Dark Currents

  “The infection, yes.”

  “How did you convince him?”

  Amaranthe thought about answering honestly, that she had done nothing, but decided it might help her down the line if he believed she wooed the shaman with her tongue. Sicarius might have saved her life—twice in as many days—but she still believed he was sticking around because he thought she’d eventually be in a position to talk to Sespian on his behalf.

  “You have your secrets,” she said with a smile, “and I have mine.”

  A bang sounded somewhere in the depths of the tunnels. A rifle shot?

  “The others,” Amaranthe said. “Have you seen them? Are they still fighting?” She jogged to the workstation to search for a weapon. Twinges in her abdomen reminded her she was not yet healed fully. One more hour, she thought. She would rest if she could abuse her body for one more hour.

  “I don’t know,” Sicarius said. “I saw several machines leave this workshop and head deeper into the mine. I drew this one away so I could attack it alone.”

  “How hard was it to destroy?”

  “Hard.” Sicarius drew his black dagger. “I was able to climb on the back of it, cut a seam at the base of its neck, and slice the control wires leading from the power source.”

  She peered in a toolbox but found nothing more lethal than the pliers. “Could you have done the job with a normal knife?”

  “Slice the wires, yes. Cut through the seam, no.”

  Another gunshot rang out.

  “They sound like they need help.” She eyed the glowing orbs.

  “It was difficult to destroy one construct. There are a dozen down there.”

  At least he did not say the men were not worth saving. A couple of months ago, he would have.

  “I understand that,” Amaranthe said, “but there must be something here that can help. What do the orbs do?”

  “They’re the power sources. The shaman creates them, then uses mundane technology to build the machines.”

  She thought of the one she had destroyed in the gambling house’s vault. At the time, it had been good that it had caused no great explosion, but now she wished they could be used as tiny bombs.

  Amaranthe grabbed the bag the shaman had packed. “Maybe Akstyr can do something if we can get this stuff to him.”

  “If he’s alive,” Sicarius said.

  “Are there any optimistic assassins in the world?” She jogged for the door, relieved Sicarius followed her.

  “That aren’t dead?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “No.”

  “Ah.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Someone shook Books. He pushed away the fog hazing his mind and focused on the face above him. Basilard. A rifle fired nearby. Akstyr.

  “Mal?” Books rasped. A film of fine dirt caked his tongue.

  Basilard pointed into the chamber.

  “Is he…?” Books started.

  A commotion interrupted him.

  “Hah, missed me, you badger-kissing slag pile!” came Maldynado’s voice from the far side of the chamber.

  Books rolled onto his belly. Pain pulsed through his head, but he squinted through it and found Maldynado. He harried the constructs with his rapier, though the thin blade did little against their metal hides.

  “Making friends, is he?” Books knelt and crawled to the edge of their dwindling perch. Another shot or two from that cannon, and the ledge would be dust.

  But the constructs had changed their focus to Maldynado. He jumped and waved, evading their projectiles.

  “Idiot,” Books said. “What’s he doing? If he can do that, he can make it back up here.”

  “He said he’d distract them so you could come up with something bright,” Akstyr said.

  “Oh. That’d be noble if it wasn’t…stupid.”

  “You calling Maldynado nobly stupid?” Akstyr asked. “Or stupidly noble?”

  “I can hear you!” Maldynado jumped out of the path of two bipeds trying to corner him.

  Come up with something bright, Books thought. Yes, that was supposed to be his job. “Akstyr, Basilard, give me your powder.”

  They poured out a few rounds worth, then complied. Books found the other fuses and crafted two more explosives. How could he take out all of the constructs with so little? He had to get them all in one place somehow.

  Maldynado yelped in pain. “Metal-headed dogs!”

  Books did not look up in time to see the attack, but Maldynado clutched his arm. Blood flowed through his fingers. Still cursing, he dodged another harpoon, but all of the constructs were targeting him, pressing him back against the wall.

  “Get out of there, fool!” Books called.

  Basilard shot, but his ball ricocheted off without deterring the target. Books still had the unloaded pistol, and he could light one of the fuses, but Maldynado was in the middle of the mess.

