“…the light.”
Vonsha’s eyes widened. Books held a finger to his lips and pushed his chair back silently. He folded the Irator’s Tooth Valley map and another of the surrounding mountains, then slipped both into his satchel. Vonsha opened her mouth, as if she might object, but a scuffle in a nearby aisle stopped her.
Books backed away from the table, crooking his finger for her to follow. After a brief hesitation, she eased out of her chair. The back of it bumped against a bookshelf.
“You hear something?” one of the voices whispered.
“This way.”
Hesitation gone, Vonsha rushed to join Books in the shadows. He drew her back into an aisle in the opposite direction from the voices and found a spot where they could peer over the tops of books between shelves and glimpse the table.
A man with a scruffy beard and scruffier clothing shambled into view. Bulges beneath his coat at waist-level may have represented weapons. He eyed the table, glanced around, then shuffled back the way he had come.
“Homeless?” Vonsha whispered.
“What would a homeless man hope to find in the real estate library?” Books whispered back.
“Maybe he’s looking for retirement property in the mountains.”
The shadows hid her face, but Books had no trouble deciphering the teasing in regards to his weak cover story.
“I sense you’re a sharp lady,” he said.
“I teach young people. When it comes to lies, I’ve developed a knack for shifting through people’s slag piles to find the nuggets of ore.”
“You teach?” Delight at finding a kindred soul infused his tone, and he had to force himself to lower his voice. After all, they were being stalked by someone. “I taught history for more than fifteen years at Bartok,” he whispered. “Do you—”
A clatter stilled his tongue. An unmarked tin can had landed on the table. It rolled toward the edge, a lit fuse sticking out of one end.
“Back, back!” Books grabbed Vonsha and pulled her down the aisle.
An explosion roared. Wood shattered, and shelves toppled into aisles, hurling their contents. Something sharp struck Books’s temple, and heavy tomes pelted him from all sides. The book cases framing his aisle wobbled and tilted inward, cracking together. He ducked. They met over his head, forming an A. Certain one would collapse, burying Vonsha and him beneath it, Books hustled faster. Still pulling her, he lunged out of the aisle and planted a hand on the brick wall at the end.
She slumped into his arms.
“Vonsha?” he asked.
Blood saturated the front of her shirt and dripped from a shard of wood embedded in her neck. Closer to her collarbone than her throat, it did not appear to have hit the jugular, but he hesitated to pull it out, fearing that would make the injury worse.
Light—no, flames—grew behind them. Fire.
The light revealed movement, someone stepping out of an aisle farther down the wall. The figure, a young man in ill-fitting clothing, lifted a crossbow and aimed for Books’s chest.
“Sicarius!” Books blurted. “Would you take care of this bloke?”
The crossbowman spun to look behind him. Too bad Sicarius was not truly there.
Unable to move quickly or draw his knife without dropping Vonsha, Books shuffled toward the aisle they had exited, hoping his ruse would buy them time. The shelves chose that second to collapse, barring the route.
Even with wood crackling nearby, Books heard the twang of the crossbow bolt firing. He ducked his head, and turned his shoulder. The bolt flew high.
Books set Vonsha down, prepared to attack the archer, but he halted. The rumpled man dropped the weapon. Eyes wide, face frozen in a rictus of pain, he went down.
Sicarius stood above him, his black dagger dripping blood. Books gaped, surprised his summons had worked. A hint of annoyance hardened Sicarius’s dark eyes, and Books imagined him thinking, I can’t leave for five minutes without you getting into trouble…
“There are others,” Sicarius said. “Get out.”
“Out is good.” Books reached for Vonsha, intending to sling her over his shoulder.
“Leave her.”
“No.”
Books lifted Vonsha without waiting to argue. He turned his back on Sicarius and followed the outer wall, figuring the aisles were too dangerous. Numerous sets of shelves had toppled, and flames burned in several rows as well as on the ceiling, which was charred from the explosion. Heat rolled from the growing fire, warming Books’s cheeks and forehead.
