Conspiracy

Chapter 8

Metal shutters secured the windows of Ms. Sarevic’s Custom Works, and a lock secured the patchwork copper-and-steel door. Aside from a streetlamp burning at the closest intersection, darkness blanketed Molten Street. The owners of the smithies and metalworking shops along either side had gone home for the night. Mounted on the brick wall above Ms. Sarevic’s sign, a perpetual motion clock ticked softly, its gears turning behind a clear glass display. Five minutes until ten.

“I guess we didn’t need to rush.” Amaranthe waved at the clock. “We’re early.”

Books stood to her side, wearing an expression of disapproval. Amaranthe suspected it was for the shop and what one could purchase there rather than her overzealous punctuality. Maldynado would have been a more suitable companion for the night. She hoped his side-trip proved fruitful.

“One wouldn’t think someone who deals with the nocturnal criminal element would be able to worry about keeping precise shop hours,” Books said.

“I’ve heard Ms. Sarevic is a stickler.” Though only recently. Amaranthe had patrolled this neighborhood as an enforcer for years, and she’d had no idea that the proprietor kept two sets of shop hours.

Books’s lips puckered, reminding Amaranthe of an old lady contemplating a diatribe on the wayward nature of today’s youth. He’d been in a rotten mood all evening, railing at the others and demanding that whoever took his journal return it. As far as she knew, he didn’t suspect Sicarius. Amaranthe hadn’t told Books where the journal had gone or that it’d likely be returned with blood on the pages.

“You could have gone with Maldynado if you find this errand distasteful,” Amaranthe said.

“You think I’d find watching him seduce some businesswoman for the use of her very expensive private vehicle less reprehensible than purchasing illegal blasting sticks? A private vehicle that will likely, under our care, be shot full of bullets or perhaps crashed.”

“Should I be more offended that you find my shopping list reprehensible or that you’re certain we’ll wreck our getaway vehicle?”

“Given our history with stolen conveyances, it’d be shocking if we didn’t damage it.”

Amaranthe checked the clock. Three minutes to go. “We won’t be stealing this one, simply borrowing it, assuming Maldynado can sufficiently woo this woman with his talents.”

“Please, he’s as talented as a sock,” Books said. “Besides, didn’t you borrow that garbage lorry last summer? The most recent newspaper article I read on the subject said the Imperial Ash and Refuse Collection Service is still looking for one of the articulating arms.”

“It is not,” Amaranthe said, though the deadpan way Books had said it caused her to eye him with concern. There hadn’t truly been an article, had there? “As to the borrowing, no, I think the magistrate would find us guilty of theft in that case.”

As they so often did, Books’s comments showed her how flexible her morals had become of late. Amaranthe hoped the team would successfully snatch Sespian and earn a chance to talk to him. With a hand wave, he could remove their bounties and her new hobby of crime could come to an end. So long as he still had the power to act within the Imperial Barracks. Amaranthe winced, thinking of the implant.

Two minutes to go.

“You haven’t mentioned who will be responsible for the landslide,” Books said.

“I haven’t?”

“No.”

“Ah.

One minute to go on the clock. Amaranthe was tempted to knock early, so she wouldn’t have to answer Books right away, but she needed a good deal from Ms. Sarevic, and she didn’t want to risk irking her.

“Who is planting the blasting sticks?” Books asked.

Amaranthe cleared her throat. “I need my best fighters on the train. Even with smoke grenades and knockout gas-” she pointed to the appropriate items on her shopping list, “-it’s likely we’ll have to brawl with numerous well-trained soldiers.”

“I see. So, Akstyr and I get this portion of the mission.” Books couldn’t have sounded less tickled if a dog had peed on his leg.

“Why, thank you for volunteering, Books,” Amaranthe said, hoping enthusiasm on her part would encourage the same from him. “You’re the only one I can trust with an independent mission of such importance.”

“Uh huh. Even if you hadn’t just admitted you were choosing based on fighting prowess, I know you trust Sicarius more than me, though only your dead ancestors could guess why.”

“That’s… actually not true. I’d trust him to protect my back in a fight, but not necessarily to do things in a way that doesn’t endanger my plans.” Indeed, Amaranthe worried that he was off doing something like that as she spoke. “Trust me, you’re far more steady and reliable in this regard.”