  “I’m trying!” Maldynado faked a step one direction, then angled for a gap between two of the constructs, but, through some intelligence no machine should have, they anticipated him and narrowed the opening.

  A serrated blade spun out, veering toward his head. Maldynado scrambled backward, but his heel caught on the uneven ground. He went down.

  Basilard jumped off the ledge and sprinted in to help. Books snapped the hammer on the flintlock, trying to light the fuse. Maybe if he threw the powder toward the backside of the constructs…

  Before a spark landed on his fuse, he spotted movement at the tunnel entrance.

  “Now what?” he groaned, fearing the shaman had decided to come help his creations.

  But Sicarius burst out of the tunnel, and Amaranthe hustled after, an arm clutching her belly.

  Taking the situation in with a glance, Sicarius flowed across the chamber and leaped onto the back of the construct with the saw. His black knife appeared in his hand, and he slipped it into creases between sheets of metal covering the machine’s innards.

  Amaranthe hobbled toward the ledge and tossed a satchel to Akstyr. “See if there’s anything you can use in there.”

  Akstyr dug into it. Across the chamber, Basilard pulled Maldynado out of immediate danger, though little had changed. The constructs had three targets instead of one. Amaranthe stood, poised, her face thoughtful, as if she was considering jumping into the mess. She did not even have a weapon.

  Books lay on his stomach and extended his arm. “Smart people up here. We have to figure out the solution.”

  “While it’s flattering that you’re including me in your group, I haven’t done anything smart lately.”

  Books wriggled his fingers. “They like to shoot things this direction. Come up here to discuss it.”

  Amaranthe waved the hand away. “We have to get out of here. The shaman is dead. I doubt these will follow us past the mine entrance. How fast are they? Can we outrun them?”

  “Oh!” Books perked. If all they had to do was outrun the constructs… He hefted one of the powder flasks. “Maybe we can use these to—”

  A crack and a screech of metal sounded, followed by a war whoop from Maldynado. A construct tottered, a cannonball hole in its torso. Metal parts rained from the gap like petals shaken from a flower. The construct toppled.

  “Though,” Amaranthe mused, “if we destroy them, we don’t need to worry about some aspiring megalomaniac getting them and using them against the city later.”

  “I’ve arranged a nice flood, so I think that part is covered.”

  “Got something,” Akstyr said. His eyes were bright as he sat back, a plain black box in his hands. “It feels like a controller. There’s writing on it. I can’t read the Mangdorian, but—”

  Books slid it from his hands. “Attack, guard, and…hibernate.”

  “The last one sounds good,” Amaranthe said without taking her gaze from the mad scrambling of the men.

  “Agreed.” Books rotated the box. “I don’t see a switch or trigger though.”

  Akstyr snatched the device back. “That’
s because you’re uneducated in the Science.”

  Books sniffed. “Really.”

  Akstyr, head already bent over the device, did not seem to hear. His tongue stuck out of his mouth, and his face scrunched in concentration.

  “Look out!” Maldynado shouted.

  At first, Books thought it a warning for Sicarius or Basilard, but the entire cadre of constructs had turned their attention away from Maldynado and the others. En masse, they advanced toward the ledge. No, toward Akstyr. And Amaranthe was in the way.

  “Uhm, Akstyr?” Amaranthe crouched, ready to spring one direction or the other.

  A cannonball flew over Books’s head and cracked into the wall behind him. Shards of wood from the support beam flew.

  “It’s possible there’s an anti-tampering device,” Akstyr said, voice strained.

  Books reached down, intending to grab Amaranthe, but he still clutched the pistol and one of the black powder bombs in his hands. He hesitated a half a heartbeat, then struck sparks to light the fuse.

  “Out of the way, Amaranthe.” He hurled the flask into the path of the advancing constructs.

  In the second before the explosion, Books glanced toward the other men. Maldynado’s eyes bulged, and Books feared he had made a mistake. A huge mistake. Sicarius lifted a hand toward Amaranthe, though his gaze was locked past Books’s shoulder. A boom sounded. Wood snapped behind Books even as the explosion roared below.

