Dark Currents (42 page)

“I’m going to help.” Books removed a flask of black powder.

“You’re not taking off my pants, are you?”

“No.” Books slid one of his fuses into the mouth of the flask. “Does anybody have a match?”

“No,” Maldynado said, “and why are you taking
my
powder for this
help
you’re planning? I’m going to need that.”

One of the machines on treads rumbled forward, a human-sized shield extended. It rammed into the base of the ledge. The earth quaked beneath Books’s belly, and pebbles trickled down from the ceiling. An overhead support beam creaked.

Maldynado fired his rifle and a pistol at the ramming construct, but his shots ricocheted off its metal hide, leaving only small dents.

“Let me borrow that.” Books tugged the pistol from Maldynado’s hands without waiting to see if he would object.

“Oh, that’s why you wanted the powder?” Maldynado asked. “To reload for us? Good idea. You’re not doing anything else useful.”

Books ignored the jab. He tilted the pistol, cocked the hammer, and pulled the trigger, trying to direct the sparks onto his fuse instead of into the pan.

“You have to load the gun before you fire it,” Maldynado said as he rammed a ball into his rifle.

“Thanks for the tip.”

The construct with the shield slammed into the ledge. Rock crumbled and gave way. The support beam groaned again.

This time when Books pulled the trigger, sparks landed on his fuse. He blew them to life and tossed his makeshift explosive. It clinked onto the head of the construct ramming the ledge.

Maldynado grabbed his arm. “What are you—”

“Down!” Books barked.

The men imitated turtles.

The explosion rocked the ledge. A portion of it crumbled beneath Akstyr. He squawked in surprise, scrambling about, trying to catch the deteriorating lip. Books lunged over Basilard and caught Akstyr’s arm. He braced himself, but the weight almost pulled him over too. Gritting his teeth from the effort, he dragged Akstyr back atop the shelf. A harpoon slammed into the rock at the base of the ledge, where Akstyr
would
have been without the help.

Books released the younger man and slumped back against the wall. If Akstyr had been hit, it would have been his fault.

He inhaled deeply. Dust and black powder smoke filled the air, bringing tears to Books’s eyes and stinging his nostrils. Another round of pellets flung toward them. He flattened himself again and Akstyr shuffled to the side, taking a second to glower at Books through the hazy air.

“I lost my rifle,” Akstyr said.

“I’ll trade you a pistol for your powder flask.” Maldynado coughed and wiped at tears streaming down his cheek. “Some dumb lizard blew mine up.”

“Someone had to do
something
,” Books said.

Basilard thumped Maldynado on the chest and pointed over the edge. The thinning smoke revealed the closest construct, toppled and unmoving, its head missing, its torso warped and charred into scrap.

“And I
did
do something,” Books said. “That one’s not bothering us again.”

Basilard nodded and gripped Books’s arm.

“That
one
,” Maldynado said. “And you used a third of our powder to destroy it. There are ten more over there.”

“It’s something at least,” Books said. “The rifles are completely ineffective. You’re just irked I used your powder instead of someone else’s.”

“You should have at least asked—”

A cannonball pounded into the ledge below Maldynado. Rock crumbled, and he disappeared over the side in a haze of dust and falling rock.

“Blast it!” Books lunged, lowering an arm again. He could not see through the dust. “Maldynado?”

A groan floated up, a groan muffled by layers of rock. A metal body on treads advanced through the haze.

Akstyr cursed. “He’s crow food, isn’t he?”

Books glared at him. “Mal, hurry up! Grab my arm.”

Rubble stirred. Maldynado’s dust-coated curls pushed through, and he shoved rocks aside.

The advancing construct rumbled closer, lifting an arm cannon. An orange spark shone through the haze.

“Move!” Books shouted.

Maldynado jumped up, sloughing rubble. The cannon fired. Books yanked his arm back and rolled away from the edge. The earth quaked again. Dirt and rock plummeted from the ceiling. A stone thudded onto Books’s head.

Stunned, he flopped onto his back. Shrapnel rained down about him, pieces gouging through his clothing and into his skin. Black dots swam through his vision, and blood trickled into his eyes. Maldynado might have been right: creating the explosion had been a bad idea. It had only incensed the constructs to increase the intensity of their attack.

