by Joseph Lallo
“Yes. I’ll need good paper and a fine pen. I hear Maldynado on the dock. Go get the supplies.”
She wanted to question him further—why would an assassin know how to draw?—but Maldynado staggered inside with arms full of bags, wrapped meat, a jug, and a crate with...
“Are those air holes?” Books asked.
Amaranthe hastened over to help Maldynado unload. The crate squawked.
“Chickens?” she asked.
“You could have sent someone to help me carry things,” Maldynado said.
“You bought all that for ten ranmyas?” Books asked.
“Actually, I got it for free,” Maldynado said smugly. After setting the crate down, he fished out Amaranthe’s bill and returned it. “I was just going to buy some cans of corned meat, but I started talking with the shopkeeper, and she told me about this problem she was having. Apparently, some farmer rode his dogsled—” Maldynado rolled his eyes at this notion of antiquity, “—out of the fields and across the lake to barter for supplies. He brought lots of fresh farm things to trade.”
“Like chickens?” Akstyr peered into the crate and licked his lips.
“Indeed so,” Maldynado said. “Anyway, this shopkeeper had all these chickens in the back making noise, needing to be fed, doing what chickens do after they’re fed. Apparently, one escaped and pecked a customer yesterday. The shopkeeper sent a message to the closest butcher, but he wanted to charge her to take away the chickens. So I smiled and said, ‘Why don’t I take those chickens for free?’ She was so relieved that she gave me a bunch of the other food the farmer had brought in. We have fresh bacon, goat cheese, dried apples, cider, and tomorrow, we’ll have eggs.”
“Nice,” Akstyr purred.
“Good work,” Amaranthe said. “Let’s have something to eat, then we’ll get busy. Maldynado you’re the official shopper for the group now.”
“Wise choice,” Sicarius murmured.
“Shopping?” Maldynado’s smugness melted away, replaced with a chagrinned slump.
“Yes, in fact, we’re going paper shopping right now,” she continued over Maldynado’s groan. “Books, we need a printing press. Akstyr, can you help him find one and bring it back here?”
“I don’t want to go on some stupid errand,” Akstyr said.
Amaranthe rummaged through her mind for something she could offer to make the task appealing to him. Of the three men she had recruited, Akstyr was the most likely to be a problem. She doubted Maldynado or Books would turn her into the enforcers, but if Akstyr saw a better opportunity than the one she offered...
Sicarius had the knack of moving without anyone noticing him move, so when he appeared at Akstyr’s side, the younger man jumped several inches. Sicarius rested his hand at the base of Akstyr’s neck. Though the touch was light, the meaning was unmistakable. Akstyr stood utterly still, not even breathing.
In the silence that descended, Amaranthe heard the breeze bumping the buoys hanging on the outside walls.
“Follow her orders,” Sicarius said softly.
Akstyr closed his eyes and gulped. “Y-yes, sir.”
Sicarius lowered his hand. His gaze flicked to Maldynado.
“Oh, I like her orders,” Maldynado said. “Official shopper, excellent. No strenuous labor for me.”
“Yes, I have no issues either,” Books said, almost as pale as Akstyr.
Amaranthe’s lips stretched, though she did not know if in a grimace or a smile. As handy as having some muscle to back up her wishes was, she detested the idea of winning people’s cooperation that way.
Books opened his mouth, hesitated, glanced at Sicarius, and then raised a finger as if he were a student asking a question in class.
“Yes?” Amaranthe asked.
“I’m not complaining about this task—” he shot another glance at Sicarius, “—but how do you propose I find a printing press? I assume you’re not providing funds for its purchase. And supposing I do acquire one, how should I get it back here?”
“I can allocate up to five hundred ranmyas if you find something.”
“That won’t buy the handle.”
“We don’t need a steam-powered press. Just find something old and rusty we can fix up.”