“All right, you already have me. You can save your flattery for outsiders,” Books said, though his tone had lightened, and Amaranthe thought her words might mean something to him.

“If it makes you feel better, you’ll only be dealing with blasting sticks, not the empire’s elite bodyguard and a train full of soldiers. If the infiltration team gets itself killed, you’ll still be alive, and you can escape.”

“We’ll see. I’m not convinced sharing a vehicle with blasting sticks and a young wizard who likes to light things on fire with his mind is healthier than fighting soldiers.”

The minute hand had passed the hour, so Amaranthe knocked, a precise pattern she’d learned from Rockjaw, one of her rather despicable but frequently useful, underworld contacts. One of the “patches” on the multi-metaled door slid to the side, revealing a shallow cubby with a key nestled within.

Amaranthe removed it and headed through an alley to a side door. This one was made of steel. Should Ms. Sarevic’s side activities ever be discovered by the law, she could likely hold off a squad of soldiers with cannons for quite some time while she gathered her belongings and planned an escape.

The door lacked a handle, latch, or any other adornment aside from a small hole precisely in the center. Amaranthe slid the key in, turned it, and heard a soft click. The door swung open with a push. A worn wooden stairway led down into darkness.

Books plucked at a cobweb stretched across one corner of the low ceiling. “Charming.”

Amaranthe headed down the stairs without comment. She had been there a week earlier when she placed her order, so she knew what to expect. What she didn’t know was how much the final bill would be. The problem with working for the good of the empire was that it didn’t pay that well.

When Amaranthe reached the bottom, the door at the top of the stairs swung shut with a metallic thud.

“Uhm,” Books said.

Two candles flashed to life, one on either side of a dusty, rotting wooden door. When Books stopped next to Amaranthe on the landing, a fake brick in the wall popped open on hinges, and a glass sphere snaked out on a flexible coil shaft. The sphere rose to peer at Amaranthe’s face, then extended past her to examine Books.

“Magic?” he asked.

“No, and I hear Ms. Sarevic will be insulted if you suggest any of her work has supernatural elements.” Amaranthe pointed at the sphere as it retracted into its hidden cubby. “She’ll be on the other side, manipulating it with a crank.”

“Huh.”

On that auspicious grunt, the wooden door swung open. After the dimness of the stairwell, the light inside made Amaranthe blink. She’d forgotten about Ms. Sarevic’s experimental electricity balls that dangled from the ceiling.

“Yes, yes, come in, and shut the door,” a woman said, her voice coming from behind a pile of crates draped with greasy rags, rope, wires, and other items Amaranthe couldn’t name. “I’ll catch a chill with all that cold air flooding my workshop.”

Amaranthe and Books shuffled inside, careful not to bump against other stacks of crates or knock over toolboxes balanced on bins filled with old parts, screws and cogs. Parts too large for crates were stacked about the edges of the basement, a single room that would have felt spacious had it not been so cluttered. An L-shaped workbench and two stools were the only furnishings, and they huddled in the middle with half-constructed projects encroaching upon them from all sides. The whole place had Amaranthe thinking of brooms, dustpans, and scrub brushes.

The owner of the shop stepped into view. Her floral print dress hugged plump curves, and she wore her gray hair pulled back in a bun that emphasized thick, bright red spectacles. At first glance, Ms. Sarevic could have passed for a schoolteacher, but she wore a grease-stained apron over her dress and held a pair of pliers in calloused fingers with grime wedged beneath each and every nail.

A man strolled out from behind the crates as well, smiled at Amaranthe, and sat on one of the stools. She recognized him, though she had no idea why he was there. He wore a wool cap pulled down over his eyebrows, and mustachios hung to his collarbone, though he kept his broad, granite jaw shaved. Tattoos of spikes and chains circled his neck like a garish collar.

“Rockjaw,” Amaranthe said. “Good to see you.”

“ Good? ” Books whispered.

Rockjaw was a murderer and a rapist who ran a guild of thieves. Normally, Amaranthe would have avoided-or arrested-someone like him, but he had a talent for collecting information, and she’d found it useful to trade tidbits with him from time to time, even if she often wished she could scrub her soul with soap and water afterward.

“Good to see you, too, Ammy.” He winked and gave her a long look up and down. It wasn’t quite as long and lurid as the one he had given her the first time they met, so she decided to count that as progress.