  The wall behind him collapsed. Rubble hammered him, throwing him into a landslide.

  Rocks battered him from all sides. He clawed at them, trying to stay on top, but the moving pile dragged him off the ledge. He struck ground, and rocks pounded him into the earth. They smothered him, stealing light, and driving pain into his body from all sides.

  He gasped, or tried to—it was as if a giant vise had clasped about his ribcage. What air he managed to suck in was hot, thick, and filled with dust. Fine powder coated his mouth, nostrils, and the back of his throat. It even seemed to paint the backs of his eyes. His body tried to cough, but agony ripped through him, and it came out as a whimper.

  Had the others avoided the landslide? Or were they buried too? Were the constructs still harrying them?

  Books tried to push up, but not a single rock budged. He might not even be pushing the right direction. What if he faced up or sideways instead of down?

  He struggled to fight off panic, thoughts that he could die here. Buried alive.

  Scratches sounded, echoing strangely inside his rock prison. They grew louder, and hope stirred in his breast. Another sound trickled through the rubble to him: voices. Books strained his ears.

  “Books?” Amaranthe called.

  Rocks shifted. A pinprick of light slanted into his black cocoon.

  “Here,” he gasped.

  More rocks moved away, and fingers brushed his face. Grateful tears slid down his cheeks.

  “We’ve got you,” Amaranthe said.

  “Is good?” he whispered. He wanted to ask a more intelligent question—or at least a grammatically correct one—but it hurt too much to talk.

  “We’re fine,” Amaranthe said.

  “Fine?” came Maldynado’s voice. “I’m so covered with dirt and blood, I’d probably have to pay to get into a woman’s bed right now.”

  “Maldynado is especially fine,” Amaranthe said. “As are the others. That last cannonball took out the support. I saw Sicarius’s expression and got out of the way. Akstyr was far enough from you to miss most of the rock fall. You, ah, chose an inopportune time to cause an explosion.”

  “Oops,” Books whispered. He may have been premature in telling Amaranthe that “smart people” were on top of the ledge. Between Akstyr’s fiddling and his own work, they had caused most of the trouble.

  “You did destroy all the constructs,” Amaranthe said.

  “Good.”

  “Though…” Amaranthe lifted the last of several rocks off his back. “While we appreciate your efforts, I think you might want to retire from heroic deeds. Bad things seem to happen to you as a result.”

  “Library work is more my forte,” he agreed.

  Thanks to their efforts, Books managed to crawl out and stagger to his feet. Or tried. Pain burst from his knee, and he gasped and reached out for support. He caught the nearest shoulder, realizing afterward it belonged to Sicarius. Fine dust coated his black clothes and smudged his jaw, and blood stained his blond hair.

  “Sorry,” Books muttered, anticipating a glare—and the need to find a walking stick or someone else to lean on.

  Sicarius looked at Basilard and jerked his chin toward Books. The two men draped Books’s arms over their shoulders. Amaranthe smiled and pointed to the tunnel exit.

  Maldynado offered her an arm though Books was not sure if it was so he could support her or she could support him. Both perhaps. The group definitely needed a rest.

  Maldynado pointed at the destroyed constructs, half of them buried by rubble. “Nice work, Booksie. Though you owe me powder and a new rifle.”

  “You didn’t lose your rifle,” Akstyr said, taking up the rear.

  “I know,” Maldynado said, “but it’s all bunged up, and that’s Books’s fault.”

  “It’s still functional,” Amaranthe said.

  “But scratched and dented. You don’t expect someone like me to run around with a weapon like that do you? I had it custom made. The inlay alone took a master engraver three days.”

  “Maldynado?” Books said. “You’re an ass.”

  “But sort of a lovable ass, right?”

  “Like the odd dreadful in-law one gets when one marries,” Books said.

  “So…you think of Maldynado as family?” Amaranthe smiled over her shoulder at him.

  Books stumbled. Dear ancestors, did he?

  Maldynado threw Books a wink.

  Books eyed his and Amaranthe’s backs then glanced from side to side at his escorts. Basilard’s lips curved upward, and, while nothing would move Sicarius to smile, one of his eyebrows did arch slightly.

