Dark Currents (11 page)

“You just described the entire mountain range.”

Maybe goat.

“So, nothing distinctive there.” Books let his finger stray across the enormous plots of land. Though the topography map showed much of the area was steep and inaccessible, ore and lumber could mean a lot of wealth. Vonsha had not struck him as someone swathed in riches though. “You said trees. Was there a lot of timber up there?”

Basilard made a circle with his fingers.

“Small trees? New growth?”

A nod.

“So, it’s already been logged. That’s not surprising, since there’s a river and road running through the valley.”

Basilard pointed at the maps, at Books, and shrugged.

“You’re wondering if there’s a purpose to my rambling? Well, I’m trying to figure out what’s interesting about this land. Someone hired that appraiser we found in the aqueduct, then slit her throat after she delivered her information. Presumably there’s something to hide up there. Though—” Books fished out the original scrap of paper, “—while this seems like a lot of money to me, it’s not enough to imply there’s anything valuable on the land.”

Dead men? Gashes?

“Yes, I’m curious about the dead workers too. I have a feeling we’re going to end up taking a trip soon.”

Basilard yawned and pointed to his own sleeping area.

“I guess that’s enough research for tonight.” Books blew out the candles and lay down with a groan. He wondered if the others had found anything interesting in the gambling house.

•  •  •  •  •

For the seventh time, Amaranthe tried the door. For the seventh time, it did not move. She pried at the hinges, probed the ceiling, and peered into every corner of the unimaginative vault, but no escape options presented themselves. By now, it felt as if days had passed, though it had probably only been an hour.

She nibbled on a thumbnail and tried to tell herself she had no reason to worry. “Herself” did not listen, choosing instead to contemplate the worst.

Since this was not the money vault, no one would come in at the end of the night to deposit earnings. For all she knew, this contraption was only checked once a week. She had no food or water, and the air was probably limited. Worse, she had to pee.

She put her back to the door and studied the machine again. The chest-high contraption took up most of the space in the cramped vault. It clanked and whirred, oblivious to her presence. Maybe if she broke it, someone would sense a problem and come check on it. That would open the door, but it would also get her captured. Most likely by someone irritated she had busted the machine.

Still…

What other options did she have?

She pulled out her short sword and utility knife and debated whether finesse or brute force would be best for the task. Too bad she did not have a pistol. Or maybe not. She eyed the hard walls and pictured a pistol ball ricocheting everywhere.

Sword in hand, she stalked around the machine, searching for weaknesses. The glowing orb caught her eye. If it powered the machine, destroying it should halt everything. Of course, the orb might throw off some magical surge of energy that would electrocute her faster than a lightning bolt…

“Why do I get myself into these situations?” she muttered.

After taking a deep breath, she gripped the sword in both hands, raised her arms above her head, and slammed the tip into the orb.

Amaranthe expected it to shatter like glass or repel her blade like metal. Instead the sword sank in slowly, as if through dense mud, and the orb deflated, collapsing in on itself. The magical light faded, leaving her lantern as the only illumination. Machinery whined and ground to a halt. Silence filled the vault.

Until the alarm went off.

The sound, something between an alley cat’s yowl and a baby’s scream, reverberated from the walls and hammered Amaranthe’s eardrums. Footsteps pounded through the hallway overhead.

She sucked in her belly to slide past the machine, crouched behind it, and cut off the lantern. Scrapes sounded on the other side of the door. Amaranthe gripped her sword, though she hoped to hide and slip out during the confusion.

The door swung open. Keeping her head low, she peered around the corner of the machine. Light from the hallway silhouetted two figures and threw their shadows across the floor. Maybe she would get lucky and one would be Sicarius.

“Someone’s in here.” It was Ellaya’s voice.

So much for hiding.

“Get the others!”

Amaranthe sprang. She landed on top of the machine and leaped between Ellaya and a bouncer holding a pistol. Amaranthe shouldered the woman into the door, even as she slashed at the man. Her intention was not to do major damage, but the bouncer lifted an arm in a hasty block, and her blade sliced through clothing and flesh. He roared and dropped the pistol.