•  •  •  •  •

Amaranthe woke in less pain than she expected. Voices—the shaman’s and a woman’s—murmured nearby, so she kept her eyes shut. She lay on her side on the floor, but the rough texture of a wool blanket pressed against her cheek. Strange courtesy from the man who had torn her thoughts out of her head.

“Take it,” Tarok said. “For your family. I’ve spent most of what they gave me on tools and materials, but if the plan fails perhaps this will help.”

“I don’t want your money,” the woman said. “I want you to give up this foolishness with the assassin. Revenge isn’t worth dying for.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Vonsha. Your people have been conquerors for centuries; you don’t know what it’s like to be bullied and oppressed, shunted into inhospitable lands.”

Vonsha? Books’s Vonsha? Amaranthe opened her eyes. The woman stood near the door, facing the shaman, clasping his hands.

“Is it truly worth risking your life combating a man who kills for a living?” Vonsha asked, her grip tightening on Tarok’s hands. “It won’t bring your dead rulers back.”

Tarok’s head drooped, and his long blond hair covered his face. Amaranthe had to strain to hear his next words.

“No, but it will empower and unite my people. They’ve been fragmented and squabbling since the royal line was extinguished. They don’t always…understand my work, but they’ll understand this. I’ll finally find honor amongst the elders.”

“Tarok…”

“I’ve made up my mind. One way or another, I’ll make sure that man dies.” Coins clinked as he pressed a bag into her hands. “Go, please. You should never have been a part of this madness. I want you safely out of here.”

“Be careful.” Vonsha walked out, shoulders slumped.

Not Books’s Vonsha after all, Amaranthe decided, upset on his behalf.

The shaman turned to a task he had apparently started before she woke: packing a bag. Several small devices went inside, and he surveyed upper shelves, seeking some assassin-slaying ultra weapon, no doubt.

The constructs he had sent out earlier were still gone. Her stomach lurched. Had they found Books, Maldynado, and the others? Were they even now attacking her men? Maybe she could slip away and help them when he left. Or she could trail the shaman and assist Sicarius. If she was capable.

Since he did not seem to be paying attention to Amaranthe, she inspected her wounds. Her gut still ached, but fever no longer burned her skin. The other injuries did not hurt as severely as before either.

“Yes,” Tarok said. “I drove out the infection. I didn’t want to tax myself healing you completely, since I have a confrontation to attend shortly, but you’ll live if you don’t do anything foolish for the next couple of days.”

“Why?” Amaranthe asked. “I mean, thank you, but, er…
why
? Do you think…” If he had been in her head, he could not believe she would help him against Sicarius.

“No, your loyalty, no matter how misplaced, is clear. His disinterest in returning that loyalty is unsurprising. You’re a naive doll for thinking well of that animal at all, but otherwise you seem a good-hearted person. I thought you deserved a chance to straighten out your life. Perhaps one day you’ll thank me for my next task. It may make yours easier.”

Amaranthe sat up. She had to stop him, or at least warn Sicarius the shaman knew…far more than she had planned for him to know.

“You’ll forgive me, I trust, if I summon a guard.”

She groaned. That would make slipping out hard.

Sooner than she expected, a construct entered, the one that had first led her into the mine. The one that had led the other machines into the tunnels to hunt down her men. Blood smeared its barrel chest. Her fingers curled into a fist. Maybe she was too late to help anybody.

“They are defeated?” the shaman asked without looking up. He fastened the flap on his pack.

The construct clanked into the room, its gait more awkward than Amaranthe remembered. Someone must have damaged it. Hope stirred. Maybe Books had come up with something clever, and the men had defeated all the machines except this one, which had escaped to report back.

She eased to her feet.

The construct stopped a pace away from the shaman and raised an arm.

“Well?” Tarok faced his machine. “Are you impaired? Why—”

One of the harpoons fired into his chest. Amaranthe gaped, as shocked as the shaman. Two more harpoons slammed through his ribs, and the construct jerked its arm across, slashing the last blade across his throat. Tarok staggered back and collapsed.

Not sure what to expect next, Amaranthe snatched the closest tool off a nearby bench. Pliers. She brandished them like a knife.