  “Well, I…” Books thought of his long-dead father, a man he had barely known, a man who had always seemed to prefer spending time with his soldier friends to his nagging wife and a boy who loved words not swords. For the first time, Books thought he might, if not condone those choices, understand them. “My father used to say some families are made by shared blood and some families are made by spilled blood. I used to dismiss it as some pugilistic glorification of a combat unit, but I can see where spending enough time with the same folks, facing dangerous situations day in and day out, would tend to make one feel a familial kinship toward those comrades, even when they are people one wouldn’t normally choose to spend time with in casual, everyday life.”

  “What did he say?” Maldynado whispered to Amaranthe. “I forgot to listen halfway through.”

  Books sighed.

  “He said he loves you all like brothers,” Amaranthe said, “and thanks for coming after him down here.”

  “Oh,” Maldynado said. “Good.”

  Books’s first thought was to dispute the preciseness of Amaranthe’s translation, but the approving nods of the other men made him pause. Maybe it was good to have a woman in the “family.”

  A hollow, grinding noise came from the tunnel ahead.

  “Please, not more fighting,” Books muttered.

  Sicarius left Books for Basilard to support and stepped in front of Amaranthe, a throwing knife at the ready.

  A rusty metal ore cart rolled around a bend, its iron wheels following the track down the center of the tunnel. If not for the fact it was moving, it would have appeared normal. No weapons or advanced features protruded from it.

  The cart rolled to a stop a few paces in front of Sicarius.

  “Maybe it’s here to give us a ride out,” Maldynado said.

  “I wish,” Amaranthe said. “Let’s—”

  “It feels like it’s been touched by…” Akstyr jogged past Sicarius to peer inside.
>
  Amaranthe lifted a hand, as if to issue a warning, but Akstyr was already plucking something out.

  “Just a piece of paper.” He pulled a single page out and checked both sides. “I can’t read this.”

  Basilard stood straighter, as if he might also leave Books to take a look.

  Not wanting to lose his support, Books waved a hand. “Bring it here. Maybe it’s in Mangdorian.”

  Akstyr shrugged and headed their way. “If it’s secret Science stuff, you have to translate it for—”

  Sicarius slipped the paper out of his hand as he passed. Books would not have noticed except Akstyr threw him a startled glance. Sicarius skimmed the note, crumpled it up, and pocketed it.

  Basilard stiffened.

  “A message?” Amaranthe asked.

  A message? Who was down here except the dead shaman and what remained of his contraptions? Unless she thought Tarok had arranged for the note to be delivered before his death.

  “It’s nothing,” Sicarius told Amaranthe.

  Amaranthe lifted a shoulder. Too tired to argue, perhaps.

  Sicarius turned a cool, assessing gaze toward Basilard, who did not quite keep the suspicion off his face as he returned it.

  “We all ready to go back to the city?” Amaranthe asked, her words breaking the staring contest.

  “Extremely so.” Books closed his eyes. “Extremely so.”

  • • • • •

  Late morning sun pried through the clouds, illuminating the countryside as the sloping foothills gentled to flatter lands dotted with farmsteads. The stolen lorry chugged along with all the men except Sicarius crammed in the cab. Amaranthe lay in the troop bed, propped on a rucksack leaning against a bench. If she did not move anything, she did not hurt. An improvement. Despite his injuries, Books sat with the others, chatting and even laughing. She still felt bad about the bounty on his head, but it seemed he had come to peace with being a part of a band of mercenaries.

  Sicarius leaned against the back wall of the cab, his arms across his chest, his gaze roving the countryside and the road behind them. The soldiers had been pulling up to the mine entrance as her team slipped away. She wondered what they would make of the mechanical carnage left inside. More, she wondered if anything else would come of her words to Yara. The soldiers might have been too late to help, but their arrival might mean Amaranthe’s trip into their camp had not been a waste of time. If the enforcer sergeant had relayed Amaranthe’s ideas, and the soldiers had been acting on them… Perhaps her team had succeeded in earning recognition or at least planting a seed in someone’s mind that they might not be villains. She eyed Sicarius. Mostly not villains anyway.