course not.” Amaranthe tried not to pant
or gasp as she spoke, or at least not to sound as if she
were panting or gasping. “I’m just... concerned that... if we’re
out here too long... we’ll get sunburnt. A bad burn... could
inhibit our... ability to train tomorrow.” There, he wouldn’t see
right through that. Of course not.
    “It’s been three minutes.”
    Dear ancestors, was that all? “Three minutes
already? This isn’t... a very challenging exercise, is it?” A wave
shoveled water down Amaranthe’s throat, and she sputtered, almost
letting the brick drop before she recovered.
    “Shall we switch weights?” Sicarius held his
brick out toward her.
    Why she always insisted on bravado with him,
she didn’t know. Some deluded feeling that he would be more
impressed with her that way, she supposed. “I wouldn’t want to
deprive you of your training. It’s—”
    A great crash boomed, drowning out
Amaranthe’s words. At first, she thought it sounded like metal
ramming against metal, but then a thunderous crack of wood echoed,
like a tree snapping in two during an ice storm.
    She lowered the brick and scanned the nearby
shoreline. This far south of the city, rocks and trees dominated
the coast with the land being too craggy for farming or building.
Roads and the main railway to the capital did cut through the
terrain, and she wondered if there might have been a train crash,
or perhaps someone had run a steam lorry into a tree.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t see rails or roads from the secluded
inlet.
    Amaranthe looked south, thinking a boat
coming out the mouth of the river might have crashed into the rocks
around Darkcrest Isle. The newspapers reported such incidents more
often than one would think, and the island was supposedly
haunted. Though she put little stock in such notions, the craggy
landmass, gone wild with evergreens and brambles, did have a
tendency to appear dark and brooding even on a sunny day.
    Sicarius’s gaze was toward the mainland
though, and he pointed at a hillock dotted with pine trees.
    “Is that smoke?” Amaranthe asked.
    “Yes.”
    “A wreck? Shall we check it out?”
    “It is