Behind him, someone screamed. It ended abruptly.
With the corner closest to the front door in sight, Books broke into a jog. He rounded it and almost crashed into the homeless man—and the pistol in his grip.
Hands busy holding Vonsha, Books jumped to the side and lashed out with a kick. His shoulder rammed the wall, but his boot found its target. The pistol flew from the man’s grip. Books shoved him into the wall and ran past. He only wanted to get out of the building with Vonsha, not start a fight. Besides, Sicarius could handle that more proficiently.
No one else blocked his route on the way to the front door, but a steam horn pierced the air in the street outside. Someone must have heard the explosion and reported it.
He paused at the threshold, juggling Vonsha so he could free a hand to open the door. He peered outside. Two steam wagons painted with enforcer red and silver chugged to a stop in front of the building.
Books wavered. As far as he knew, he had no bounty on his head, but the enforcers might know he worked with questionable types by now. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting Sicarius to be behind him. Someone was there, yes, but it was not Sicarius.
A spiked club whistled toward his eyes. Books ducked, but not quickly enough. The club glanced off the top of his head, and pain erupted in his skull.
He stumbled back, losing his grip on Vonsha. She hit the ground and moaned.
Books’s attacker, another man who looked as if he had come off the streets, swiped at him again. Dodging, Books reached for his dagger. Blood dripped in his eyes, and numbness made pulling the weapon out harder than it should have been.
Shouts came from outside along with footsteps pounding up stairs. Books cursed and ducked another wild swing. The man had the finesse of a steamroller, but it was all he needed. Dizziness gripped Books, and his limbs were not moving quickly enough. He swiped blood out of his eyes and almost cut himself with his own knife.
“Not thinking,” he muttered. “Not—”
The man hefted the club overhead, and Books stumbled back, not sure he could evade the blow this time.
The door flew open. Books’s attacker froze, then whirled, charging them.
“Enforcers! Halt!”
A crossbow twanged.
Someone grabbed Books’s arm from behind. He tried to spin and pull away. It was Sicarius.
“Stairs,” he barked.
“But Vonsha—” Books slurred.
“They have her.” Sicarius yanked on Books’s arm, dragging him forward.
He stumbled up the stairs after Sicarius, and they escaped through a window. He slipped, trying to climb down, and landed hard on his back. Sicarius yanked him to his feet. Blackness flirted with Books’s consciousness, and the rest of the retreat faded to a blur.
CHAPTER 6
Amaranthe leaned against the side of a headless statue, one of thousands in the capital that gave it the dubious nickname of “Stumps.” She wore the hood of her parka pulled low over her eyes while she watched the busy street.
Though evening had fallen hours earlier, people clogged the sidewalks. Numerous drunk men meandered onto the cobblestones where they provided ambulatory obstacles for bicyclists and the occasional steam carriage. Gambling houses, sport venues, and drinking and eating houses packed the neighborhood. Many of the male passersby wore the lush, vibrant clothing—and gold-gilded swords—of the warrior caste, but just as many had the miens of off-duty soldiers. More than one black-clad fig
ure wearing weapons strode past, and Amaranthe did a few double glances, thinking one might be Sicarius. But, despite his disinterest in disguises, he had a knack for invisibility, and he would likely find her first.
Disguises were on her mind as the sea of people moved about her, any one of whom would turn her in, either for the reward, or simply because she was a wanted felon. She touched the hilt of her short sword, reassured by its presence. She wondered what Maldynado would find for her to wear. She probably should have gone shopping with him, though more than once he had pointed out he had an easier time getting bargains from the predominantly female merchants in the city if they thought him unattached.
A familiar man ambled past, hand on the ruby-crusted pommel of one of his own swords, obviously selected to offset crimson embroidery on his black vest. Maldynado. He had no shopping bags tucked under his arms. So much for her disguise.
Figuring he would not spot her with the hood, Amaranthe lifted a hand and stepped away from the statue.
