by Joseph Lallo
“I understand. Thank you.” Amaranthe drew in a deep breath. She had meant to get Books sympathizing with her, not the other way around.
“What advice did you want?” he asked.
She shared the last week’s events, glossing over Sicarius’s role and her suppositions about him. She finished by explaining her counterfeiting scheme.
Books stared at her a while before speaking. Remembering Sicarius’s similar pregnant pause, she wondered if she should be worried that her plans stunned men to silence.
“While I suspect a female enforcer is indeed the perfect person to research an underground business coalition, I don’t see how you can possibly start a counterfeiting operation in two weeks. It’s not something you saw done in your years as an enforcer, is it?”
Sicarius returned to the room and his self-appointed observation post at the window.
“No,” Amaranthe said. “I thought there might be a historical precedent you’d know about.”
“It has been attempted numerous times in the empire and even more often in the desert city-states. Elsewhere, gold and silver coinage is preferred over paper money, which is more susceptible to clipping than forgery. In any instance, counterfeiting is a huge liability for all governments, and they squash startups quickly. It has, however, been successful in the short term for various criminals seeking to enrich themselves and for governments seeking to undermine enemy nations. It’s not so much that your plan doesn’t have merit; it’s that it would take months to set up. The paper ranmyas are printed on is a proprietary blend of hemp and pulp, and it’s not something you can buy. And let’s talk about crafting the plates themselves. Do you know a crooked engraver who will help?”
“See—” Amaranthe was more delighted than chagrinned at his logic, “—I knew you could help. You’ve already thought of more than I had. You’re perfect.”
Books snorted, but a smile peeked through that overgrown beard, and something more.... Pleasure at being needed again? Maybe that was it.
“Your points are valid,” she said, “but, remember, we don’t have to successfully print billions of ranmyas and pass them to all the storekeepers of the city. We just have to make some convincing-on-the-surface copies, enough to concern Hollowcrest and Forge and bring them together to deal.”
“We?” Books rubbed his lips. “Are you here for my advice or to enlist my aid?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“I see. Well, this is the least tedious chat I’ve had in a long time, and I could use a distraction.” His eyes flickered toward the bottle. “It’s clear you desperately need my help.”
“Desperately,” Amaranthe agreed. “And then there’s that landlady who’s on the verge of kicking you out.”
“Indeed. I suppose payment will be in counterfeits?”
She coughed. “Well, I wasn’t planning to circulate any of the bills. I do have a few scruples left.”
“So, no payment at all?”
“I can promise you a place to sleep and food to eat.” Actually, she couldn’t yet, but she would figure out a way to make it happen. “Think about it.” She stood and dragged the chair back to its original location, identifiable by the lighter, stain-free square of carpet. “If you decide to come, you can find us at the icehouse on Fourth and Wharf Street in the morning.”
“Wharf Street? Didn’t something just happen down there?” Books peered about. “Drat, that nag took my papers.”
“Nothing to do with our mission.” She hoped.
After a farewell wave, she trailed Sicarius into the hallway. Outside the building, gray clouds had thickened, blanketing the city. The breeze smelled of snow, and Amaranthe pulled her parka tight.
She glanced at Sicarius. “What do you think? Any chance he’ll come?”
“Perhaps. You found his vulnerabilities and exploited them.”
Amaranthe winced. Was that what it seemed like to him? How could she relate to someone who saw everything as a battlefield?
An intrepid bicycle delivery boy skidded out from a narrow street, tires rasping on sanded concrete. He cut across their path, daring icy roads for his employer. A tower of crates strapped down with cords tottered behind him. Amaranthe wished she had a bicycle so she could move around the city without having to walk. She had not fully recovered from her illness and likely would not for several days.
“I’m going to look for more recruits,” she said. “Could you find us a place to set up our operation? We’ll need more room than the packed icehouse provides, and I’m not convinced someone won’t walk in to check on the stores before we finish. Also—” she fished out a scrap of paper she had written on that morning, “—this is my address. For obvious reasons, I’d be stupid to show up there, but perhaps you could slip in undetected at some point. There’s a box under a loose floorboard between the bed and the wall. There’s about a thousand ranmyas in it.” Along with some sentimental mementos she hoped Sicarius wouldn’t poke through. “I’m hoping it’ll be enough to buy a used press, paper, and ink.” She supposed stealing paper and ink would be possible but a printing press?
Sicarius accepted the address and left without a word.
Amaranthe waited until he disappeared around a corner, then she leaned against the nearest wall. She had only been awake a couple of hours, but exhaustion dragged at her. The only thing worse than being weak was being seen being weak. She wanted Sicarius to have confidence in her, not worry about her collapsing.
After resting for a few moments, she headed for the business district. Unemployed men and women often loitered outside shops, hoping to win a day’s work. Such folks might be converted to her cause.
A few blocks in, she turned a corner and almost collided with a pair of enforcers on patrol. Her heart lurching, she tried to keep the concern off her face. She nodded greetings to them and continued past. A few steps later, she glanced in a storefront window, pretending interest in a strop-and-razor kit. The enforcers had stopped and were staring at her. Did Hollowcrest already have the word out about her? Had he guessed Sicarius would find someone to heal her?
