“Why do I get myself into these situations?” she muttered.
After taking a deep breath, she gripped the sword in both hands, raised her arms above her head, and slammed the tip into the orb.
Amaranthe expected it to shatter like glass or repel her blade like metal. Instead the sword sank in slowly, as if through dense mud, and the orb deflated, collapsing in on itself. The magical light faded, leaving her lantern as the only illumination. Machinery whined and ground to a halt. Silence filled the vault.
Until the alarm went off.
The sound, something between an alley cat’s yowl and a baby’s scream, reverberated from the walls and hammered Amaranthe’s eardrums. Footsteps pounded through the hallway overhead.
She sucked in her belly to slide past the machine, crouched behind it, and cut off the lantern. Scrapes sounded on the other side of the door. Amaranthe gripped her sword, though she hoped to hide and slip out during the confusion.
The door swung open. Keeping her head low, she peered around the corner of the machine. Light from the hallway silhouetted two figures and threw their shadows across the floor. Maybe she would get lucky and one would be Sicarius.
“Someone’s in here.” It was Ellaya’s voice.
So much for hiding.
“Get the others!”
Amaranthe sprang. She landed on top of the machine and leaped between Ellaya and a bouncer holding a pistol. Amaranthe shouldered the woman into the door, even as she slashed at the man. Her intention was not to do major damage, but the bouncer lifted an arm in a hasty block, and her blade sliced through clothing and flesh. He roared and dropped the pistol.
Amaranthe grabbed it and ran past them. The bouncer lunged for her but clipped Ellaya, and his fingers only brushed Amaranthe’s shirt. She jammed her sword into its sheath and sprang up the ladder.
She had to stop at the top to fiddle with the trapdoor latch. A hand clasped her ankle. The bouncer. She leveled the pistol at him, pointing it between his eyes. He released her.
Amaranthe threw the trapdoor open. She sprinted down the hallways and darted between the two bouncers guarding the entrance to the back rooms. One let out a startled yell and reached for her, but he was too slow.
In the crowded gambling room, Amaranthe’s size was an advantage. She ducked and dodged, crawling under a table at one point, while the larger men struggled through the patrons.
“Crazy woman with a pistol!” someone shouted.
“Where?” a bouncer called.
“Get her!”
“There. She’s running for the—oomph!”
Amaranthe wondered if that was Maldynado, doing his bit to help. Or had he left long ago? And where was Sicarius?
She ducked arms stretching to grab her. One caught her hood and nearly tore her jacket off. She tugged away, seams ripping. Only in the empire would people attack someone with a pistol instead of throwing themselves to the floor.
The path cleared as Amaranthe neared the entrance, and she thought she might escape without shooting anyone. The double doors stood open, the night street stretching beyond, but two bouncers blocked the exit. With bare muscled arms that blacksmiths would have envied, the men appeared strong enough to rip someone’s head off with their hands—and stupid enough not to move at the sight of a firearm.
A wise woman would have stopped and tried to find another way out. Amaranthe sprinted toward them, pistol raised. They saw the weapon and crouched, but did not move from the doorway.
One slipped a hand into his belt. Steel glinted. A throwing star spun toward Amaranthe.
She ducked but kept running. Movement blurred at the corner of her eye. Someone barreled toward her from the side, diving for her legs. She leaped over the flying bouncer. He missed his grab and skidded into the crowd.
Another ten feet, and she would crash into the men blocking the door. The one with the throwing stars reached for a second.
Amaranthe fired the pistol, aiming at the wall behind his head. Her ball grazed his ear, but he only roared. She threw the pistol at his face. While he batted it away, she angled to his side, choosing to go around him instead of between the two. He grabbed for her, but she shifted her weight to the outside foot and launched a sidekick into his knee.
His leg crumpled, and he stumbled against his comrade.
Amaranthe raced out the door. Mist thickened the air, and the street traffic had thinned. That meant fewer people to hide her escape, so she did not slow down. Sweat plastered her clothes to her body, and strands of hair that had torn free from her bun whipped in her eyes.
Halfway to the main street, a twang sounded behind her. A crossbow quarrel skipped off the concrete at her feet.
She urged her legs to greater speed. Her breath rasped her in ears. A few more paces, and she would reach the intersection where she could duck around the corner and—she hoped—disappear.
“Down,” a familiar voice ordered from ahead.
Amaranthe threw herself into a roll. Another crossbow quarrel zipped over her and clanged off a streetlamp.
She came up running and lunged around the corner. She almost crashed into Sicarius. He sidestepped to avoid her and hurled something with a burning fuse. It spun down the alley and clattered onto the concrete.
Amaranthe kept running and did not see the result. A moment later, coughs and curses came from the dead-end street.
Sicarius fell in beside her and they ran several blocks, turning a few times before slowing.
“Smoke bomb?” Amaranthe sucked in a few deep gulps of air, but her breathing returned to normal quickly. She was glad for all the training they did, or she would likely be on the ground wheezing after that long sprint.
“An acrid one, yes.” Sicarius gave her a sidelong look. “I’d almost gone back to the hideout. What were you doing in there so long?”
