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familiarity with weapons? Didn’t you go to the mandatory training classes when you were a prim little student reading encyclopedias?” He pointed toward the knives. “Your arm needs to do a whip action. You’ve got to be relaxed to make that.”
    “Pardon me if the idea of hurling four inches of steel into someone’s chest doesn’t
relax
me.”
    “That’s a log, not a person,” Akstyr said.
    “Though we can see how it’d be confusing,” Maldynado said. “Here’s a tip that helps me tell the difference: people scream a lot more when they get hit.”
    There were times Books wished he had the gumption to walk over and punch Maldynado in the mouth. Actually, it wasn’t so much a lack of gumption as the knowledge that he would be the one who would end up with his face smashed into the floor.
    Basilard waved for Maldynado and Akstyr to give up audience status and practice as well. Unfortunately, that did not silence their tormenting.
    When Amaranthe walked in an hour later, Books dropped the knives and greeted her with wide arms and a hearty, “Amaranthe!” that probably sounded desperate. Fortunately, the boys tended to be more civilized when she was around. Despite her gray military fatigues, combat boots, short sword, and dark brown hair swept into a no-nonsense bun, she always struck him as the kind of girl he would have wanted for a daughter rather than some knife-hurling mercenary.
    She observed the knives and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Who’s supposed to be on watch?”
    “Oops,” Maldynado said. “Forgot on account of the alarm bell and bodies.” He jogged out, path wide to avoid Sicarius, who was gliding through the door.
    “Bodies?” Amaranthe arched her eyebrows.
    “Remember, one is from me,” Maldynado called back.
    Books explained the situation. Amaranthe’s eyebrows remained perked throughout, and he could imagine ideas stirring in her mind. Sicarius stayed silent throughout the story. He stood near the door, back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. If anything interested him, one would never know. Just having him watching always made Books nervous. He finished the story and handed Amaranthe the key fob and the damp note.
    “Bodies in our own backyard,” Amaranthe said. “This may supersede the other mystery we were delving into.”
    “Anything interesting?” Books asked.
    “Complaints about magic usage.”
    “Magic?” Akstyr bounced to her side, the model of an attentive school boy—except for the baggy sleeves pushed up to his elbows, displaying a few other brands from his gang days.
    “Sicarius can fill you in,” Amaranthe said. “He knows more about doodads, er, artifacts than I.”
    Akstyr shrank back, appearing less than enthused at the idea of a private chat with the assassin. Sicarius’s expression did not change, but Books had the impression of a cranky wolf lizard known for eating its young.
    Amaranthe examined the key fob, not batting an eye at the glowing feature. “Ergot’s Chance. What is that? A gambling house?”
    “That’s a new place.” Akstyr flipped a knife into the log. “Run by a foreigner. Real popular for some reason.”
    “How do you know about it?” Books asked. “Given our current fiscal situation, it’s unwise to spend time blowing money on gambling.”
    “It’s my money.” Akstyr sneered. “I’ll do what I want with it. Anyway, I was planning to win, not blow anything. Place is rigged though.”
    “A rigged gambling house,” Books said. “Imagine that.”
    “Rigged by a practitioner, I mean,” Akstyr said. “I should’ve been able to win with the new tricks I learned in that book.”
    He was studying magic from an ancient Nurian tome, a project that frequently involved pestering Books for translations. If the youth learned anything that way, Books would be shocked, but he had no interest in arguing.
    “They were using their own non-imperial tricks.” Akstyr threw another knife, clipping the log this time. “That