Dark Currents (10 page)

“Make your offer,” Sicarius told Ellaya.

“Happy to.” The woman opened a file and withdrew a pen and paper. “Let’s go over the expected duties first.” She flicked a dismissive hand toward Amaranthe. “You’re no longer needed, child.”

Amaranthe walked out. The bouncers stayed inside, no doubt viewing Sicarius as the prime threat to their boss. Perfect.

She slipped the key out of her pocket. Simple and bronze, it appeared little different from hundreds of others. The same logo that marked the key fobs was etched in one side. She rubbed it and it glowed softly. Ah.

Amaranthe padded down the hall. She eased a couple of doors open and found dark offices inside. Others were locked, but her key did not fit the holes. She wound deeper into the maze of hallways.

She tried a door near an intersection, pushing it open as retching sounds came from inside. She halted. A bouncer hunched over a washout, clutching his stomach. Fortunately, his heaving kept him from noticing her. She shut the door again and mulled as she continued forward. Checking every room might not be feasible, and her luck probably wouldn’t hold—sooner or later she would run into someone and her spying hour would be up.

A clank came from behind her—a trap door in the floor being thrown open.

Amaranthe jumped around the corner and slipped through an open door opposite the retching bouncer. The cluttered shelves of a storage room rose around her. She left the door cracked and peeped out.

“That deposit ought to even things out,” a woman’s voice said.

A man laughed. “Don’t worry. Mrs. Ell will get that blond bub’s money back.”

The pair turned into Amaranthe’s hallway and strode past.

“True, he went in the back not out the front. Probably already dead.”

“Or in her bed.”

The two shared laughter.

The conversation continued, but distance muffled the words. When the hallway grew silent, Amaranthe headed straight for the trap door. The pattern of the tiles hid the cracks, but knowing where to look made it discernible. She found a slight gap, enough to wedge her knife into, and pulled the door open.

A ladder stretched down into blackness.

She tapped one of the gas lamps on the hallway walls, but they were permanent fixtures. Aware of time passing, she ran back to the storage closet and dug around until she found kerosene and lanterns. A few moments later, she slipped down the ladder, pulling the door shut over her head.

A short hall stretched both directions at the bottom. Identical steel vault doors waited at each end. Amaranthe eyed the key in her hand, doubting it would open either. The existence of two doors piqued her interest, though, and she went to investigate. One would doubtlessly hold funds. What about the other?

The doors had wheels instead of knobs. She tried one on the chance the employees had left it open, but it did not budge. To her surprise, a sliver in the center looked like a keyhole.

Her key went in, and a pulse of red light flashed. Amaranthe nearly dropped the lantern in surprise. Despite the red glow, the key did not turn. She tried the wheel, but it did not move.

“Huh,” she muttered.

Amaranthe jogged to the other vault door. Her key slid into an identical hole. This time a pale blue light flashed. Red, fail, blue, pass? She applied pressure, and the key turned in the lock.

In the stillness of the subterranean hall, she felt her heart thumping against her ribs.

The wheel turned.

She hesitated before trying to open the door. If magic controlled the locking system, might not some otherworldly trap wait inside as well? Or was it presumed that someone with a key had a right to go in? Akstyr would not have handed it to her if he thought she would get herself killed. Probably.

Amaranthe pulled on the wheel. She had to bend her legs and lean away from the six-inch-wide door to get it to open, but it moved silently on oiled hinges. Soft clanks came from within.

Inside lay an eight-foot-by-eight-foot vault dominated by a contraption that reminded her vaguely of a steam loom with spinning belts and a large flywheel. No visible furnace or boiler powered the machinery, but a fist-sized red orb was bolted to the top where it glowed softly. A small pedestal up front held a round indention the size of one of the key fobs. Maybe this machine made them. That defied what little she knew about magic though. Only a trained Maker ought to be able to craft imbued objects.

She dug out the fob and snugged it into the indention. The orb pulsed.

“Adner Farr. Government employee, Waterton Dam.” It was Ellaya’s voice, her tone utterly bored. “Salary five-thousand ranmyas a year. Saved funds, meager. Return compulsion stored.”