Amaranthe grabbed it and ran past them. The bouncer lunged for her but clipped Ellaya, and his fingers only brushed Amaranthe’s shirt. She jammed her sword into its sheath and sprang up the ladder.

She had to stop at the top to fiddle with the trapdoor latch. A hand clasped her ankle. The bouncer. She leveled the pistol at him, pointing it between his eyes. He released her.

Amaranthe threw the trapdoor open. She sprinted down the hallways and darted between the two bouncers guarding the entrance to the back rooms. One let out a startled yell and reached for her, but he was too slow.

In the crowded gambling room, Amaranthe’s size was an advantage. She ducked and dodged, crawling under a table at one point, while the larger men struggled through the patrons.

“Crazy woman with a pistol!” someone shouted.

“Where?” a bouncer called.

“Get her!”

“There. She’s running for the—oomph!”

Amaranthe wondered if that was Maldynado, doing his bit to help. Or had he left long ago? And where
was
Sicarius?

She ducked arms stretching to grab her. One caught her hood and nearly tore her jacket off. She tugged away, seams ripping. Only in the empire would people attack someone with a pistol instead of throwing themselves to the floor.

The path cleared as Amaranthe neared the entrance, and she thought she might escape without shooting anyone. The double doors stood open, the night street stretching beyond, but two bouncers blocked the exit. With bare muscled arms that blacksmiths would have envied, the men appeared strong enough to rip someone’s head off with their hands—and stupid enough not to move at the sight of a firearm.

A wise woman would have stopped and tried to find another way out. Amaranthe sprinted toward them, pistol raised. They saw the weapon and crouched, but did not move from the doorway.

One slipped a hand into his belt. Steel glinted. A throwing star spun toward Amaranthe.

She ducked but kept running. Movement blurred at the corner of her eye. Someone barreled toward her from the side, diving for her legs. She leaped over the flying bouncer. He missed his grab and skidded into the crowd.

Another ten feet, and she would crash into the men blocking the door. The one with the throwing stars reached for a second.

Amaranthe fired the pistol, aiming at the wall behind his head. Her ball grazed his ear, but he only roared. She threw the pistol at his face. While he batted it away, she angled to his side, choosing to go around him instead of between the two. He grabbed for her, but she shifted her weight to the outside foot and launched a sidekick into his knee.

His leg crumpled, and he stumbled against his comrade.

Amaranthe raced out the door. Mist thickened the air, and the street traffic had thinned. That meant fewer people to hide her escape, so she did not slow down. Sweat plastered her clothes to her body, and strands of hair that had torn free from her bun whipped in her eyes.

Halfway to the main street, a twang sounded behind her. A crossbow quarrel skipped off the concrete at her feet.

She urged her legs to greater speed. Her breath rasped her in ears. A few more paces, and she would reach the intersection where she could duck around the corner and—she hoped—disappear.

“Down,” a familiar voice ordered from ahead.

Amaranthe threw herself into a roll. Another crossbow quarrel zipped over her and clanged off a streetlamp.

She came up running and lunged around the corner. She almost crashed into Sicarius. He sidestepped to avoid her and hurled something with a burning fuse. It spun down the alley and clattered onto the concrete.

Amaranthe kept running and did not see the result. A moment later, coughs and curses came from the dead-end street.

Sicarius fell in beside her and they ran several blocks, turning a few times before slowing.

“Smoke bomb?” Amaranthe sucked in a few deep gulps of air, but her breathing returned to normal quickly. She was glad for all the training they did, or she would likely be on the ground wheezing after that long sprint.

“An acrid one, yes.” Sicarius gave her a sidelong look. “I’d almost gone back to the hideout. What were you doing in there so long?”

“Snooping. Getting trapped. Getting found. Running. Evading. It was quite the full evening.”

“I see.”

“Have you heard of Waterton Dam?”

“No.”

“I’ll ask Books. I’m not sure if Ellaya is involved with those murdered people or not. All I know for sure is that she’s storing people’s personal information in those fobs, and there was something about a ‘return compulsion.’ Any idea about that? A magical way to coerce people to come back to the same gambling house and spend money again and again?”

“Possibly.”

“Also, I may have done some physical damage to a magical device, which might leave Ellaya rather peeved at me.”