“I don’t think—”
“I came looking for you specifically,” Amaranthe said, rushing to speak before Sicarius could make any more sinister innuendoes, “a highly educated and experienced professor, because I knew you would be able to come up with solutions that I, a lowly ex-enforcer, could not. I know you can do this, Books.”
The narrowed eyes and head tilt Books gave her said he saw through her manipulation, but his expression suddenly grew thoughtful, and he tugged his beard. “Hm.”
“What?” she asked.
“I have an idea.”
* * * * *
Ink Alley, a frequent stop for business supply shoppers, meandered through four city blocks. Shops advertised stationery, accounting books, wax and seals, ink, and paper of various weights and sizes. Despite being a well-known destination, the ancient street was narrow, and Amaranthe had to dodge bundle-laden shoppers. Maldynado, who walked at her side, made no apologies for his broad shoulders and let others do the dodging. He did offer a smile if the person happened to be young and female.
“I gave Books a large portion of my funds,” Amaranthe told him, “so I need you to get me a good deal on paper and ink.”
“Your big plan involves blackmail and counterfeiting,” Maldynado said. “Why don’t we just steal your printing supplies?”
“And damage the livelihood of some poor businesswoman trying to make a living? I couldn’t do that.”
“You need to work on this criminal stuff.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, we don’t need to leave a trail of burglaries that would tell some enforcer investigator what we’re up to.”
Etchings in the window panes of a shop portrayed old-fashioned ink pots, quills, and scrolls of parchment. Bins of pencils and pens and myriad types of paper lay behind the glass.
“How about this place?” she asked.
“Sure. I’ll probably have greater success if you wait outside.”
“Why?”
“Because if you come in hanging on my arm, it’ll look like I’m not available. Charming women works best if they think they have a chance.”
Amaranthe hesitated, not sure whether to trust him to get the right items. But, if it meant getting a better deal... “Very well. I’ll write our needs down for you.”
“I don’t need a shopping list. I’ve got a great memory.”
“We’ll need rag paper, not pulp-based. And pay attention to the weight. We won’t find an exact match, but we want the closest we can find. Make sure to get printing press ink. Books says it’s made from soot and turpentine and nut oil. Anything else will smear. We’ll need a paper cutter too. And plates, but I’ll select those from an engraving shop.”
“Rags and what oil?” Maldynado asked.
“I’ll write it down.”
“Good idea.”
After he went inside, Amaranthe continued down the street. Newspaper articles plastered a brick wall near a window, and she stopped, wondering if any mentioned the “bear” slayings. The yellowed clippings only highlighted old stories featuring Ink Alley.
About to move on, she paused at a reflection in the window. A boy of ten or twelve watched her from across the alley.
Ensconced in numerous layers of raggedy clothing, he slouched against a wall. When she turned, he yawned and looked away.
Amaranthe wandered farther down the street. A low rail paralleling a wall offered a place to park bicycles and street skis. She propped her foot on it and peeked under her arm while pretending to adjust the fit of her boot.
The boy lurched to a stop, hunkered over a trash can, and rummaged through it.
Great, who set this child to following me? Enforcers used youngsters as infor
mants, since adults tended to ignore them, but she could not assume he was one of theirs. Other people employed youths for similar reasons. Businesses used them to spy on other businesses. Gangs gathered intelligence on rival gangs. Even lovers sent children to watch partners suspected of cheating. Given how long it had been since Amaranthe’s last romantic relationship, she easily eliminated the last possibility.
A few stores down, she found a shop that sold engraving tools. She stepped inside and browsed the display case nearest the window. The boy appeared again, whistling as he strolled past the shop. He sat against a wall a dozen paces down, took off his fur cap, and begged for coins.
Definitely watching me.
“Help you, ma’am?” a clerk asked.
“I need a couple of metal plates about so big.” Amaranthe outlined the rectangles with her hands. “Better make it four of them.” Akstyr might need to practice first.
While the clerk wrapped the plates, Amaranthe glanced out the window again. The boy had not moved.
“Mind if I cut through the back?” she asked after she paid.
