Dark Currents (41 page)

“Do you pity me enough to heal me?”

“Heal you? You’ve been a wart on my toe since you stumbled onto their plot. Your man nearly destroyed the
amaskort
beyond repair.”

She did not like that he said “nearly.” If there was hope to fix that thing…

“You can’t blame me for that,” Amaranthe said. “You’re harming imperial citizens, and my group works for the emperor.”

Tarok’s blond eyebrows arched.

“Sort of,” she amended. “The emperor doesn’t actually know we work for him, but… It’s a long story. You’re Mangdorian, right? Doesn’t your religion posit the virtues of love for one’s fellow man? And, er, woman? Even if I wasn’t prepared to help you find Sicarius—which I am, remember—wouldn’t you find it a noble choice to heal me?”

She watched his face, trying to determine if he was buying any of her spiel. His lip curled in a sneer. Guess not.

“Have you forsaken your people and your religion then?” Amaranthe asked. “You must have if you’re willing to build devices that can murder people from a distance. And collars to capture horrible creatures that’ll do the same up close.”

His sneer faded. “You are right about our religion, and I would not have chosen to create devices that kill of my own volition. But sometimes…a great good, a victory for a nation, outweighs lesser evils.”

“And you believe that victory is killing Sicarius?” Amaranthe asked.

Tarok lifted his chin. “I will bring his head to my people just as he took the heads of our beloved rulers. That will inspire them, show them that we do have the power to take back what was once ours.”

“If what you want is Sicarius’s head, why the plot against the city?”

“My cooperation in this matter was the price for information about Sicarius. All the information I would need to thwart him.”

Amaranthe wondered what else those spies had pulled out of the files in Imperial Intelligence. “Well, I was kind enough to bring him to your mountain, so there’s no need for you to continue working with Forge.”

Since she did not know for certain Forge was the group behind everything, she watched him to see if he would deny association with the organization. He did not.

“As far as thwarting Sicarius goes…” Amaranthe nodded at the constructs along the wall. “You appear to be set for a battle.”

“You’re trying too hard to get me to go after him,” he said. “You’re attempting to lure me into a trap.”

She offered her best who-me expression, then said, “No, I’m trying to live. Nobody else around here is qualified to help me.”

“Unfortunate for you.” He resumed his stroll toward her. “Do you know what your assassin did to my people?”

When she had said “your monsters,” it had bothered him, and his word choice now bothered her. She did feel responsible for Sicarius, since she had chosen to employ him. “I was a child myself then,” was all she could say. “He answered to another.”

“Your emperor, I know.”

“Who told you? Forge?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Amaranthe said. “Their motivations aren’t pure. They would’ve only given you that information because they wanted something.” She nodded toward the machines.

“It doesn’t matter. They had something I wanted in return.”

He stopped two paces away from her, and she considered going for her knife.

“And you have something I want,” he said. “The assassin’s location.”

The intensity of his gaze had increased, and Amaranthe took a step back. “I already told you I’d trade you that information for my health.”

“Yes, but I can find out where he is without healing you. And, unlike what your lips are telling me, I’m sure what’s in your mind will be truth.”

“In my…mind?”

He lifted a hand toward her temple.

Amaranthe jumped back, gritting her teeth against a stab of pain from her wounds, and yanked her boot knife free. The shaman waved a hand. Heat flared from the handle, searing her palm.

Cursing, she dropped the knife and backed farther—or tried to. Her shoulders rammed against unyielding metal. Something vise-like clamped down on her shoulder.

Amaranthe twisted and tried to lunge away, but the grip held her fast. She craned her neck to see her captor. One of the humanoid constructs had left the wall and rolled behind her on wheels. She cursed herself for not hearing or sensing its approach.

Tarok grabbed her wrist with one hand and reached for her forehead with the other. She kicked him in the groin.

He staggered back and hunched over. Again Amaranthe tried to yank away. Scabs tore beneath her bandages, and agony seared her torso. She gasped, nearly pitching to her knees. In the end, her efforts were for naught: the construct merely tightened its grip.

Teeth bared, the shaman glowered at her. “Down.”