Books growled.

“Who’s this, Ms. Lokdon?” Ms. Sarevic adjusted her spectacles and craned her neck to look Books in the eyes. “I thought you’d bring the pretty one to flirt with me and haggle for a better deal.”

Warmth blossomed behind Amaranthe’s cheeks. While that was exactly why she kept Maldynado around, she hadn’t realized others had figured it out and that he was becoming known as her dealmaker.

“Sorry, he was busy tonight,” Amaranthe said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I am a touch, yes. It’s not often that pretty young fellows flirt with me any more.”

Rockjaw withdrew a pipe and a tin of tobacco, and started preparing a smoke. Amaranthe stifled a frown. She hoped he wasn’t there to collect information on her. Though he had been the one to recommend Ms. Sarevic to her weeks before, it seemed to be too much of a coincidence that he was there at the same time as Amaranthe.

Ms. Sarevic poked into a box and headed for the drawers of a desk half-buried by scraps of leather and canvas. When she started rummaging, a tin fell to the ground and spilled washers across the floor. Ms. Sarevic ignored them, but Amaranthe watched them roll around, her fingers itching to pick them up and return them to their home.

“The blasting sticks are in that box over there.” Ms. Sarevic waved to a corner while continuing to poke through drawers. “Your man can carry them. No need to be overly careful. I created a more stable substrate than the army uses, so they’re less likely to spontaneously explode.”

“ Less likely,” Books said. “Joy.”

“Blasting sticks, hm?” Rockjaw lit his pipe. “Whatever are you planning next, Ammy?”

Amaranthe tore her gaze from the spilled washers and flicked a dismissive hand. “The usual mayhem. Ms. Sarevic, why don’t you finish waiting on Rockjaw first, so he can be on his way? I’m sure he has mayhem of his own to pursue tonight, and I wouldn’t want to delay him.” She certainly wouldn’t want him piecing together her plans based on the supplies she’d ordered.

“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” Rockjaw scraped the end of his pipe through a mustachio, using it like a pick to detangle the rope of hair.

Ms. Sarevic, rummaging in a footlocker now, didn’t seem to hear them. “And then that box on my desk is full of your smoke grenades and-”

“I’m sure it’s all there,” Amaranthe blurted. “No need to detail everything. How much do we owe you?”

Rockjaw’s eyes narrowed. The spilled washers were bothering Amaranthe anyway, so she knelt and scooped them up to avoid his scrutiny. She dumped them into their tin, then looked around for a decent place to set the tin. Finding little open shelf space, she held onto it.

“Not much for a savvy businesswoman such as yourself,” Ms. Sarevic said, voice echoing oddly because she had her head stuffed in the metal locker. “Three thousand ranmyas should cover the parts and my time.”

“Three thousand?” Amaranthe forgot the washers and stared at the woman. “You said… I mean your estimate was closer to two thousand.”

“Yes, but the knockout gas was quite difficult. You specified that the canisters had to release an inhalant upon impact, and that involved many hours of intricate work. You don’t want shoddy craftsmanship for something like that, dear.”

Amaranthe groaned at the details Sarevic was leaking while Rockjaw grinned, not trying to hide his interest in the least. Again, she wondered what he was doing there. He couldn’t know about the kidnapping plans, could he? Amaranthe wished she had Sicarius around to glare at him and convince him to leave. Of course, if Ms. Sarevic were less oblivious, she wouldn’t be giving up a client’s information, but the woman seemed to lack any sort of tact in that area.

“Ah, there it is.” Sarevic pulled out a metal device that looked like a cross between a pistol and a teakettle with a cylindrical kerosene canister attached to the underside. She displayed it to Amaranthe with a proud grin plumping her round cheeks. “You said you needed something that would cut through metal. Concentrated flame will do that at a sufficiently high temperature.”

Rockjaw’s eyes grew brighter yet at this new hint. Amaranthe merely sighed. “Yes, I’ve seen something that could do that,” she said, thinking of the torch they’d used to cut through a hatch on that underwater laboratory.

Ms. Sarevic’s grin disappeared. “You have? Someone else made something like my blowtorch?”

“Oh, no, it was… The device we glimpsed wasn’t entirely technology-based.”

“Magic!” Sarevic spat.