One man pointed at her. Great.
When she resumed walking, Amaranthe kept her pace normal. This wasn’t her old district, and the enforcers did not know her. They must only suspect her of matching a certain description, or they would have already arrested her.
She turned into an alley at the next corner. When she reached the other end, she turned again, glancing back the way she had come without moving her head. The two enforcers were entering the alley. Definitely following her.
Telling herself to stay calm, she eyed the passing storefronts, businesses, and eating houses. Due to gathering storm clouds, or just bad luck, little foot traffic harried the street. No chance of losing the enforcers in a crowd. If she ducked into a building and slipped out the back door, maybe she could elude them. She crossed the street and turned again at the next intersection.
A sign caught her eye: MALE ESCORTS.
Amaranthe darted into the establishment, suspecting her male followers would prove reluctant to step inside. With luck, they would search every other building on the street first.
Inside, a tall ceiling rose two stories and disappeared over the railing of a loft on the second floor. Several fine couches and overstuffed chairs welcomed visitors. Amaranthe, who was no more likely to visit such an establishment than the enforcers outside, half-expected men draped across the furniture. Only one person occupied the room, however, a handsome, impeccably dressed woman.
“Greetings, do you have an upcoming event that you require an escort for?”
Did blackmailing the most powerful man in the empire count as an event? Amaranthe resisted the urge to ignore the woman and hunt for a backdoor. If she plowed through, the proprietor would be suspicious, and likely volunteer information to the enforcers when they came in. If Amaranthe was a potential customer, though, the woman might be less inclined to point her out.
“Possibly,” Amaranthe said. “Do you have...” A list? A pamphlet? A room full of naked men lined up like pastries on the shelf at Curi’s Bakery? “How does it work?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re planning and I can suggest someone?” the woman said. “We have a wide variety of men available. Their fees vary depending on their popularity and skills. Some are just pretty faces, while others are experts in manners and etiquette appropriate for any occasion. If you need not only an escort but a bodyguard, we have several former military men available.”
As if waiting off-stage for this introduction, the most handsome man Amaranthe had ever seen strolled into the room. He was a foot taller than her, a couple of years older, broad of shoulder, and nicely muscular, as revealed by the lone piece of clothing he wore: a—was that fur?—loincloth. To fight reddening cheeks, she forced her attention to his face. Curly brown hair hung tied back from his neck, leaving a few wisps to frame prominent cheek bones and clean jaw. His warm brown eyes glinted with good humor.
After a flustered moment during which she could not remember her name or why she was there, Amaranthe’s mind shifted to calculation. She imagined the ink-and-paper purchasing trip she must soon go on. With her buying, the merchant would say, “Yes, that will be full price plus tax and a shelving fee.” With him buying, it would be, “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly charge you for these supplies, and are you available for dinner tonight, my treat?” That was probably an exaggeration, but with most of the business in the city handled by women, surely he could arrange hefty discounts simply by smiling.
“Costasce,” the man said to the proprietor, “you told me Lady Ludwist was a sophisticated woman from a warrior-caste family. You didn’t say she was five hundred years old.”
“Nonetheless, I notice you’re not returning from your evening’s duties until—” Costasce pulled out a pocket watch, “—10:30 the next morning. It couldn’t have been that unpleasant.”
The man appeared scandalized. He shuddered. “That old crone hung on to me like a starving titmouse grasping for the last piece of corn before winter, but I assure you there were no extra services performed. Not that she didn’t try to inveigle them out of me. After the harrowing experience, I chose to spend the night drinking myself into a state of amnesia.”
“Maldynado, go sit down. Can’t you see I’m doing business?”
“Sure, boss. I just thought you might like to show off some of the wares.”
With no sense of humility or embarrassment, Maldynado stuck a thumb in his loincloth and struck a pose that displayed...a lot. An easy-going smile and amused gleam in his eyes suggested he neither took himself seriously nor expected anyone else to.
“Oh, sit down,” the proprietor said, tone somewhere between exasperation and affection.
Maldynado offered the sort of sweeping bow the warrior caste had spent generations perfecting, then ambled across the room and flopped onto a sofa.
“What’s his story?” Amaranthe glanced toward the door as she spoke, torn between wanting to flee and wanting to recruit this Maldynado.
“Hm, eighth son in an old warrior caste family. Apparently, he refused to go to officer candidate school and join the military. He’s been loafing around on the family estate since. His parents disowned him, and he showed up here a few months ago. Despite being lazy, his looks have made him profitable.” The woman’s face took on a speculative cast as she studied Amaranthe. “He can put on good manners if the situation demands it, and he’s one of the top-ranked duelists in the city, if you have need for protection.”
“A fencing expert?” Amaranthe knew little about the sport dueling the warrior caste practiced, except that enlisted soldiers had little respect for it. A gentleman’s game or not, it was still an art that required years to master. Hardly the pedigree of a lazy man. “May I speak with him?”
