Thank you, Sicarius.
“What are those for?” Maldynado asked.
“Calisthenics.”
Afternoon light flowed through the cracked and missing windows, and dust motes floated in the air. Dust floated everywhere, Amaranthe corrected. And coated everything. How could she possibly plot a government coup in a filthy base reeking of fish guts?
After some searching, she found a closet with cleaning supplies cowering under grime dating back to the Bronze Era. She strode triumphantly out with mop in one hand and broom in the other. Maldynado had dumped the ink and boxes on a counter. He leaned against it and watched her warily.
“How about I sweep and you mop?” Amaranthe asked.
He eyed the cleaning implements with the enthusiasm of a child debating a plate of spinach and liver. “My father used to warn me that gambling would land me in jail or the poorhouse. He neglected to mention indentured cleaning.”
“I could mop and you could sweep.”
“Oh, gee. Much better.” Sighing, Maldynado accepted the broom.
Hours later, Amaranthe surveyed the cannery with satisfaction. Despite Maldynado’s propensity for using the broom to spar with imaginary foes instead of sweeping, the hardwood floors gleamed. The now-pristine counters would allow them to work without worrying about sawdust or fish guts sticking to their bills.
She wondered where Sicarius had gone. Even his daily training ought not take all afternoon.
Akstyr returned before any of the others.
“I need Maldynado,” he blurted as soon as he entered.
If he noticed, or cared about, the new cleanliness of the cannery, he did not show it.
“Why?” Amaranthe asked.
“To help with the press.”
“You found one? Good. Is somebody going to deliver it with a steam wagon?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then how—”
“Don’t worry. Books has a plan. But we need Maldynado.”
“Even he isn’t big enough to port a printing press on his back.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”
“You’re not going to steal a wagon, are you?”
“No, no. Maldynado, you coming?”
Maldynado shrugged and shuffled over to join Akstyr at the door.
Amaranthe leaned on one of the counters and frowned at Akstyr. “Why can’t you tell me what you’re doing?”
“Because it’s Books’s plan.”
“Yes, you said that. I notice he’s not here, however.”
“I know.” Akstyr grinned. “He didn’t want to explain it.”
“Maybe I should come with you.”
“No, no. We don’t need you. Why don’t you make dinner? It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Akstyr dragged Maldynado outside.
“Telling someone not to worry three times is not the way to ensure it doesn’t happen,” she muttered.
Through a window, she watched the two men trot up the hill. She lifted her index finger to her lips, found the nail already chewed to the quick, and started in on her thumb.
After chewing and pacing for a while, she decided to follow Akstyr’s suggestion. A master chef she was not, but they were working for her—for free—so she could certainly prepare some food.
Before dusk settled, she dragged in metal barrels from a neighboring dock and started a couple fires for light and warmth. For dinner, she laid out ham slices, flat bread, carrots, and dried apples on ‘plates’ pilfered from the building’s siding. Just as she set out a jug of cider, shouts came from outside.
Amaranthe ran out the back of the cannery, skidding on the snowy dock. After Akstyr’s admonitions, she expected the worst. She slid around the edge of the building in time to see a large makeshift sled barreling down the snowy hill. A bulky canvas-wrapped object rode on it. The press?
Maldynado perched atop it like a lizard rider from the desert. He leaned left and right in a semblance of steering. Shouting with glee, or maybe terror, he weaved and wobbled down the slick street with Books and Akstyr pounding after him. Runners scraped on sand and ice. The press slid from side to side, barely restrained by the flimsy rope tying it to the sled.
Amaranthe glanced up and down the waterfront, afraid someone would see the strange scene. Counterfeiters were supposed to be inconspicuous. Maldynado whooped, voice ringing from the buildings. Amaranthe shook her head. This was not inconspicuous. Fortunately, twilight had brought the end of the work day, and no one remained on the streets to witness this un-clandestine delivery method.
Through some feat of agility or raw strength, Maldynado and his cargo stopped in front of the cannery instead of skidding out onto the lake. Books and Akstyr came slipping after, shouting and laughing at their success.
“That was fun,” Maldynado said, eyes bright, lips peeled back in a toothy grin.
“I want a turn,” Akstyr said.
Only Books had the sense to peer uncertainly at Amaranthe.
“Whose idea was this?” She struggled to keep her voice even.
Akstyr and Maldynado pointed at Books in unison.
“We found it in the back room of a bookseller who’s closing her business,” Books said. “She was willing to sell it cheaply. It’s an archaic model, maybe the first one ever made if the rust is any indication, but I’m certain I can get it working. As for our arrival...” He cleared his throat. “It occurred to me that the bookshop, though many blocks away, is almost in a straight line from our current location and, uhm, at a rather higher elevation.”
“I see. Well, this was...” Something that could have attracted attention. Something that could have gotten one of them injured or killed. An insane idea that could have seen the printing press go careening onto the lake, through the ice, and straight to the bottom. “Inspired. Very clever of you, Books. I’m glad it worked. Thank you all.” So, this is command. If Hollowcrest doesn’t kill me, these men surely will. “Let’s get it inside.”
