Amaranthe followed Sicarius to one of only two doors in a short hallway. The one they stopped in front of was made of stout oak and featured a hand-carved image of a spear-toting man hunting a bear alongside a tree-lined river. “Yes,” Sicarius said. Since Mancrest was warrior caste, it made sense that he would have the resources to own a flat that took up half of the floor. What surprised her was that he lived in a neighborhood full of university students and modest-income families, in a building that lacked a doorman in the lobby to keep out riffraff. Maybe as a journalist, he favored being in the heart of the city. Amaranthe took the grocery bags from Sicarius. “Thank you. Do you want to wait outside while I—” “No.” “No?” “He may have a limp, but he’s a former officer. He’ll be a dangerous opponent.” “No doubt,” Amaranthe said, “but I’m not planning to fight him. Also, I find it difficult to...sway people to my way of thinking when you’re holding knives to their throats.
