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 thi
s 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.”