Dark Currents

CHAPTER 3

W hen Books and Maldynado returned to the rumbling, clanking, hissing belly of the pump house, Books searched for Amaranthe with a bounce in his step. He strode into the warm boiler room, which had been claimed as the recreation/training/dining room for the group.

A knife whistled through the air, almost giving him a second shave for the day.

He jerked back as the sleek steel thudded into a scarred log propped upright in the corner. The knife, hilt quivering, joined others. Several more littered the concrete floor.

Books glowered at the thrower.

“You should knock.” Seventeen-year-old Akstyr was the age Books’s son would have been if he were alive, but there were no similarities. Dressed in oversized shirt and trousers, Akstyr wore a perpetual sneer and would have looked like he made a living mugging old ladies even without the spiked black hair and arrow-shaped gang brand on his hand. “Bad to walk up on a man handling his weapons.”

“There’s no door.” Books smothered the urge to tack on “young man,” instead tapping the brick archway for emphasis.

“Then you should at least look before popping in. We’re having a lesson.”

Basilard, the putative instructor raised an apologetic hand toward Books. The ex-pit-fighter, with a briar patch of scars crisscrossing his pale face and shaven head, appeared as thug-like as Akstyr. Yet the mute man rarely caused trouble, so Books was inclined more favorably toward him than Akstyr or-

Maldynado bumped into Books as he passed into the room, a half-devoured pastry dangling from his lips. “You tell them about the bodies yet?” he asked, the food churning in his mouth on display like concrete in a mixer.

“Bodies?” Akstyr hurled another knife into the log.

“Not yet.” Books crossed the room to check the boiler, figuring it would be safer over there than near the practice area. He peered into the furnace and was mildly surprised someone had shoveled more coal in recently. “Is Amaranthe here?”

“Nah.” Akstyr collected his knives. “She and Sicarius are out, asking about a job.”

“I’d prefer to wait so we only have to tell the story once.”

“Not me.” Maldynado grinned and launched into gory descriptions of the bodies, speculations about an evil man-eating tunnel beast, and-his favorite part-how Books had fallen into the water, gotten tangled up, and screamed like a girl being mauled by a bear. He acted out the last part, which put Akstyr on the floor in guffaws. Even the saturnine Basilard smiled with appreciation for the flamboyant storytelling.

Books turned his back to them and checked the gauges on the boiler. He fiddled with the pressure regulators and pretended he could not hear Akstyr and Maldynado’s continuing mirth.

Basilard joined him, held out a throwing knife with one hand, and twitched a sign with the other: Practice?

Though Books was not as apt at reading Basilard’s hand codes as Amaranthe-who seemed to know what others were thinking whether they used words or not-he had seen that sign often enough to know it.

“I appreciate your willingness to instruct,” Books said, “but the four hours of training Sicarius inflicts on us every morning are sufficient for me.”

At five-and-a-half-feet tall, Basilard stood a foot shorter than Books, but he had the sturdy stoutness of a brandy still. Books poked at the coals in the furnace, so he could pretend he did not see the man’s stern frown.

You practice more, Basilard signed, which Books took to mean he needed more work than the others. No great illumination there.

“If the fate of the group ever rests on me being able to hurl a knife into a person at twenty paces, I suspect we’ll be doomed, extra practice notwithstanding. I’m not even sure I could-” Books didn’t finish his thought aloud-that he did not know if he could kill anyone. Thus far, the job had not required it, not from him. Amaranthe had never implied he need do more than defend himself. Still, Akstyr and Maldynado had fallen silent, and Books sensed them listening, waiting for more laughter fodder.

Basilard merely stood, knife held out, gaze unrelenting.

“Fine.” Books took it and went to the chalk mark on the floor, the one spot from which he could usually make the throw.

Maldynado and Akstyr leaned against the wall. An audience. How delightful.

Books faced the log, lifted the knife above his shoulder, held his left arm out to sight along, and threw. The blade spun three times and landed point first in the log. It quivered a foot below the black heart some artistically challenged soul had painted in grease, but he was tickled whenever the knife did not bounce off or miss altogether.

Basilard pointed to the floor three feet farther back, and Books groaned.

Maldynado chuckled. “No bounty hunter is going to let you line up at precisely ten paces for the throw.”