“Might?”

“All right, it’s a high probability.”

“That the device is damaged? Or that Ellaya is peeved at you?”

“Yes.” She smirked at him.

Footfalls slapped the concrete behind them. A boy dressed in rags scurried up to them.

“Ma’am.” Though he could not have been older than eight, he thumped his fist to his chest in a soldier’s salute and lifted his chin. “I have a very important message for you.”

“Oh?” she replied.

The seriousness with which he took his delivery task was somewhat diminished by the fact that his “message” was scribbled on the back of an apple taffy wrapper.

Nobody recognized the dead bloke, despite my pinpoint description. Akstyr got beat up. Taking him to The Pirates’ Plunder for a night of relaxation. Will meet at the hideout at daybreak. Or nine. Or noonish. ~M

“The Pirates’ Plunder is a brothel, isn’t it?” Amaranthe asked Sicarius.

“Yes.”

“Relaxation. Right.”

The boy cleared his throat. “The mister who told me to deliver this said you’d give me a tip.”

“That mister is a pretty generous fellow,” Amaranthe said, though she fished in her pocket for a coin, “and I’d be shocked if he hadn’t already given you that tip.”

The boy shifted his weight and studied the street. “Well, I did have to wait longer than he said I would…”

“Ah, of course. Your patience is admirable.” Amaranthe tossed the coin to the boy.

He jogged away.

“Shall we check on Books?” Amaranthe asked. She wanted to have a powwow with Books
and
Sicarius, to see if they could figure out if all these events were connected. Basilard would be there, too, and he might offer some insight on Ellaya, since they were both Mangdorian. That reminded her…

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what that woman was talking about when she brought up Mangdoria?”

“No,” Sicarius said.

Amaranthe clawed through her memories, trying to think of Mangdorian atrocities Sicarius might have caused, but it was such a minor nation—small scattered tribes rather than anything with a central government—that it rarely made it into the imperial newspapers. “Can you at least tell me if it’s something that’ll cause a…problem if Basilard finds out about it?” she asked.

He did not answer.

“Aren’t we to the point in our relationship where you feel you can tell me some of your secrets?”

“That didn’t go well last time,” he said, voice hard.

Amaranthe frowned. He was right about that. She ought not to pry. Yet, if Sicarius had done something to irk Mangdorians in general, and Basilard learned of it, she could end up with a rift in her group. Or worse.

Sicarius handed her a folded piece of paper. “I found this in the woman’s desk drawer.”

“You snooped? Excellent, excellent.” She veered toward a gas lamp. “I thought you might find such tasks beneath you.”

“The acquisition of information is a job I’ve performed frequently.”

“When you say it like that, it almost sounds noble.”

Sicarius remained in the shadows while Amaranthe held the page to the light. Though the hour had grown late, pedestrians were still walking in pairs and groups. Most were boisterous with drink, but she had best not spend too long with her face limned by lamplight.

“We thank you for putting us in contact with the Maker,” she read. “Please accept our protection, free of charge, for the next year. After that time, additional coverage may be purchased at the rate of ten percent of your net profits.”

Amaranthe lowered the page and joined Sicarius in the shadows.

“You read it?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Who could provide that kind of protection? Forge?”

“Many organizations could, gangs included.” Sicarius started walking.

Amaranthe caught his arm. “If it
is
Forge, this could mean they have an inventor who can make magic things, right? That’s what a Maker does, isn’t it? Create devices like the one I may have possibly—probably—damaged. What do you think?”

“That I’m tired of standing in an alley.” He pulled his arm away and strode forward, not bothering to see if she followed.

Surprised by his abrupt dismissal, Amaranthe ran to catch up. “Any reason you’re being stiffer and snippier than usual tonight?”

“Next time you need someone to distract a woman while you snoop, Maldynado would be a better bet,” Sicarius said.

Ah, so that’s what he was sour about. Ellaya might appear mature and prim, but it seemed Amaranthe’s first impression had been right, and she had a healthy…appetite. Sicarius had no trouble rebuffing people—obviously—but he had probably had to humor the old woman to buy time for Amaranthe to explore. Well, there were worse things in the world. He would get over it.