“Lovely place,” Books murmured.
“At least it comes without a meddling landlady,” Amaranthe said.
“This is true.”
“Pick out a bunk and settle in,” she said. “As soon as Maldynado gets back, we’ll get started. Sicarius, a word?”
He stepped over to a corner counter with her as Akstyr and Books explored their new home.
Amaranthe stacked a few of the scattered cans into a neat pile. “You went shopping for this building before we knew there was a man-slaying creature roaming the streets. Do you still think it’s a suitable hideout.”
Sicarius lifted his gaze toward the rafters. Some thirty feet up, solid beams ran from wall to wall below the peaked ceiling. If one could clamber up there, one might be safe. As long as that creature couldn’t jump that high.
“I don’t see a ladder,” she said.
“You can climb the support posts,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe eyed the dented and scarred wood of the nearest post. “You can do that, I’m sure. The rest of us might find that feat challenging, especially with a monster crashing through the door.”
“Hang rope.”
“I guess that works.” The last of the rusted cans went into her organized pile. One counter down, thirty to go. “I’m going to send Books and Akstyr to get a press. I’ll take Maldynado ink and paper shopping. I want to start researching the Forge people, but that’ll probably have to wait until tomorrow. We need to get the press set up, and we need to get money plates made. I don’t suppose you know an engraver and can get that done?”
“Easy,” Sicarius said.
“Really?” She had expected this to be a sticking point. Maybe she ought to just let him go and do it, but… “Easy because you know a criminal engraver who owes you a favor, or easy because you’ll pick someone with the skill set, force him to do it, and kill him afterwards?”
“The latter.”
“Oh.”
“Asking someone to help you commit a crime and then leaving him alive to point you out to the enforcers is foolish.”
“Well, we’ve got three people already who are going to be privy to our plans. Perhaps adding another wouldn’t ma…” A chilling thought whispered into her mind. She glanced at Books, sitting on a bunk, and Akstyr, poking around in discarded debris. “Please tell me your logic doesn’t require killing everyone we work with over the next couple weeks.”
“You can’t trust random people acquired from the street. Don’t get attached.”
“Sicarius.” She gripped his arm, distantly aware that she had never dared touch him before. “I did not talk these folks into helping just to have you kill them at the end.”
“Once our need for them is done, they’re disposable.”
“And does that go for me too?” As soon as she asked the question, she regretted it. If the answer was yes, what would she do?
“You’re not disposable,” he said. She almost had time to wonder if he might actually care, but then he added, “It’s your plan.”
“Lucky me. Well, here’s an addendum to my plan: it will not involve killing the men we’ve coerced into helping us, nor will engravers be found in bed with their throats cut.”
“Propose an alternative.”
Amaranthe rubbed her chin and gazed thoughtfully about the building. Akstyr was stretched out under a table, digging through dirty sawdust. He came up with a copper coin and grinned.
“Akstyr,” she called.
He stuffed the coin in his pocket and threw her a suspicious look. Nonetheless, he slouched over.
“What?”
“Where’d you get all those keys?” She jerked her chin at the ring on his belt.
“Made ‘em.”
“Are they copies? Or originals?”
“Copies.”
“Am I correct in assuming you’re not a trained locksmith?”
“Yup. It’s pretty easy to make copies of keys, using…” he shrugged, “ways.”
Amaranthe took that to mean magic. “So, using these ways, you can carve things out of metal. Could you engrave something?”
“Oh, sure. I used to leave my gang sign all over the city that way. This one time, a man was in the water closet at the baths, and I—”
Amaranthe lifted a hand. “Sufficient details, thank you.” The width of his grin convinced her she was right in cutting off the story. She fished out a ten-ranmya bill. “Think you could copy this into metal?”
“Sure, using the Sci—er, my way is even easier than tracing. It’s like burning a brand with your mind. As long as I’m just making an exact copy and not getting artistic.”
He reached for the bill, but Sicarius plucked it out of the air first.
“Copying this won’t get us anywhere,” Sicarius said. “It needs to be in reverse.”
“Like a stamp, of course.” Amaranthe sighed. “Too bad the Imperial Mint is in Sunders City, otherwise we could just steal plates. Though that would—”
“I’ll make it,” Sicarius said.
Amaranthe and Akstyr stared at him.
“Make what?” she asked. “The reverse drawing?”
“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 s
till, 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 informants, 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 mean
s 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.