Amaranthe had never heard of Waterton Dam. She waited for more, but the recitation was complete.

“Maybe that’s information stored in the key fob,” she guessed. “Maybe they’re individualized for each person, a quick way to look up how much money people can spend here.” Footsteps sounded overhead, someone walking down the hallway. “And maybe I should stop talking to myself and get out of here,” she finished.

A draft whispered against her cheek. The flame in her lantern wavered. She spun as the massive door thumped shut.

She cursed and lunged for it. Too late. It did not move.

B
ack at the pumping house, Books sat in the communal sleeping area while he surveyed the maps from the real estate library. His head throbbed, his body ached, and fresh scabs threatened to reopen every time he moved. He drank from a jug of apple juice, wishing for apple brandy instead. Amaranthe must have said something to the others, for nobody ever offered him alcohol or left any out.

He stole a couple of pillows from Maldynado’s sleeping area, the only one in the tiny room that had such luxuries. Maldynado had procured a straw bed, sheets, and furs for himself. Perhaps Books should have done the same. Even without injuries, he was getting too old to sleep on the floor. More than once, Amaranthe had offered him the closet-sized caretaker’s room, which had actual furnishings: a washout, a hammock, and a clothes trunk. She probably would not mind sleeping on the floor, but he would feel like an ungentlemanly lout if he accepted the trade.

Besides, Sicarius had oozed disapproval at the idea, something about leaders not sharing quarters with the lowly peons they led. He, of course, slept elsewhere. Books did not know where, nor did he care.

Before they parted ways, he had made the mistake of thanking Sicarius for helping him in the library. Sicarius’s version of “you’re welcome” had been a lecture on inattentiveness and the foolishness of divulging information to strangers. It was not as if Books had told Vonsha any great secrets. He had been too busy blurting inanities.

Would he ever see her again? If Vonsha was a warrior caste woman, the enforcers would have taken her home and brought in a doctor. He should have found out where she lived so he could check up. Maybe he could go under the guise of sharing the maps with her.

The maps he was supposed to be studying. He grabbed paper and a pencil to make notes, but Basilard walked in before Books made much progress. He carried skewers of meat, and the scent of rosemary wafted in with him.

Basilard frowned at the candles, the map, and the fact Books was not lying down.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Books said. “Are you sharing that?”

Basilard handed him the skewers, which bulged with grilled lamb, onion, and carrots. Books’s mouth watered before he sank his teeth in. Basilard sat cross-legged on the other side of the maps.

“Thank you.” Books wiped juices from his chin and wondered if he should say more.

Though Basilard did not make him as uncomfortable as Sicarius, he had not spent much time with the man and did not fancy he shared any interests with a former pit fighter. Still, the fact that he could cook made Books wonder what depths might lie beneath his silent facade.

Basilard pointed at Irator’s Tooth Valley on the map and flicked a few hand signs:
Headwater city?

“Uhm. What?”

Water
, Basilard signed, then pointed at the city and raised his eyebrows.

“Does that water feed the city? Is that what you’re asking?”

Basilard nodded.

“Ah, you need more verbs in your language.”

A wistful expression crossed Basilard’s face.
Hunting signs.

“The language is only for hunting?”

Yes.
Basilard mimicked parting reeds, peering at prey, and lifting a finger to his lips.

“A hand code developed for use on the hunt when silence is required,” Books said, “but nothing more. I see. You could always add to it, and we’d learn. The Kyatt Islands have a sign language like that; it’s used by deaf people.”

Basilard cocked his head as Books spoke, then tapped a thoughtful finger to his lips.

“To answer your original question, no, the city gets its water from the Tork River, which originates…” Books stopped.

Basilard was shaking his head. He grabbed a pencil and scribbled for a few minutes. Books read the note and learned the details of Amaranthe’s suspicions about the aqueduct.

“That’s…interesting.” Books tapped the map. “But this river flows past fifty miles north of the city. It empties into the Maiden Lake, the first in the Chain Lakes of which we are a part.” He waved in the general direction of their body of water.