“Yes, quite an inferior product though.” Actually, Amaranthe wished she had thought to keep that baton. It had been more compact than Ms. Sarevic’s mundane version and would have been easier to fit in a rucksack. She made a note to hoard future useful artifacts, even if she was busy dodging attacks from krakens at the time.

“Naturally,” Sarevic grumbled. “Do you have the three thousand ranmyas?”

Maybe if Sicarius hadn’t stormed off, and she could send him to a gambling house to win a few rounds, she would. “I don’t suppose you’d accept partial payment now and the rest later?”

“Partial payment gets you partial supplies.” Sarevic propped a grease-smeared fist against her hip. “And the irritation of the woman who worked hard to complete your order on time.”

“Perhaps charging your clients half up front and half once they’ve seen if everything works would be fair,” Books said.

Sarevic’s hands dropped. She grabbed the blowtorch and stomped toward Books like a squad of enforcers approaching a barricaded door with a battering ram. “ If everything works? You doubt my skills?”

Displaying great bravery, Books stepped behind Amaranthe.

Rockjaw, watching the exchange with amusement, shook his head and lifted his eyes ceiling-ward. Amaranthe blushed, annoyed anew to have him there.

She turned, put a hand on Books’s arm, and whispered, “Don’t help,” before he could respond to Sarevic.

“Please forgive him, ma’am,” Amaranthe said, facing Sarevic again and withdrawing her purse. “Of course we know of your reputation and how skilled you are. We don’t doubt that your devices work as promised. We can pay you full price.” Amaranthe could feel Books’s gaze on the back of her head as she untied the purse strings. No doubt he was wondering if she had full price. “Although…” Amaranthe lifted her head, as if she’d just thought of a sterling idea. “Perhaps you’d be better served by partial payment and a trade.”

“A trade,” Sarevic said flatly.

“Indeed so.” Amaranthe spread an arm to encompass the basement. “It’s clear that you’re in need of a cleaning service, but I imagine the covert nature of your work makes you hesitant to invite outsiders down, outsiders who might blab about your special workshop and second set of office hours. Suppose we pay you two thousand ranmyas in cash tonight,” Amaranthe said, taking a guess at how much Sarevic had paid for parts and how much of her fee was the result of personal hours invested in the projects, “and then I come back several times over the next month or two to clean and organize everything here?”

“Organize?” Sarevic scratched her head while she considered her shop.

“Yes.” Warming to the idea, Amaranthe walked about, gesticulating as she explained. “We could do a rack over here with baskets, a shelving unit there, and all of those cogs, nuts, and bolts could have separate smaller containers that would go in a bin system. I’d put labels on everything, of course. Think how much time you could save if you didn’t have to hunt around for things.” Amaranthe went on for two or three minutes, describing her vision. By the time she finished with, “And we haven’t even talked about hooks and racks for ceiling storage,” Sarevic was gaping at her.

Amaranthe decided she had better let her potential new client have a moment to mull over the idea. Meanwhile, Rockjaw was stroking his mustachios and watching with an expression somewhere between bemusement and incredulity. Nothing new. Her men gave her those looks all the time.

“You are… qualified for such work?” Sarevic finally asked.

“Oh, yes,” Amaranthe said. “I’ve been inflicting, er, providing organizational paradigms for friends and relatives for years.”

“It’s true,” Books said. “You should see her work with rucksacks. Did you know underwear apparently won’t wrinkle when tucked into tight little rolls?”

Because Amaranthe’s roaming explanations had taken her from Books’s side, she couldn’t grab his arm and whisper, “Don’t help,” again. Fortunately, Ms. Sarevic threw her head back and laughed.

“You do look like a neat and prim little thing,” she said.

“She is,” Books said, before Amaranthe could decide if she wanted to encourage the new line the conversation had taken. He pointed at her. “Look, not a spec of dirt beneath her nails, nor a strand of hair gone stray from her bun. And you can probably tell she irons her fatigues. I bet you’ve never met a mercenary who does that. And look at the shine on those boots. You can view your own reflection if you gaze into them. Ask to see her sword and knife too. They’re spotless. Precisely sharpened and not a smudge on the blades. You’d think they just came from the smithy.”

Sarevic was nodding, so Amaranthe kept her mouth shut.

“Yes, yes,” Sarevic said, “you’re right. Organization would be good.” She lifted the blowtorch, propping it against her shoulder, and stuck out her free hand. “We have a pact.”