“Unlike you, I don’t have a bounty on my head.” Books shuffled back and accepted another knife. “I’m here because…” He wanted to be? That wasn’t exactly it. Because Amaranthe had come to him, seeking a research assistant, and he had been tired of drinking himself into oblivion every day, dwelling on the past, and relying on his landlady’s charity to survive. If he had known he was signing up for hours of running, calisthenics, and weapons training every day, he would have kept the bottle. Maybe. A year had passed since his son died, and more seasons than that since his wife left. He had grown weary of mourning and feeling sorry for himself, but he had no other family. Two decades had disappeared since the Western Sea Conflict, where his father and older brothers, marines all, had fallen in naval battles. Not that they had been much of a family, even when they were alive. It depressed him to realize he was probably only here, with these men, because he did not want to be alone.

Basilard bumped his arm: Throw.

“Right,” Books murmured.

He lined up and threw again, but he judged the revolutions poorly, and the knife bounced off the log.

Not for the first time, Basilard demonstrated the no-spin method he and Sicarius used. They could stand anywhere and hit their targets; Sicarius did not even need to be standing. More than once, Books had seen the man hit moving targets while jumping off roofs, rappelling down cliffs, and other athletic feats Books could barely manage by themselves.

“Relax, Books.” Maldynado snickered as the sixth or seventh knife clattered to the floor. “I’ve never seen anybody look so uncomfortable doing-well, everything. How can you have been born in the empire and not have more familiarity with weapons? Didn’t you go to the mandatory training classes when you were a prim little student reading encyclopedias?” He pointed toward the knives. “Your arm needs to do a whip action. You’ve got to be relaxed to make that.”

“Pardon me if the idea of hurling four inches of steel into someone’s chest doesn’t relax me.”

“That’s a log, not a person,” Akstyr said.

“Though we can see how it’d be confusing,” Maldynado said. “Here’s a tip that helps me tell the difference: people scream a lot more when they get hit.”

There were times Books wished he had the gumption to walk over and punch Maldynado in the mouth. Actually, it wasn’t so much a lack of gumption as the knowledge that he would be the one who would end up with his face smashed into the floor.

Basilard waved for Maldynado and Akstyr to give up audience status and practice as well. Unfortunately, that did not silence their tormenting.

When Amaranthe walked in an hour later, Books dropped the knives and greeted her with wide arms and a hearty, “Amaranthe!” that probably sounded desperate. Fortunately, the boys tended to be more civilized when she was around. Despite her gray military fatigues, combat boots, short sword, and dark brown hair swept into a no-nonsense bun, she always struck him as the kind of girl he would have wanted for a daughter rather than some knife-hurling mercenary.

She observed the knives and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Who’s supposed to be on watch?”

“Oops,” Maldynado said. “Forgot on account of the alarm bell and bodies.” He jogged out, path wide to avoid Sicarius, who was gliding through the door.

“Bodies?” Amaranthe arched her eyebrows.

“Remember, one is from me,” Maldynado called back.

Books explained the situation. Amaranthe’s eyebrows remained perked throughout, and he could imagine ideas stirring in her mind. Sicarius stayed silent throughout the story. He stood near the door, back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. If anything interested him, one would never know. Just having him watching always made Books nervous. He finished the story and handed Amaranthe the key fob and the damp note.

“Bodies in our own backyard,” Amaranthe said. “This may supersede the other mystery we were delving into.”

“Anything interesting?” Books asked.

“Complaints about magic usage.”

“Magic?” Akstyr bounced to her side, the model of an attentive school boy-except for the baggy sleeves pushed up to his elbows, displaying a few other brands from his gang days.

“Sicarius can fill you in,” Amaranthe said. “He knows more about doodads, er, artifacts than I.”

Akstyr shrank back, appearing less than enthused at the idea of a private chat with the assassin. Sicarius’s expression did not change, but Books had the impression of a cranky wolf lizard known for eating its young.

Amaranthe examined the key fob, not batting an eye at the glowing feature. “Ergot’s Chance. What is that? A gambling house?”

“That’s a new place.” Akstyr flipped a knife into the log. “Run by a foreigner. Real popular for some reason.”

“How do you know about it?” Books asked. “Given our current fiscal situation, it’s unwise to spend time blowing money on gambling.”

“It’s my money.” Akstyr sneered. “I’ll do what I want with it. Anyway, I was planning to win, not blow anything. Place is rigged though.”

“A rigged gambling house,” Books said. “Imagine that.”

“Rigged by a practitioner, I mean,” Akstyr said. “I should’ve been able to win with the new tricks I learned in that book.”

He was studying magic from an ancient Nurian tome, a project that frequently involved pestering Books for translations. If the youth learned anything that way, Books would be shocked, but he had no interest in arguing.