The machine forced her to her knees, and she had no answer for its power. Tarok’s hand came in again, and Amaranthe could not dodge or kick from her position.

At first, she noticed the cool, dry presence of his palm against her hot skin. Then all she was aware of was the fact that she was not alone in her head any more. Memories came unbidden to her mind. The battle on top of the dam, Sicarius’s shooting of the shaman in the canyon, his last conversation with her outside the mine.

As the shaman dug deeper, Amaranthe tried to fight him. She drove her thoughts in directions she hoped would be useless. Old homework assignments, the enforcer training manual, the—

Pain ripped through her mind, and she gasped, back arched. Tarok squashed her attempts at distraction and barreled back to Sicarius with dogged tenacity. He drew everything up from the last few days, and Amaranthe struggled to keep tears of defeat from burning her eyes. Not only would he not heal her, but she would lay Sicarius’s secrets at his feet.

For a moment, the shaman’s presence faded, and she hoped he had enough, that he would not keep going, but his hand did not leave her forehead. He merely turned toward a machine she had not noticed approach. It was the barrel-chested construct that had guided her into the tunnels.

“Deal with them,” Tarok told it, “and return to me. Take those ten.”

With her mind a jumble, Amaranthe could barely think. Only when several constructs ambled past and into the tunnel did she realize: her team had been discovered.

“It seems you
are
the distraction while your men break in,” the shaman said. “It won’t matter.”

Amaranthe wanted to voice a cocky retort, but her mind was working too slowly. Her stomach churned. Maybe if she smothered his boots with vomit that would annoy him as much as a cocky retort. It did not sound nearly as brave.

His touch grew firmer against her forehead, and he entered her mind again. He ripped into her thoughts, stealing everything.

A
sheen of water covered the walls and rivulets trickled down the sloping tunnel floor. The ore cart tracks glistened. With the pump broken, it would not take long for the lower levels to flood, but Books did not think it would happen quickly enough to help them that night.

He, Basilard, Maldynado, and Akstyr walked in silence, listening for noise from above. Since Books had now destroyed two of the shaman’s security devices, not to mention the pump, Tarok ought to be down here investigating. The fact that he was not suggested Amaranthe was up there playing the part of the distraction. That thought did not comfort Books.

The team entered a cavern with a ledge running along one side. Though the chamber appeared natural, wooden posts and beams supported the ceiling, and the far wall had seen miners’ picks.

Books diverted to the ledge, jumped, and peered over it. Though he doubted any of the side passages held backdoors out of the mine, he would not mind being proven wrong—it might be easier to grab Amaranthe and escape deeper into the tunnels rather than out the front. The broad shelf, littered with trash and broken lanterns, ran back about eight feet, but simply ended at a wall.

“No sightseeing,” Maldynado said.

Books caught up as the men continued out of the cavern and into the tunnel, following the cart tracks again.

“The boss is waiting,” Maldynado added.

“Waiting…or captured,” Books muttered.

Basilard stopped, lifting a hand. A thump emanated from the passage ahead, then a scrape.

“Uh oh,” Maldynado said. “If that’s him, then it means Amaranthe might be…no longer in a position to distract him.”

“Let’s go back,” Books whispered. “You boys can hide on that ledge, and I’ll face him. Maybe he won’t know you’re there, and you can get a few shots off while he’s cursing at me for destroying his pump.”

“You sure you want to be the bait?” Maldynado asked as they jogged back to the cavern.

“No,” Books said. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no more to discuss, is there?” They entered the cavern again, and Books chose a spot in the middle.

“I don’t know,” Maldynado said as Akstyr and Basilard veered toward the ledge. “We could discuss strategy. Maybe you should try to look extra enticing so you keep his attention riveted.”

“How do you propose I do that?”

“Show some leg?” Akstyr caught the ledge and pulled himself on top.

Maldynado snickered. “Nah, this is Books. He’s more likely to entice someone by keeping his body fully covered.”

“Have I mentioned how grateful I am you lads came to rescue me?” Books asked.

“No.”

“Excellent.” Books shoved Maldynado toward the ledge.