Amaranthe clasped the woman’s forearm to close the deal, and Sarevic demonstrated how to use the kerosene torch. When she pointed out the pump used to pressurize the fuel in the tank and explained the possible hazards, Amaranthe wondered if the blasting sticks might actually be the less dangerous item to tote around.

After Sarevic finished demonstrating her goods, Amaranthe helped Books cart their supplies out of the basement. She wasn’t surprised when Rockjaw followed them into the alley.

He stopped in front of them, blocking the way as he planted a hand on the brick wall and leaned against it.

“Are you certain you want to impede a man carrying a box full of blasting sticks?” Books asked.

Amaranthe simply waited to see what Rockjaw wanted.

“I’ve never seen anybody talk Ms. Sarevic down a single ranmya, much less a thousand,” he said. “Although I’d rather pay in solid gold than clean that place.”

Amaranthe knew he hadn’t stopped them to chat about her bargaining skills, so she kept her answer short. “I like to have projects like that. It gives my hands something to do while my head is worrying about things.”

And she knew her men preferred it when she had something legitimate to clean instead of trying to tidy them. Fortunately Books didn’t bring up underwear again.

“I see,” Rockjaw said. “What are you worrying about now?” His gaze flickered to the boxes Amaranthe and Books held.

“Nothing I’d care to share,” Amaranthe said.

“Not even for the right price?”

“With my deal complete, I’ve no need for extra coin right now.”

“I was thinking of information, not coin,” Rockjaw said. “I know something you’d like to know.”

“You sound positive.”

“Oh, I am. It involves your men.”

A jackrabbit hopped around in Amaranthe’s belly. Sicarius? Was he in trouble? It seemed unlikely-the only time he’d gotten in trouble had been when he was trying to do a favor for her. Somehow she doubted he had that in mind currently. Of course, if he had gone off on Sespian’s behalf… Amaranthe had no doubt that Sespian meant more to him than she did and that he would risk much on his son’s behalf.

“Is that so?” she asked, trying to keep any sign of her thoughts off her face. “What’s the price for this information?”

Rockjaw pushed away from the wall and strolled closer. Though he had put his pipe away, the scent of tobacco lingered about him. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing with knockout gas, blasting sticks, and a torch that can cut through metal?”

“Sorry, but I need to keep the details of our next mission to myself,” Amaranthe said. “I don’t suppose you’d like me to clean and organize your hideout in trade for your information?”

“I don’t believe you’d care to visit the bowels of my hideout.” Rockjaw smirked. “I’ve learned enough about you to know you’d be horrified by the conditions for my workers and… guests. A clean environment is not their primary consideration.”

Books stirred at Amaranthe’s side. Though he said nothing, she could imagine him wondering what he’d done in his life to be condemned to standing in dark alleys, conversing with such unsavory sorts.

“Shouldn’t you cackle maniacally after you say things like that?” Amaranthe asked Rockjaw.

“Do you want the information or not, Lockdon? If you’re not going to tell me what you’re up to, I need something else useful in trade.”

Amaranthe still had one of the rifle cartridges in her pocket. She withdrew it and rolled it around in her hand, debating whether to give it to Rockjaw and tell him about the weapons. That the fancy firearms had been made in secrecy for the army meant she probably shouldn’t spread the word, but that proprietary design still made her wonder if there wasn’t something fishy going on. At the moment, it was the only interesting information she could part with.

She tossed Rockjaw the bullet and told him about the farm and what was out there. At her side, Books shifted uneasily as she shared the information, but he didn’t object at any point.

“Interesting.” Rockjaw rubbed the cartridge between his fingers. “And worth the information I have to offer you.”

Amaranthe suspected she’d given Rockjaw something worth far more than what he was going to tell her, but she managed a “Thank you” that wasn’t too dry.

“Your boy, Akstyr, tried to sell information on Sicarius’s whereabouts and secret weaknesses today.”

Books sucked in a breath. He probably didn’t care one way or another about Sicarius, but someone coming after Sicarius might endanger the whole team.

“I see.” Amaranthe was disappointed, but not surprised that Akstyr had tried to betray them. The part about “secret weaknesses” disconcerted her. Had Akstyr figured out Sicarius’s relationship to Sespian? It seemed impossible, but she couldn’t think of anything else that could be used against Sicarius. “To whom?” she asked Rockjaw.