“They were using their own non-imperial tricks.” Akstyr threw another knife, clipping the log this time. “That one isn’t weighted right.”

“We’ll check it out tomorrow night.” Amaranthe tossed the fob to Akstyr, then considered the numbers on the damp note.

“Why don’t I research that while you take the others to the gambling house?” Books could use a break from his belligerent-minded brethren. A long break.

“Sounds good,” Amaranthe said. “I like a man who volunteers to do research.”

He straightened, pleased at the thought of proving himself useful.

“I’ve run into trouble at the real estate library before though,” she said. “Why don’t you take Maldynado? Even if there aren’t any assassins lurking on the upper tiers-” she tossed a significant look at Sicarius, “-Maldynado can distract the clerk if you need to sneak out with documents.”

Books had his mouth open to complain that Maldynado was the last person he wanted to spend more time with when his brain circled back to the first thing she said. “Real estate library?”

“Isn’t that where you were planning to research? That’s a lot number, isn’t it?”

Books scrutinized the note, but he knew little about real estate, so he had no idea. His shoulders slumped. He read and wrote six languages, had taught world history for a decade, and could find anything in a library in under a minute. He was supposed to be the expert on research. If he wasn’t that, what was he in this group? “Well, there were a number of possibilities that came to mind, but that’s certainly on my list of items to check.”

Amaranthe smiled, brown eyes knowing, but all she said was, “If that does match up with a lot on record, see if the other number represents a recent appraisal.”

“Right.” He tried not to feel disappointed that his scrap of paper was not something more interesting. Like that cipher he’d mused about. He would have enjoyed a cryptographic challenge, but real estate? Enh. Worse, he had to take Maldynado.

“That’ll get you out of tomorrow’s fun.” Amaranthe winked at Books.

“What fun?” Akstyr asked suspiciously.

“The rest of us can dig out the as-built drawings for the aqueducts and figure out where those bodies came from.”

“Looking at pictures all day?” Akstyr grimaced.

“Oh, I’m sure there’ll be some field work.” Amaranthe’s eyes twinkled. “Got any magic tricks for waterproofing boots?”

“Uhm, maybe?”

Without comment, Sicarius left the room. Unless the team was planning a mission, or he was leading training, he never spent time with the men. It would not surprise Books if he randomly killed everybody in their sleep some night.

Basilard and Akstyr returned to knife throwing. Books fiddled with the sheet of paper, though his thoughts were elsewhere, particularly on how he could sneak out in the morning, leaving Maldynado behind.

“You doing all right?” Amaranthe asked him.

“I’m fine.”

She nodded for him to follow her to a quiet area of the room, near the warmth of the furnace. “You look glum.”

“That’s my normal expression.”

“I’ve noticed. With those perennially dour faces, you and Basilard could start a convincing crematory business.”

Books shrugged. “I’ve just been wondering if…perhaps this was a mistake. I’m not sure how I…enhance the group. Research skills, I thought, but you’ve proven adept in that area yourself.”

“Only in matters where I have previous experience. I studied business-including real estate-in school before my father died and I had to drop out. Please don’t underestimate what you have to offer.”

“It’s not only that. I’ve little in common with a band of mercenaries, so I don’t fit here, not like I did at the University. But, of course, I can’t go back there.”

“Having a record as someone who cavorts with outlaws isn’t usually a draw for employers,” Amaranthe agreed.

Books prodded the corner of the coal bin with his boot. “Maybe I should leave the capital, find a small town where nobody knows me. Start over.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“Or peaceful. I’m grateful to you for the role you played in helping me get past my grief.” And out of the bottle. “I’m just not sure this is a life I’m suited for long-term.”

“I’d certainly miss you if you left, but you don’t owe me anything, and I can’t make you stay. Well, with Sicarius’s help I probably could.” Amaranthe smiled.

He returned the gesture warily.

“No, I’m joking.” She patted his arm. “Think on it for a while, please. You may feel that you don’t have much in common with the others, but don’t mistake not fitting in with not having a place. We care about you.”

Books snorted. “You, I believe do. The others, less so.”

“Maldynado would be bored if he didn’t have you to trade insults with.”

“I see. And Sicarius?”

“Ah, he believes you’re progressing with your training.”

“And that’s equivalent to caring about me?” Books asked.

“Most people he ignores. Or kills.”

“True.”

“Think about it,” she said. “No leaving while we have a mystery to solve though. I expect we’ll find some excitement tomorrow, one way or another.”

Noting the gleam in her eyes, he said, “Why does that worry me and excite you?”

“You’re saner than I am?”

“That must be it.”