“Snooping. Getting trapped. Getting found. Running. Evading. It was quite the full evening.”
“I see.”
“Have you heard of Waterton Dam?”
“No.”
“I’ll ask Books. I’m not sure if Ellaya is involved with those murdered people or not. All I know for sure is that she’s storing people’s personal information in those fobs, and there was something about a ‘return compulsion.’ Any idea about that? A magical way to coerce people to come back to the same gambling house and spend money again and again?”
“Possibly.”
“Also, I may have done some physical damage to a magical device, which might leave Ellaya rather peeved at me.”
“Might?”
“All right, it’s a high probability.”
“That the device is damaged? Or that Ellaya is peeved at you?”
“Yes.” She smirked at him.
Footfalls slapped the concrete behind them. A boy dressed in rags scurried up to them.
“Ma’am.” Though he could not have been older than eight, he thumped his fist to his chest in a soldier’s salute and lifted his chin. “I have a very important message for you.”
“Oh?” she replied.
The seriousness with which he took his delivery task was somewhat diminished by the fact that his “message” was scribbled on the back of an apple taffy wrapper.
Nobody recognized the dead bloke, despite my pinpoint description. Akstyr got beat up. Taking him to The Pirates’ Plunder for a night of relaxation. Will meet at the hideout at daybreak. Or nine. Or noonish. ~M
“The Pirates’ Plunder is a brothel, isn’t it?” Amaranthe asked Sicarius.
“Yes.”
“Relaxation. Right.”
The boy cleared his throat. “The mister who told me to deliver this said you’d give me a tip.”
“That mister is a pretty generous fellow,” Amaranthe said, though she fished in her pocket for a coin, “and I’d be shocked if he hadn’t already given you that tip.”
The boy shifted his weight and studied the street. “Well, I did have to wait longer than he said I would…”
�
��Ah, of course. Your patience is admirable.” Amaranthe tossed the coin to the boy.
He jogged away.
“Shall we check on Books?” Amaranthe asked. She wanted to have a powwow with Books and Sicarius, to see if they could figure out if all these events were connected. Basilard would be there, too, and he might offer some insight on Ellaya, since they were both Mangdorian. That reminded her…
“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what that woman was talking about when she brought up Mangdoria?”
“No,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe clawed through her memories, trying to think of Mangdorian atrocities Sicarius might have caused, but it was such a minor nation—small scattered tribes rather than anything with a central government—that it rarely made it into the imperial newspapers. “Can you at least tell me if it’s something that’ll cause a…problem if Basilard finds out about it?” she asked.
He did not answer.
“Aren’t we to the point in our relationship where you feel you can tell me some of your secrets?”
“That didn’t go well last time,” he said, voice hard.
Amaranthe frowned. He was right about that. She ought not to pry. Yet, if Sicarius had done something to irk Mangdorians in general, and Basilard learned of it, she could end up with a rift in her group. Or worse.
Sicarius handed her a folded piece of paper. “I found this in the woman’s desk drawer.”
“You snooped? Excellent, excellent.” She veered toward a gas lamp. “I thought you might find such tasks beneath you.”
“The acquisition of information is a job I’ve performed frequently.”
“When you say it like that, it almost sounds noble.”
Sicarius remained in the shadows while Amaranthe held the page to the light. Though the hour had grown late, pedestrians were still walking in pairs and groups. Most were boisterous with drink, but she had best not spend too long with her face limned by lamplight.
“We thank you for putting us in contact with the Maker,” she read. “Please accept our protection, free of charge, for the next year. After that time, additional coverage may be purchased at the rate of ten percent of your net profits.”
Amaranthe lowered the page and joined Sicarius in the shadows.
“You read it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Who could provide that kind of protection? Forge?”
“Many organizations could, gangs included.” Sicarius started walking.
Amaranthe caught his arm. “If it is Forge, this could mean they have an inventor who can make magic things, right? That’s what a Maker does, isn’t it? Create devices like the one I may have possibly—probably—damaged. What do you think?”
“That I’m tired of standing in an alley.” He pulled his arm away and strode forward, not bothering to see if she followed.
Surprised by his abrupt dismissal, Amaranthe ran to catch up. “Any reason you’re being stiffer and snippier than usual tonight?”
“Next time you need someone to distract a woman while you snoop, Maldynado would be a better bet,” Sicarius said.
Ah, so that’s what he was sour about. Ellaya might appear mature and prim, but it seemed Amaranthe’s first impression had been right, and she had a healthy…appetite. Sicarius had no trouble rebuffing people—obviously—but he had probably had to humor the old woman to buy time for Amaranthe to explore. Well, there were worse things in the world. He would get over it.
“Sorry, but Maldynado couldn’t have won the shell game over and over,” Amaranthe said. “Besides, I’m not sure he would have stirred that woman’s imagination.”
“He’s far prettier than I.”
“Oh, he’s gorgeous. But attainable. Your aloofness and your reputation make you seem unattainable.” She laughed to herself, not sure why she’d used the word “seem.” “Some women like a challenge.”