It took the group longer to manhandle the press into the cannery than it had to move it several blocks. Amaranthe chose the corner farthest from the street to set up. Through it all, Maldynado sported a grin he would probably wear to bed.
“There’s more to be done,” Amaranthe said, “but relax and have some dinner first.”
The men mauled the neatly spread table like bears crushing a hive to extract honey. She salvaged a hunk of ham and some apple slices for herself. While munching, she examined the press.
Dents gouged the wooden frame, and rust coated the screw and most of the metal joints. She doubted the press was functional at the moment. Remembering some oil and wire dish cloths from the supply closet, she retrieved the implements and set to work on the rust.
Books came over to help. “Have you figured out how to make the plates yet?”
“Yes.” She squirted oil between grooves on the giant screw and scrubbed with the wire mesh.
“We better board the windows. You do realize this is treason and death for all of us if we’re caught?”
“We’re not going to be caught.”
“Counterfeiters are always caught eventually,” Books said. “Debasing the currency is too much of a threat for the government to be anything less than hyper-vigilant.”
“People get caught because they try to pass the money. That’s not our plan.” She wiped a rag over the loosened rust and met Books’s eyes. “If we’re discovered, I’ll do everything I can to make time for you and the others to escape.”
“Sicarius too?” he asked with a hint of amusement.
“If Sicarius is discovered, I’ll have to try and make time for the enforcers to escape.”
Books snorted but did not disagree.
Sicarius returned late that night. He walked directly to Amaranthe and handed her a folded poster. She opened it and found herself staring at her own likeness. She had expected it. The details, however, surprised her.
Amaranthe Lokdon wanted for attempted sedition and illegal magic use. Do not attempt
to apprehend. Kill on sight. By order of Commander of the Armies Hollowcrest.
“Magic use?” she asked. “I didn’t even know the stuff existed until last week.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sicarius said. “Hollowcrest has learned of your survival and fears what you know. You must move around the city with caution.”
“Kill on sight,” she said.
“You get used to it.”
Amaranthe searched his face for humor. There was none.
11
Amaranthe woke several times during the night to pull her blankets tighter and throw more wood into the nearest fire barrel. Drafts like gusts off mountain glaciers whistled through the broken window panes, and what little heat the flames emitted floated to the rafters.
When she noticed someone else awake, she gave up sleep and rolled off the hard bunk. Sicarius sat at a counter, drawing by the light of a fire barrel. The roaring flames looked enticing.
Blanket wrapped about her, Amaranthe shuffled over and perched on the wobbly stool across from him. His hair was damp. Had he already been out running? No hint of dawn brightened the sky beyond the window, but daylight came late this time of year.
A twenty ranmya bill lay on the counter, the imperial army marching across the back. Sicarius’s pen moved with sure strokes, drawing a reverse version of the tableau.
Leaving him alone to work would be wise. Curiosity trumped wisdom, though, and she said, “You were gone a long time yesterday. Did you do anything interesting?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you had?”
Sicarius neither looked up nor answered. The pen continued to scrawl.
“I’m going to my old school today to start researching Forge,” she said. “I thought I’d take Books. Do you want to be in charge of getting the press running? We got a good portion of the rust off last night. I can leave Maldynado and Akstyr to help.”
Sicarius’s fingers moved with precision. “Books will doubtlessly know more about printing presses than I.”
“Yes, but we recruited him to be a research assistant.” Amaranthe raised her eyebrows. “Unless you want to help me shovel through piles of papers in dusty archive buildings?”
“I will go.”
Er. She had not expected him to accept the invitation. It was hard to imagine someone whose daily attire included a dozen knives wandering through shelves, delving into books and ledgers. But then, the same knife-clad man was sitting here, drawing her pictures with—she leaned closer for a good look—amazing accuracy.
“That’s unbelievable,” she said. “Where did you learn to draw?”
The pen left the completed soldiers to work on the numbers and borders.
“You know,” Amaranthe said after a moment of silence, “when someone asks you a question, the socially acceptable thing to do is answer.”
Another silent moment passed, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Burning boards shifted in the barrel, and a burst of sparks flew into the air.
Amaranthe tapped her finger on the counter. “If you answer my question, I’ll leave you alone.”
“For how long?” he promptly asked.
Her shoulders drooped beneath the blanket. She was annoying him.
“Never mind.” She slid off the stool and headed toward the food area.
“Lokdon.” Sicarius looked up.
She paused. “Yes?”
“I had cartography instruction as a boy.”
She bit her lip to hide a smile. A simple answer to a question shouldn’t mean so much. “Is that what you were hoping to do before you decided to take up your current, uhm, profession? Or—” a new idea struck her, “—was that a part of your training for your current profession? Like for spying? You could infiltrate an enemy stronghold and map the terrain and layout for your employer. You said you were just a boy though. You haven’t been training for this since you were a child, have you? It’s not like someone turns ten and decides they want to be an assassin. Do they?”
“I thought I only had to answer one question.”
“Oh. Right.” This time she did smile. The other questions lingered in her mind, but she probably was walking the line of being annoying, so she merely gave him a wave and left to prepare a meal.