“Khaalid the Knife.”

“That’s a bounty hunter, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but he refused the offer,” Rockjaw said. “He made a point to tell me, knowing I occasionally deal with you. I think he wouldn’t mind being on Sicarius’s good side.”

“Sicarius doesn’t have a good side,” Books said.

“Khaalid would like to not be on his bad side then,” Rockjaw said. “Of course, this altruism might be due to the fact that your boy wanted twenty-five-thousand ranmyas for the information.”

“What in the empire for?” Books asked. “All he does is read and visit brothels.”

Amaranthe could guess-she’d ferreted most of last summer’s scheme to kill Sicarius out of Basilard after he gave it up, and she knew Akstyr wanted to leave the empire to pursue his studies. She’d been trying to find him a local tutor, so he could further his education without leaving the group, but maybe it’d be better to let Akstyr go. He was her least reliable team member and always had been. But then, his skills had come in useful at times. She touched her belly, thinking of the scars beneath her clothing. Maybe it was worth talking to him before making any decisions. With Sicarius off doing who knew what, she could get Akstyr alone for a frank conversation without worrying about stealthy assassins overhearing.

“Thank you, Rockjaw,” Amaranthe said, more sincerely this time.

He gave her a mock military salute and sauntered away.

“Sicarius will kill Akstyr over this,” Books whispered.

“Not if I warn Akstyr and tell him to get out of the city before Sicarius finds out.” Amaranthe headed for the street. “Or if I can convince Akstyr that he’s made a big mistake and it would be in his best interest to stay loyal to us.”

Books fell into step beside her. “Are you sure he’s worth the trouble?”

“He’s young. It’d be nice to give him a chance to grow up and become a decent human being.”

“Some people never grow out of being selfish bastards who think only of themselves.”

“And some people just need encouragement to do so,” Amaranthe said.

“How can you be so optimistic?”

“Because I’m not the one holding a box full of blasting sticks.” Amaranthe managed a smile and sidled away from him. “I do hope you’re watching your steps.”

“You’re a dreadful young woman at times,” Books said.

“I know.” Amaranthe drummed her fingers on her thighs. “He wants the money to go to school, you know that right?”

“Real school or wizard school?”

“Now, now, outside of Turgonia, the study of the mental sciences is considered just as real and respectable as the study of history or languages.”

“I knew there was a reason I didn’t travel,” Books said.

“What if we paid for him to leave the empire and get an education?”

Books missed a step, and the box of blasting sticks lurched alarmingly. “What?”

“I haven’t put any focus into acquiring money, as is clear from my need to barter my services to merchants, but given our group’s talents, we ought to have no problem completing a wide variety of well-paying tasks. I even have contacts amongst the up-and-coming business mavens in Stumps, as I went to school with some of them.”

A young man and woman bicycled by, and Books did not answer right away. They had left the dead streets of the business district and were heading into the university neighborhood, where numerous eating and drinking houses remained open for the young clientele. Amaranthe tugged her hood up, ostensibly against the chill of the frosty night, but more to hide her face.

“Just so I’m clear,” Books said, “you’re proposing that the team finance the education of a scruffy, self-centered youngster who has no loyalty to the team and is, even as we speak, trying to arrange to have your beau killed?”

It was Amaranthe’s turn to stumble and nearly trip. “My what?”

“I thought you would find that description more apt than ‘your pet assassin’.”

“He’s not either,” Amaranthe said, watching the street and pretending to scan the coming intersection for enforcers or bounty hunters instead of meeting Books’s gaze. “And I’d find it apt if you called him by his name. You’ve been working together for nine months.”

Her tone was sharper than she meant it to be, but she didn’t apologize. His offhand remark had flustered her, and she wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by it. Did he think she and Sicarius were engaged in… more than they were? Or was he simply letting her know that he knew she had feelings for him? He’d figured that out a while ago and had made more than one subtle suggestion to the effect that she should abandon them. But by calling Sicarius her beau, Books seemed to be implying he thought Sicarius might feel something for her. Maybe…

Stop it, girl, Amaranthe told herself. None of that was important.

“Yes,” she said, “to answer your question. We have to finish with the emperor first, but after that, maybe we can do something to help Akstyr on his way, so he won’t feel he has to betray us for coin. A few lucrative assignments could probably pay his way, especially if I could convince the men to give up their share of the booty or take a reduced percentage for a while.”