The construct’s arms came up, not to aim harpoons at her, but to grab its head. Amaranthe stared. It wiggled its head back and forth, then removed it, revealing…Sicarius’s face. Blood matted his blond hair on one side, but he appeared otherwise hale. He tossed the hollow head-turned-helmet onto the desk, and Amaranthe glimpsed a few wires and broken innards inside it. Much more must have been torn out. Sicarius shucked the rest of the hollowed body parts and checked the shaman.

A half an hour earlier, Amaranthe might have gotten in line to stab the man, but that was before he healed her and called her a good person. Of course, he had also called her naive and misguided for associating with…

“Pliers?” Sicarius asked.

“Er.” Amaranthe loosened her death grip on the tool. “I’ve found them effective for snatching and twisting people’s…important parts.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Of course, I don’t employ such methods on friends and colleagues.” Amaranthe tossed the pliers on the bench. She stepped around the shaman and wrapped her arms around Sicarius. “I thought you weren’t willing to come after me.”

Sicarius did not return the hug, but he did pat her on the shoulder and endure the embrace without acting as if it was torture to do so. “Yes, you had to think that.”

She leaned back, though she did not release him fully. “You knew? That he could swim around in my head, collecting coins from the bottom of the pool?”

“Telepathy is one of the mental sciences. The Nurians and Kyattese train in it far more frequently than the Kendorians and Mangdorians, but I suspected someone as accomplished as he might have developed the skill.”

Amaranthe released him, wondering if he had come to kill the shaman to help her or just because he wanted to make sure his secrets did not find their way into someone else’s head through her. She shook her head. It did not matter. He was there. Besides, he had saved her life in the tower when there was no time for premeditated thought, when it was simply about instincts. That meant…a lot.

“Next time,” she said, “you might mention things like mind-reading foes before I stroll in to talk to one. It might alter my preparations.”

“I’ll consider it.” Sicarius eyed her. “He healed you?”

“The infection, yes.”

“How did you convince him?”

Amaranthe thought about answering honestly, that she had done nothing, but decided it might help her down the line if he believed she wooed the shaman with her tongue. Sicarius might have saved her life—twice in as many days—but she still believed he was sticking around because he thought she’d eventually be in a position to talk to Sespian on his behalf.

“You have your secrets,” she said with a smile, “and I have mine.”

A bang sounded somewhere in the depths of the tunnels. A rifle shot?

“The others,” Amaranthe said. “Have you seen them? Are they still fighting?” She jogged to the workstation to search for a weapon. Twinges in her abdomen reminded her she was not yet healed fully. One more hour, she thought. She would rest if she could abuse her body for one more hour.

“I don’t know,” Sicarius said. “I saw several machines leave this workshop and head deeper into the mine. I drew this one away so I could attack it alone.”

“How hard was it to destroy?”

“Hard.” Sicarius drew his black dagger. “I was able to climb on the back of it, cut a seam at the base of its neck, and slice the control wires leading from the power source.”

She peered in a toolbox but found nothing more lethal than the pliers. “Could you have done the job with a normal knife?”

“Slice the wires, yes. Cut through the seam, no.”

Another gunshot rang out.

“They sound like they need help.” She eyed the glowing orbs.

“It was difficult to destroy
one
construct. There are a dozen down there.”

At least he did not say the men were not worth saving. A couple of months ago, he would have.

“I understand that,” Amaranthe said, “but there must be something here that can help. What do the orbs do?”

“They’re the power sources. The shaman creates them, then uses mundane technology to build the machines.”

She thought of the one she had destroyed in the gambling house’s vault. At the time, it had been good that it had caused no great explosion, but now she wished they could be used as tiny bombs.

Amaranthe grabbed the bag the shaman had packed. “Maybe Akstyr can do something if we can get this stuff to him.”

“If he’s alive,” Sicarius said.

“Are there any optimistic assassins in the world?” She jogged for the door, relieved Sicarius followed her.

“That aren’t dead?”

“Er, yes.”

“No.”

“Ah.”

S
omeone shook Books. He pushed away the fog hazing his mind and focused on the face above him. Basilard. A rifle fired nearby. Akstyr.