“We have a problem,” came a voice from behind.
Amaranthe jumped before recognition caught up to reflexes. Sicarius.
“Your ability to find me despite the fact I’m hiding incognito in the shadows?” she asked.
He drew her into an alcove behind an overflowing bicycle rack. Maldynado stopped on the street corner to chat with a group of ladies. He must have come with Sicarius.
“What’s going on?” Amaranthe asked.
Perhaps as a concession to the number of weapons dangling on nearby hips, Sicarius, too, wore a jacket with a hood. Black, of course. “The area where Books was researching was attacked,” he said. “There was a woman with him. He may or may not have been the target, but someone sent six men to do the job. I took care of them while he fumbled through rescuing the unconscious woman.”
“Is he all right?” she asked, more concerned by that than whether Books had pulled his own weight in a fight.
“He’s injured but not mortally so. I found Basilard, and he assisted Books back to the pumping house.”
She wrestled with the temptation to forgo the gambling house visit and check on Books. Sicarius’s idea of “injured but not mortally so” could involve missing limbs and eyes. But if he had Basilard to watch over him, Books ought to survive without her for a few hours. It was not as if she had vast medical expertise.
“Thanks for making sure he got back. Shall we head into Ergot’s Chance?” Amaranthe pointed to a dead-end street across the way. “Akstyr went in ahead to scout for magic. Or so he said. He might be putting all his pocket change on the lucky Wolf Star Tile.”
She took a step, but Sicarius caught her arm.
“There’s more,” he said. “The woman Books was with, she’s from the warrior caste, someone who used to do work for Hollowcrest during the Western Sea Conflict.”
“Oh? What use did Hollowcrest have for a woman? Er, assuming it wasn’t for the usual male-female after-sunset activities.” From what Amaranthe remembered of Hollowcrest, he had not respected women overmuch, especially not those with any sort of ambition.
“Her name is Vonsha Spearcrest,” Sicarius said. “She taught cryptography at the University, and Hollowcrest brought her in to build unbreakable keys during the war.”
“Didn’t some brilliant Kyattese linguist break all our keys?”
“Yes. Spearcrest disappeared shortly after that.”
“You’re certain it’s the same woman? It’s been nearly twenty years.” Amaranthe had been a toddler during that war, and since most of the fighting had been at sea, over a thousand miles away, she remembered little of the details. Sicarius probably would have been in his teens, but he had been trained from birth, so she would not be surprised if he had already been killing people for Hollowcrest by then.
“I’m certain. She was injured in the explosion, but the enforcers took her for treatment.”
“I wonder if Books was the target or if she was.” Amaranthe tapped her leg. “You didn’t hear their conversation?”
“I stayed out of sight, so she wouldn’t recognize me.”
“She knows you? Er, knew you?”
“Not well, but I was there at a couple of their meetings.”
“You’re older now.” Amaranthe smiled, wondering if she could draw any indignation out of him. “Grayer.”
“I don’t have any gray.”
He said it in his monotone, and she could not tell if it was an indignant denial or a simple statement of fact. In truth, he appeared no older than thirty, and it was only that Sespian was close to twenty that told her otherwise, though Sicarius still must have been very young when Sespian was conceived. That was a story she wanted to wheedle out of him someday.
“Ah, forgive me. I guess it’s your perennial stodginess that leaves me with the impression you’re old.” There, that had to get a response out of him.
He studied her, as if she were some exotic specimen of fish he’d pulled up from the lake depths and he was deciding whether to keep her or throw her back. “I’m not old,” he finally said.
“But no argument on stodgy, eh?”
“Akstyr is waiting, is he not?”
Amaranthe grinned and patted his arm. She shouldn’t have fun teasing him, but considering his reputation, she found it encouraging that he let her. Of course, if she were a more mature person she would tell him she cared for him instead of poking fun, but the latter seemed…safer.
“Yes, he is.” She lifted her hand and gestured toward the dead-end street.
When they drew even with Maldynado, Sicarius grabbed him and propelled him alongside.