The clerk pointed to the rear exit. Amaranthe entered an ‘alley’ as wide as the front street, though it smelled less pleasant. Discarded food wrappers frozen to the icy cobblestones crinkled beneath her boots. Streaks of yellow decorated the dirty snow piled against the walls.
Amaranthe knocked on the back door of the ink and paper shop. Nobody answered, so she tried the knob. Unlocked.
Inside, Maldynado was...posing? Amidst the shelves and cases of paper, he stood with one leg propped on a chair. One of his hands rested on his raised knee, the other on his waist. His jaw jutted toward the ceiling. A seated woman wearing a blouse and a long felt skirt hunched over a sketch pad in her lap, drawing him.
Amaranthe cleared her throat. “I thought you were—”
“Yes, yes,” Maldynado said without breaking his pose. “It’s all over there.”
Three boxes and several wrapped bundles waited on a counter next to a paper cutter. On the way across the room, Amaranthe shot Maldynado a what-are-you-doing look that he ignored. She peered under the lid of the topmost box to make sure he had purchased rag paper. She picked up a sheet and rubbed it between her fingers. It didn’t feel exactly like ranmya paper, but the heft was right. It would have to do.
“Maldynado, what are you doing?” she asked.
“Posing.”
“Why?”
The woman with the sketch pad frowned over her shoulder at Amaranthe. “Who’s she?” she asked Maldynado.
“Uhm.”
“I hope you’re being paid,” Amaranthe told him.
“What?” he asked.
The woman’s frown deepened.
“I suspect she’s going to use your likeness in her advertising literature. Your handsome face will be a marketing gimmick to sell more paper to her predominantly female clientele. That means she’ll make money, so you should too.”
Maldynado’s chin dropped, and he addressed the artist. “Is that true?”
The woman shrugged.
“You said you wanted to immortalize my face in your memory.”
“And on her promotional pamphlets.” Amaranthe tugged the paper cutter and one of the boxes into her arms, leaving the rest for Maldynado. “Finish up. I’ll wait outside.”
Before leaving, Amaranthe checked the front window to make sure the boy was not standing out there with his face pressed to the panes. In the alley, she tapped her foot until Maldynado came out the back door with the rest of the supplies.
“Is there a reason we’re taking the alley?” he asked. “The air is a tad ripe out here.”
“Unfriendly eyes out front.”
“Enforcers?”
“A ten-year-old boy.”
“Oh, yes. Terrifying.”
“He’s someone’s spy,” she said.
“I could go thump him around a bit, find out whose.”
“Let’s try to avoid child-thumping for now.”
They walked to the trolley stop, and at every intersection, Amaranthe glanced left and right for the boy. She did not see him again but did not relax until she and Maldynado boarded. He set down the packages, dug out a wad of bills, peeled a couple off the top, and handed them to Amaranthe.
“Your split.” He winked.
With a team to feed, she saw no reason to reject it. “You seemed surprised that was what she wanted. I would have thought you’d have run into that kind of situation before. Were you really taken in by her flattery?”
“We had servants who did the shopping. Never had much reason to interact with those kinds of people.”
Amaranthe wondered what kind of people he considered her.
“That was good of you back there,” he added. “To catch that. Maybe after you’re done with your current scheme, we could work together. You can get me posing gigs. I’ll be pretty and you can be...”
“Your agent?”
“Precisely.”
“Assuming I survive this, I haven’t thought too closely about what my next career should be.” She had never wanted a ‘next career.’ “I’ll remember your offer though.”
“Excellent, boss.”
Amaranthe smiled. Maldynado seemed to be loose with who he called boss, and she doubted it came with any heartfelt feeling of indenture—he had left his previous employer quickly enough—but the title warmed her nonetheless. Maybe she had earned a modicum of his respect.
None of the others were there when Amaranthe and Maldynado returned to the cannery, though two knotted ropes hung from the rafters, their tufted ends dangling a foot from the floor.
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.