Basilard traced the river with a finger, as if to double-check. He signed,
Supply city
, then shrugged.

“It could supply the city if the infrastructure was there?”

Basilard nodded. He touched his chest and pointed to the valley in the mountains.

“You’ve been there?”

A nod.

“And seen the river?”

Yes.
Basilard stretched his arms wide.

“And it’s large. Where are you from, Basilard?” Books should have asked long before. He had always found the scars off-putting and never bothered to converse with the man outside of work.

Basilard pointed into the mountains north of the pass.

“Mangdoria?”

Yes.

“Really. An offshoot of the Kendorians. When my people conquered their way inland hundreds of years ago, the natives who weren’t assimilated, went east and north while the Kendorians went south, right? And it wasn’t race that determined the distinction, but religion. Your people believe in one god, a benevolent deity that says pacifism is preferable to war.” Books eyed the scars crisscrossing Basilard’s shaven head.

Basilard looked away. Sadness, or maybe guilt, lurked in his blue eyes.

Best to shift back to the problem. “But you decided to come here at one point, and you passed through the mountains and saw this river.”

Snared
, Basilard signed.

“You were? By slavers?”

Yes.

“Ah, but you’re free now. Why not go home?”

Basilard hesitated, then shook his head.

“Nothing to return to? No family?”

Another head shake. He lifted his hands, hesitated, then tapped his chest and signed.
Female.

“You have a wife?”

No. Dead. Small female.

“
Daughter?
“ Books stared. When Basilard nodded, Books went on: “Why? Why wouldn’t you go back? How old is she?”

Basilard closed his eyes for a moment, and Books wondered how long he had been a slave. Had there been owners before Larocka? So much for the practice being outlawed in the empire.

Ten
, Basilard signed.
Yes, ten now.

“Don’t you want to see her again?” Thoughts of Enis flooded Books’s mind. What he wouldn’t give to see his son again… To live those fatal moments over and this time save Enis. How could Basilard
not
return to a daughter?

See her, yes,
Basilard sighed.
Her see me…no.

“Why?”

Basilard pointed to the sky, then to his scars, then shook his head sadly.

Books puzzled over his meaning. Basilard scrawled on the page:
God requires peace.

Understanding dawned, and Books frowned, thinking of what the man must be going through. “Your people are pacifists, but you’ve killed.”

Basilard’s chin drooped to his chest.

“A lot.” Books raked his fingers through his hair, thinking of what he knew of the Mangdorian religion. Hell. They believed in an eternal hell for those who committed acts of violence. He wondered if Amaranthe knew Basilard’s story. He remembered how she had swayed Basilard to let them go from the cell in Larocka’s basement by seeming to read his persona and voicing his guilt. Had she guessed at some of Basilard’s torment even then? “You had to kill to survive, didn’t you? You had little choice.”

The pencil wrote:
Always a choice.

“Death isn’t much of a choice.” Books grabbed the jug and took a deep swig, again missing the days of drinks stronger than apple juice. “You know, you could convert to the Turgonian ‘religion.’”

Basilard’s eyebrow twitched.
Atheism?

“Absolutely. There’s no heaven, but there’s no hell either. It’s all about what you do in this life. Of course, a lot of folks still believe ancestor spirits float among us and are available for consultation. I’ve noticed these spirits tend to give the advice the living want to hear. Either way, it sounds better than having one’s soul condemned for eternity.”

Heathen
, Basilard wrote.

Books chuckled and handed him the jug. “We’ve been called much worse by those we conquered. And traded with. And talked to. Are you sure you don’t want to return to your homeland?”

After a deep swig of his own, Basilard wrote,
Perhaps someday. When we’ve…mattered. Better empire. No illegal slavery.

Books smiled. So Amaranthe had convinced him to become a crusader too.

Books showed Basilard the plat map, thinking he might prefer a distraction. “This is the lot that was on that sheet of paper that came from the dead woman’s body. It overlooks this river. Do you remember this land, by chance?”

Basilard lifted his eyes in thought.
Trees, rocks, hills, snow.