“Hullo, boss,” Maldynado said. “Didn’t see you under that jacket. It’s bulky. You almost look like a boy.”
“That’s one method of disguise, I suppose,” Amaranthe said. “Though I thought you’d have a costume for me.”
“Oh, I bought one.” He smiled. “It’s having a few custom alterations done, but I can pick it up later.”
She would have to hope nobody who memorized wanted posters was gambling tonight.
Drum beats and guitar strums floated from a cider house on the corner where a female singer extolled the virtues of battle engaged in the spring. Several gambling houses and entertainment venues lined the wide avenue, all with fresh, new brick or stone facades. People crowded the sidewalks, though they all seemed to be jostling toward the building at the end of the street. Indeed, the venues on either side were sparsely populated. Outside an eating house, a red-haired woman’s shouts alternated between announcing the meal specials and advising a worker scraping graffiti off the wall.
A freckled man on the opposite side of the street tried to foist samples of a dark liquid on passersby. Two soldiers spat at his feet and shoved him aside.
“Filthy foreign slug,” one snarled.
It seemed Amaranthe’s team had turned down a street overtaken by aspiring entrepreneurs from beyond the borders. And only one of the businesses was doing well.
“That’s the place.” Maldynado nudged a couple of smaller men aside and pointed at the brick wall stretched across the end of the street. Gold-gilded doors stood open, and people flowed in and out of the building. A pulsing sign read Ergot’s Chance. Two giant glowing orbs perched upon spinning poles.
“That’s blatant,” Amaranthe said. “You’d think a place daring to use magic in a city where it’s forbidden would be more subtle. Especially since the sentiment around here is anti-foreigner, and most of these businesses seem to be struggling.”
“It’s possible the effects are mundanely created,” Sicarius said.
She stepped around a puddle and drew her men to the side. “Sicarius and I will try to find the manager or owner and see what these key fobs are about. Maldynado, link up with Akstyr if you see him. I’d like you to go around to the tilers and table masters and ask questions. See if anyone recognizes the fellow who had the fob in his pocket.”
“You want me to describe a bloke I’ve only seen after he’s been
horribly mauled and dead in frigid water for days?” Maldynado’s head swiveled to track a pretty lady strolling past.
Amaranthe turned his face back toward her with a finger on his chin. “Do your best, please.”
“Books is the one who should be doing the describing. He spent more time developing a personal relationship with those corpses.” Maldynado snickered, then surprised her by turning glum. “Too bad he nearly got himself blown up.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Amaranthe said, though she wanted to check on Books as soon as they finished here. She gripped Maldynado’s arm, then nodded to Sicarius. “Ready?”
They went first, leaving Maldynado to follow a few minutes later.
Inside, people meandered through a vast, high-ceilinged room and gathered in clumps around gaming tables. A hundred chandeliers and sconces burned. Steam whistled from coal-powered contraptions that offered moving puzzles and mechanized games of chance. The stuffy heat emanating from the people, lights, and machines reminded Amaranthe of a muggy summer day before a storm.
She let Sicarius lead since he had that knack for getting people to move out of his way without doing anything. Amaranthe, on the other hand, received elbows in the ribs or suggestive jostles from drunken men. Maybe she should try wearing all black and glaring more often.
A familiar key fob dangled from someone’s belt. Several patrons had them. So, not a special token, but items produced in quantities and given out, perhaps as prizes. But why, in this superstitious core of the empire, would someone risk creating dozens, or hundreds, of magical trinkets with the establishment’s name on them? Amaranthe was surprised the glowing orbs outside had not resulted in someone torching the building.
Sicarius surprised her by pausing to watch a complicated version of the shell game. Three table masters sat cross-legged on cushions, sliding containers around with tokens hiding beneath. One had to watch six blurring hands at the same time and point to all the correct spots to win.
“Want to play?” she asked. They had more important things to do, but it did seem like something made for him to win. Perhaps the earnings could pay for some supplies.
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