The first bulky, hard-edged shadow appeared in the tunnel ahead. Others followed. Books did not see the shaman or anything human-sized.

Ker-thunk.

Metal glinted as it flew toward him. Books lunged to the side. A harpoon clattered down inches from his feet. Sparks flew as it skidded, snagged, then flipped end over end.

Books raced for the shelf. He jumped, caught the lip, and cleared the edge without so much as scraping a shin against the rock. He rolled and hit the back wall before coming to a stop.

“Problem?” Maldynado asked, tone bland, though he lay on his belly, rifle butt nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, ready for action.

“The shaman isn’t with them,” Books said. “I don’t think I can entice machines. No matter how much clothing I take off. Or leave on.”

The first construct clanked out of the tunnel, continued several paces, then pivoted and faced Books. Glowing crimson eyes bored into him.

“Oh, I think they’re downright enticed by you,” Maldynado said.

Other constructs walked or rolled out, displaying a variety of means of ambulation. Each carried a barrage of weapons ranging from harpoon launchers to rotating saws to small cannons.

Akstyr whistled. “I want to learn to create artifacts that could power machines like that. So impressive.”

“I’d admire them more of they weren’t trapping us.” On his belly, Books scooted up to peer over the edge between Maldynado and Akstyr.

“Look at the detailed etching on that cannon arm,” Maldynado said. “Only a very bored or very obsessed man could have made all these machines.” He tapped the frame of his rifle. “Or a man with an overbearing wife he’s avoiding.”

The mention of a wife made Books think of Vonsha. He hoped she was somewhere safe, preferably not the same somewhere as the shaman. “Either way,” Books said, “it doesn’t look like he’s coming.” He did not know whether to feel relieved or concerned. How did one negotiate with machines?

The constructs formed a line in the center of the chamber, facing Books and the others. The eight-foot-high ledge offered a modicum of protection, but not enough. Not against that firepower.

Basilard, on his belly beside Books, rifle readied, turned questioning eyes his way.

“I don’t know,” Books said. “I had all my brilliant ideas before you boys showed up.”

“I can only think of one brilliant thing to do alone in a cell,” Maldynado said, “and I don’t want your details describing it.”

“I meant escaping and destroying the pump, you nit.”

Ker-thunk!

A harpoon hammered the wall a foot below the ledge. The construct’s arm whirred, and another projectile rotated into place.

“Whose idea was it to climb up here and get ourselves trapped?” Akstyr asked.

Basilard pressed his cheek against the stock of his rifle, sighted, and squeezed the trigger. The ball smashed into the crimson eye of a bipedal construct with spinning saw blades for hands. The cylindrical head twitched, but the saws continued to whir, sharp steel teeth a blur.

The construct next to it in line slung a harpoon toward Books. He flattened, pressing an ear to the damp stone. The projectile stirred his hair on its way by. It cracked against the rock wall behind him, and the broken shaft landed on his leg.

“Why’s it targeting me?” Books asked. “
I
didn’t shoot one.”

“You’re the escaped prisoner,” Maldynado said.

Something similar to a blunderbuss fired, and a burst of pellets hammered the ledge.

“Lucky me,” Books said. “Given the enhanced attention I’m getting, it would have been even more thoughtful of you to bring me a weapon.”

His comrades fired and reloaded. The rifle shots had little impact on the metal constructs, but nobody offered better suggestions. Akstyr closed his eyes at one point, as if trying to work some magic, but he shook his head and opened them again soon. The shaman’s devices must be beyond his ability to tamper with. Books would have to come up with a plan.

He scooted back, careful not to lift his head—or anything else the machines might target. He grabbed one of the rusty lanterns abandoned on the ledge. A faint sheen of lamp oil residue smeared the inside of the cache. He hoped it was enough. He swiped the wick through it and made himself a couple of fuses.

Shots and curses peppered the air while he worked. A harpoon skimmed over Basilard’s head and cracked against the wall behind Books.

He dropped onto his belly and slithered back up between the men. He fiddled with the clasps on Maldynado’s ammo pouch.

“What are you doing at my belt?” Maldynado fired a shot, then rolled over to reload.