By the time dawn slanted through the boarded windows, Sicarius had finished. He woke Akstyr and gave him the finished drawings. After some bleary eye rubbing, Akstyr took the pictures and the plates into a dark corner. He, apparently, did not need light for his work.
The replicas had looked accurate to her, but it was difficult to tell with them in reverse. She hoped Akstyr would succeed at his portion of the scheme and that they could test the press before the day’s end.
“Thank you,” Amaranthe told Sicarius.
He merely crossed his arms and waited for her to get ready. They had research to do.
* * *
A security guard loomed at the entrance to the Mildawn Business School for Women, a clean, three-story brick building with rows of pristine glass windows. In the eight years since Amaranthe’s last class, she had forgotten about the guard. As she and Sicarius approached, she groped for ways to get him—and his knife collection—through the door without starting an incident. Of course, if the guard had browsed the wanted posters lately, Sicarius’s weapons might be the least of her problems.
“Hold.” The guard held his mittened hand out as they climbed the steps. “Only parents and students are allowed inside.”
“Yes, of course,” Amaranthe said. “We’re thinking of enrolling our daughter. Does Headmistress Dona still give tours to parents of prospective students?”
“On the last day of the month, which is not today.”
“I understand, but we’re heading to the gulf on a purchasing trip, and we’ll be gone for weeks. I so wanted to get an application in before we left, but my husband—” she patted Sicarius’s arm, not quite daring to check his face for a reaction, “—doesn’t think we should force little Jaeleka into business. I, of course, told him that an education at Mildawn would be excellent preparation for any career. I attended classes here myself, back when Oskar worked door security.”
“Oh! Oskar is my uncle.”
A fond expression accompanied the guard’s words, so she decided to focus on that instead of her hastily created cover story.
“Is he?” she asked. “He was a fabulous man, always said hello to everyone. Did he retire?”
“Yup, moved down south to escape the winters.”
“Understandable.” Amaranthe nodded to the inches of fresh snow balanced on the stair railing. “Did he get you this job?”
“Yes, I was a soldier before, and that’s a mite more glamorous, but I don’t miss those months in the field.”
“I’d imagine not. You know, Oskar occasionally broke the rules. He let us keep a stray cat in the basement one winter. He even helped us find fish to feed it.”
The guard chuckled. “That was your class? My uncle told me that story. Something about Ms. Maple stomping around the building all winter, wondering what was eating her ferns.”
“Little Raggles had a fondness for greens.”
Sicarius flicked a glance at Amaranthe, probably wondering why he had to endure story hour.
“Could you possibly make an exception for us?” she asked the guard, who was still smirking.
“I guess you can go up and talk to the headmistress.” He waved her through, then frowned at Sicarius. “You’re going to have to leave your weapons at my desk inside. When your daughter is enrolled, it’ll be different, but we can’t let strangers wander the halls armed. You can pick them up on your way out.”
For the first time, Amaranthe looked Sicarius in the eye, silently willing him to follow the school policy. After a long stare her direction, he unstrapped and unsheathed.
“Those are beauties.” The guard reached for one of the throwing knives.
Sicarius caught the man’s wrist. “Touch nothing.”
“No
, sir, of course, not.”
“Now, now, dear. Let’s be cordial.” Amaranthe pulled Sicarius’s arm back. “We want to make a good impression. This is a prestigious institution, and we don’t want to ruin Jaeleka’s chances of acceptance.”
When Sicarius released his wrist, the guard gave her a relieved nod.
“Jaeleka?” Sicarius murmured, when they passed into the halls. His soft boots made not a whisper on the polished hardwood floors.
“You don’t approve?” she asked.
“It wouldn’t be my first choice.”
“Perhaps you could make a list of acceptable baby names for next time.”
Since classes were in session, the halls were still, except for an occasional student ambling to the water closet. Familiar names on doors and the sweet scent of freshly applied beeswax floor polish stirred nostalgic twinges. Was Lady Arranton still a bigger gossip than any of her students? Was Lord Colonel Maxcrest still the only male teacher—and still the hero in all the girls’ soldier fantasies? Were students still stealing Widow Tern’s hardboiled eggs and hiding them in various places around the school?
When they entered an empty staircase, Amaranthe asked, “How was my lying back there? Is it getting any better?” She was still wondering how Sicarius had seen through her prevarications the first time they met.
“I wasn’t watching your eyes.”
“My eyes?” she asked. “Is that how you can tell?”
“You look up and to the left when you’re getting creative.”
“Really? Does everyone?”
“It’s not a science,” he said, “but many right-handed people look right when they’re accessing actual memories and left for imagined.”
“Huh. And the opposite for lefties?” Amaranthe led him into the third-floor hallway and headed for the administration offices at the end.
“Yes.”
She would have to conduct some experiments; that information might help her someday. They passed the headmistress’s domain and tapped on a door labeled Scholarship Office.
“Come!”
Inside, a gray-haired lady peered at them through spectacles with lenses the size of magnifying glasses. A closed door behind her read, “Files.” She sat at a simple desk adorned with a potted fern. Amaranthe stifled a delighted snort when she spotted a hardboiled egg nestled beneath the fronds.
Beginnings: Five Heroic Fantasy Adventure Novels Page 62