“If anyone can, you can,” Books said and fortunately didn’t mention beaus again.

He and Amaranthe were approaching the campus when Maldynado and Basilard jogged around a corner and joined them. Maldynado wore a new fur cap with a raccoon tail dangling onto his shoulder. It might have looked like something out of the Northern Frontier, except that some creative haberdasher had dyed the fur pale blue. Only in the capital, Amaranthe thought.

In addition to the fur cap, Maldynado wore a grin almost as big as his ego.

“Success?” Amaranthe asked when the men joined her and Books.

“Oh, yes,” Maldynado said.

The concerned expression furrowing Basilard’s brow worried Amaranthe.

“You arranged for a vehicle suitable for carrying an emperor and that can make it over snowy roads?” she asked.

Maldynado’s grin widened, and he repeated, “Oh, yes.”

It flies, Basilard signed.

Books halted so quickly he nearly dumped his volatile cargo.

“Uhm, what?” Amaranthe asked.

Maldynado swatted Basilard. “I told you to let me tell her.” Before Basilard could respond, Maldynado said, “It’s a prototype, but Lady Buckingcrest has ridden in it and assures me it has everything we need. We won’t have to worry about snow-filled roads, not when we can fly right over them. The mountains won’t be a problem at all. She said the flyer can reach the pass in a day and a half instead of the three the train takes.”

“Are you aware of such devices?” Amaranthe asked Books. She’d heard of hot-air balloons, of course, and knew there were people experimenting with flight, but she’d certainly never seen aircraft cruising over Stumps.

“That would be safe enough to carry a box of blasting sticks?” Books scowled. “No.”

“Lady Buckingcrest’s family owns Experimental Aeronautics,” Maldynado said. “They haven’t gone public and started selling their craft yet, but they have lots of prototypes.”

“And you’ve seen them?” Amaranthe asked. “They work?”

Basilard shook his head.

Maldynado nodded. “I’ve seen the compound where they’re manufactured. It’s big and important looking.”

“Gee, why didn’t you say so?” Books asked. “That adds all sorts of veracity to the woman’s claims.”

“Whoever is going to the pass can pick up the flyer in the morning here.” Maldynado handed Amaranthe a piece of paper.

She gazed at it for a long moment, though it only contained a street address. Why did she have a feeling she’d made a mistake in letting him handle transportation?

“You needn’t look so glum.” Maldynado draped an arm across her shoulder. “It’ll be fantastic. Just think of the getaway. Instead of steaming off at ten miles an hour on windy, snow-filled roads, we’ll be able to take to the skies, with the soldiers left on the ground, gaping helplessly.”

“Who’s going to pilot this craft?” Books asked.

“Lady Buckingcrest said she’d send someone along.”

Great, someone else who would be privy to their plans. Amaranthe took Books by the arm and led him away from the others. “What do you think?”

“That this idea is more idiotic than Maldynado’s hat,” Books said, “but we don’t have time for something else.”

“All right.” Amaranthe handed him the slip of paper. “Check it out in the morning. If it doesn’t look feasible, come back and get the pumpkin lorry. We’ll hope for clear weather and no snow in the mountains.”

“Very well.”

“If it does look feasible… see if you can find a technical manual and learn how to fly the thing. I don’t want any extra witnesses.”

“I understand,” Books said.

Amaranthe was glad he didn’t mention Sergeant Yara. She didn’t need to be reminded that that might have been a big mistake. “Also,” she added, “if it’s as fast as Maldynado’s lady friend claims… go out east and see if those blasting sticks work to blow open the mines where the shaman’s workshop is buried. If we can get information on those implants-and how to remove them-before we pick up the emperor, so much the better.”

“You don’t want much, do you?” Books asked.

“I know you can handle it.”

“I don’t know why I always believe you when you say things like that.”

“Because you know I believe it, and it’s true.”

“Hm.”

Amaranthe rejoined the others. “Did Akstyr go with you two?” When she and Books had left, he had been reading one of his Science books. “Or is he still at the hideout?”

“No, and no.” Maldynado flipped the blue tail of his cap, so it rested over the other shoulder. “He went out. Probably for a booze-and-brothels night before we head off into the savage hinterlands.”