She wriggled her eyebrows, hoping for…she did not know what exactly. For him to ask if she was one of those women? Or perhaps to state he wasn’t unattainable?
Sicarius kept walking.
CHAPTER 8
As dawn turned the alleys from black to dark gray, Amaranthe jogged the last few blocks of the miles-long route. Usually Sicarius picked their path, and the rest of the men ran with them, but he had not shown up that morning. Books was recovering from his wounds, and Basilard had complained of a stomach bug. Not surprisingly, Maldynado and Akstyr had yet to return from The Pirates’ Plunder.
Amaranthe made sure nobody was following her, then trotted through another alley, up a concrete staircase, and into a door she’d left unlocked. She slipped past the pipes and control valves of the above-ground portion of the pumping station, not expecting anyone inside this early.
The sound of voices made her halt.
“…nothing wrong with the controls, my lord. I assure you, we’ve a man who works here day in and day out. I’d have heard if there was a problem.”
Amaranthe recognized the voice; it was the supervisor who had hired Books. He oversaw the utilities building for the industrial area and rarely visited the pumping house.
“Something’s going on,” a second man said. “You figure out if there are rusted pipes or malfunctioning machines, or I’ll send a private company in with the expense taken out of your salary.”
Footsteps thudded on concrete—the men heading for the door through which Amaranthe had entered.
She squeezed between a fat pipe and the wall, hoping the shadows hid her. Little light came in through the windows yet.
“I know how to do my job, my lord,” the supervisor said. “If something strange is going on, it has nothing to do with my machinery.”
The men passed within a few feet of her. Amaranthe held her breath. The supervisor carried a lantern, but it did not illuminate the face of the other man. He was well-dressed in slacks and a frock coat, as one would expect from the warrior caste. The lord who oversaw the public works?
The door opened, then clanged shut. Amaranthe waited, not sure if both had left, but no more footsteps sounded. She was tempted to follow them outside to see if she could hear more of the conversation, but dawn’s light would make staying close difficult on the open streets.
She eased out of hiding and slipped through the control room to the access shaft in the back of the pumping house.
She wondered what had come up to bring the public works supervisor here. The corpses? After considering several options, she had finagled her team into taking the bodies of the appraiser and the workers to another part of the aqueducts. She had sent a note to Enforcer Headquarters in hopes they could be identified and their families informed. But this sounded like something unrelated to the deaths.
When Amaranthe reached the lower level where she and the men stayed, the sound of someone retching waylaid her thoughts. Basilard?
Frowning, she wound through passages toward the source. Maldynado hunkered over the washout, sides heaving, face pale.
“Are you…uhm?” Amaranthe stopped herself from saying “all right,” since clearly he was not.
Maldynado issued a final heave and sank back against the wall. “Just regretting the night’s activities.”
“You’re back earlier than I expected.”
“I was too miserable to stay.” He dragged a sleeve across his mouth and rubbed his face. “I didn’t think I was imbibing that deeply. I even drank a bunch of water, figuring Sicarius might come yank us out of bed before dawn for some of his horrible exercises. I—” He lifted a hand, cheeks bulging out, and returned to his previous activity.
Amaranthe backed away. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Strange, she had seen Maldynado hung over, but not sick like this. If Basilard also felt poorly, and he had not been drinking, some bug must be about.
Amaranthe stopped to grab a jug of apple juice, then headed past the boiler room, through the following door, and into a cramped space she called, for lack of an official-sounding name, the big p
ipe place. Most of the chamber lay underground, but shafts of light angled through windows high on one wall. Sicarius’s latest sleeping spot lay in an elevated, dark corner atop a round cap that appeared as uncomfortable as a blanket on the concrete floor. Of course, he could see people coming from the perch. And he, unlike she, apparently had the unconscious wherewithal not to roll off in the middle of the night and crash to the floor.
“Sicarius?” she asked.
When no answer came from the depths, she clambered across the fat pipe leading to his spot, an act that would have been easier if she left the jug behind, but if he was there and also sick, he might like a drink. She struggled to imagine him ill. If he had ever so much as sneezed in front of her, she could not remember it. Of course, he might be out, skulking around the city for his own reasons. He did that from time to time, but he always showed up for morning training.
“Sicarius, are you there, or am I crawling up here for no reason?” Her knee cracked against a wheel for regulating water flow, and she grimaced. “For no reason except to bruise myself, that is.”
Amaranthe hopped off the pipe and onto wooden scaffolding left against the wall after some project. From there she could climb to Sicarius’s niche.
“I’m here.” His voice gave little away—as usual.
“Are you sick too?” This close, she could make out his supine form on the wide pipe cap. “I promise I won’t run out and tell your enemies you’re an easy mark right now if you admit you have the flu,” she said.
Wood cracked at Amaranthe’s feet. The hilt of his black knife quivered, the tip a centimeter from her big toe. His way of saying he was not an easy mark, sick or not. She hoped there was not more of a message behind the flung weapon than that, but it sent an uneasy chill down her spine. A reminder that, though he seemed to tolerate more from her than most, she might be unwise to presume he found her teasing amusing.
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