“Of course.” The proprietor withdrew to give them privacy.
Amaranthe paused at a window to peer both directions down the street. She was just in time to see the two enforcers entering an alley that advertised several shops and cafes. Good, she had a few minutes.
She sat next to Maldynado. “I hear you’re a highly ranked swordsman.”
He smirked. “In more ways than one.”
Amaranthe resisted the urge to roll her eyes. With his looks, anything less than a gargantuan ego would have been shocking.
“Are you a gambling man, Lord Maldynado?” Amaranthe asked.
“Just Maldynado. I’ve been disowned, you know. What kind of gambling?”
“I have a comrade who is something of a fighter. What would you say to a contest?”
Maldynado’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not Jano or Kasowits, is it?”
“No.”
He relaxed and threw his arm over the back of the sofa. “Your friend prefer saber or rapier?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve actually never seen him fight.” Unless the time Sicarius had almost killed her counted.
“Ah.” The confident smirk twitched across Maldynado’s face again. “What did you want to wager on the outcome?”
“If my man wins, you will work for me for two weeks without pay, though I will see to it that you are fed and have a place to stay.”
“What kind of work?”
He was smarter than she had first guessed. Confident or not, he wanted the details before he committed himself. She leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered her voice.
“I confess, it’s slightly illegal, but you shouldn’t be in any danger. I just need help setting things up.”
Maldynado appeared more intrigued than appalled. But then, the warrior caste tended to think itself above the law. Besides, he was probably bored after spending the last couple months chaperoning old ladies around.
“Danger doesn’t scare me,” he said.
“I mean to help the emperor. I’ve recently found out he’s in trouble from his trusted advisors.”
Maldynado lifted his shoulder, apparently less interested by this addendum. “So, what do I get if I win?” A suggestive leer accompanied the question, but his innuendo failed to obtain a sinister note. The amused warmth never left his eyes.
“What do you want?”
“How about the same deal?” he suggested. “Your buddy loses, and you work for me for two weeks. Doing anything I say.”
“Agreed. Though my period of indenture could not begin until I finish my current work. After the emperor’s birthday.”
“What happens if you get caught?”
“That is a risk,” she said. More of one than she cared to admit.
“I want three weeks then.”
“Fair.”
“Dusk at the Scarbay Gymnasium,” Maldynado said. “I’ll arrange a judge. You and your pal just show up.”
“Agreed.” Amaranthe stood. “Oh, uhm, if any enforcers wander in, I wasn’t here.”
“Of course not.” Maldynado winked.
With his help, Amaranthe found a back exit out of the establishment. She eased through the alley, watching for enforcers. Though she did not see any, she decided a quick trolley ride out of the neighborhood was in order.
Her car rumbled beneath a clock tower as it tolled eleven. She had plenty of time to return and talk Sicarius into his evening bout. Since Books was no guarantee, she felt obligated to search for another worker.
She dared not return to the business district, so she let the car speed her toward the factories and warehouses along the waterfront. Before she reached the industrial area, she spotted a crowd gathered in a square near one of the stops. Raucous shouts and curses rose above the churning wheels of the trolley. Curious, she disembarked.
In the center of the throng, a young man stood locked into a pillory, wrists and neck bound by heavy timbers. Expletives flew through the air along with rotten apples. The freezing temperatures gave the fruit the authority of stones, as evinced by a number of bruises swelling on the man’s face. Hardly a
man. Dressed in oversized clothing, he appeared no more than sixteen or seventeen. On one hand, he bore the circle-and-arrow brand of the Black Arrows. The last time she had seen the mark had been on one of the infected men in the dungeon. They could only be dead now, she thought darkly. Across the back of the prisoner’s shirt, someone had chalked WIZARD. That accounted for the flying fruit.
The gang brand on the young man’s hand almost made Amaranthe reject him without further consideration, but the clouds started unloading snow, and the crowd thinned in response. She edged closer.
“What’s the matter, lady?” His teeth chattered. Fat snowflakes fell and landed on his bare hands and unprotected head. “You forget your apple?”
“I’m not a lady,” she said, sympathetic to his shivers. “My name is Amaranthe.”
“Like I care.”
She withdrew her sympathy. If Maldynado had been charming, this boy was his utter opposite.
“Are you really a wizard?” She doubted it but wondered how he had been insinuated. She was surprised none of his underworld brethren had come to help him escape, or at least ward off the fruit throwers. Shattered apples lay on the ground at his feet, the scent of their rotten insides overpowering the crisp smell of snow.
“You stupid or something?” he asked. “No one in the empire would be crazy enough to practice the mental sciences. They hang you for that.”
Amaranthe’s head jerked up. He had not replied with the familiar Turgonian mantra: magic does not exist. Even more interesting, he had used the term ‘mental sciences,’ like Sicarius did when referring to magic.
“Then why are you locked up?” she asked.
“Accusations, that’s all.”
“Who did the accusing?”
A surge of hurt and anger flashed across his face before he turned it into a snarl. “Doesn’t matter. Leave me alone, lady.”