Amaranthe exchanged looks with Books, and, when he shook his head slowly, she knew exactly what he was thinking. They hadn’t even left the city yet, and her plan was in more danger of being mauled than the boulders in the mountain pass they were targeting.

Akstyr checked over his shoulder often on the way to West Quay, a modest but clean part of town with shops on the bottom floors of narrow brick buildings and residences above. The view of the lake might have made it a more upscale neighborhood, but factories to the north cast a pall of gray across the lowland streets, one that lingered even that late at night. Few pedestrians remained out, and those who did didn’t look like bounty hunters. For some reason that didn’t quell the nerves dancing in Akstyr’s stomach.

Hand on the hilt of the short sword hidden by his coat, he approached a worn brick square dominated by a fountain-statue of some old general. He eyed the benches around the area, telling himself not to expect his mother. She’d never been reliable, so why would that change? Unless she wanted something.

The bakery they had spoken of had closed for the day, but Akstyr found her sitting on a bench across from the building. She wore the same dress, though she’d added a scarf and mittens. A brown paper bag sat on the bench beside her. When she spotted him, she waved and smiled.

The friendly gesture did nothing to relax Akstyr-if anything it made him more uneasy. She’d arranged this meeting, and she could have very well arranged a trap. What if she knew about the bounty on his head?

“Mother,” he said, meeting her eyes for a moment before resuming his checks of the surrounding area.

If she noticed his wariness, she didn’t speak of it. “Sit down, son.” The bag crinkled as she delved into it, and she held up a frosted cookie shaped into a puppy-dog face. “I bought these for you.” She offered him the bag.

Akstyr accepted it, but he didn’t sit down. He didn’t want to have his back to the square and make it easy for someone to sneak up behind him.

“Thanks,” he said, lifting the bag, though the idea of returning to the hideout with it made him feel foolish. Sure, he’d liked the cookies as a little kid, but grown men didn’t eat sweets shaped like puppies. Maldynado would mock him for ages if he showed up with them.

“I’m glad you came,” his mother said. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

Ah, here it came. A request.

“Oh?” Akstyr asked.

“It seems you’re on the path to becoming somebody important. You’re working as a mercenary, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

“Sort of.”

“The pay decent?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” Her smile only faltered for a second before she added, “Maybe it will be one day.”

Akstyr shrugged and checked his surroundings again. A pair of soldiers in fatigues strode across the other side of the square. They looked like nothing more than men returning from a long day’s work at Fort Urgot, but he shifted to keep his face out of their view.

“If it does get decent,” his mother said, “maybe you’ll forget some of the wrong your ma’s done by you and help her out one day.”

Akstyr focused on her. “What?”

“I know you don’t have any reason to think fondly of me, but it’s hard getting work when you live where we live and got the skills that we got. Or don’t got.” Her lips twisted. “I’m making a way now, but my joints are already stiffening up.” She flexed her fingers and winced. “I don’t expect I’ll be able to work forever. I’m just hoping, if you end up in a good place, you’ll see fit to let me have a room somewhere in your home.”

Though she’d proven his suspicions founded by asking for something, Akstyr relaxed an iota while she spoke. If all she was looking for was a handout, then he probably didn’t need to worry about getting a dagger in his back, at least not that night.

“I guess,” Akstyr said.

Something flickered in her eyes-surprise?

“I mean, I’m not in a place to do much now, but maybe someday,” he said.

“That’s wonderful, son. Where are you off to now? Will it be dangerous?”

He wondered if she was only concerned because she’d learned he might be a meal ticket. Probably. “It was going to be Forkingrust, but now I think I might get stuck doing something in the Scarlet Pass, but probably it’ll be dangerous either way. It usually is.”

“Oh, dear. Up in the mountains? It’s getting cold. Take a scarf.”

If she hadn’t looked so earnest, Akstyr would have laughed. Where had this mothering instinct been when he’d been growing up? He remembered a time when he’d been playing on the floor, she’d stepped on him, then kicked him and cursed him for being in the way. Of course, he’d never known her when she wasn’t on some drug or another.

She wrapped her own scarf around his shoulders. “I’m sure you’re busy, so I won’t keep you. I’ll find you when you get back. Take care of yourself.” She smiled again and walked away.

Akstyr glanced around again, but nobody jumped out to attack him.