Dark Currents (7 page)

“What have you discovered?” Sicarius asked.

It took Books a moment to realize Sicarius meant the real estate research. He wrenched his mind back to the work on the table. “A mess.”

Sicarius folded his arms across his chest.

“I believe I’m in the right area.” Books waved at the scattered texts and papers. “But I’m still looking for a match. It’s definitely a rural property, probably in the mountains, I can tell you that.”

Nearby, boots clacked on the tile floor. A few visitors had come into the vast real estate library that day, but none had made their way back to his remote corner. The clacking boots drew closer, however, and he turned his head toward the noise.

A woman stepped out of the aisle and started at seeing him. She recovered quickly and smiled. Though a few creases framed her lips, and threads of gray wound through her wavy black hair, the smile was pleasant.

Books checked on Sicarius, afraid he would scare her away with his glare. He was gone.

“Hello,” the woman said.

He stood and gave her a bow. “Help you, ma’am?”

She frowned slightly, and he wondered if he’d guessed incorrectly on the title. “My lady” would be appropriate for a warrior caste woman, but she did not wear the expensive—and often obnoxious—trappings of that class. With simple blouse and trousers to match her calf-high boots, the woman seemed someone who preferred the simple to the ostentatious. She was handsome, too, he couldn’t help but notice.

“My father sent me to research some of the family’s property.”

Ah, so she
was
warrior caste. Books winced at his social flub and searched for a way to correct it. “You seem…mature to be doing errands for your parents, my lady.”

She titled her head. “Did you just call me old?”

He winced again. Maybe he should have kept his lips shut. “No, er, not intentionally. I was just noting that…uhm…research, you say?”

“Indeed, so. I need to find the map for the area.” She eased past his table and started rifling through oversized scrolls, some frayed from time’s passing.

Books tried to concentrate on his own work, though he wished he could say something that would engage her in a conversation and make her forget his bumbling tongue.

A few moments later, she turned and eyed the papers before him. “Do you have the map for Irator’s Tooth Valley?”

“Ah.” He shuffled through scrolls. “Yes.”

She slipped into the seat next to him. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Not at all,” he mumbled, noticing she wore a pleasant perfume that smelled of spring wildflowers. The part of his mind able to think of other things wondered if it was coincidence that had her researching in the same part of the library as he was, or…not.

“Here we are.” She spread the map and traced the boundaries of a miles-wide swath of land stretching through a valley that lay in the midst of one of the passes across the mountains. The northern one, which lay near Mangdorian territory.

While she pulled a small notepad out, Books leaned closer to the map. His gut lurched. The lot number he had been hunting all over for was written in the center of a chunk of land adjacent to the property holding her interest. The plat map did not show contour lines, but from its proximity to the river and the limestone makeup of those mountains, he guessed it a rocky hillside.

“Do you know who owns that lot?” he asked before he could think better of it.

As soon as she turned narrowed eyes his way, he knew he should have said nothing. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m, ah, looking at properties I might be able to afford for retirement. A little cabin in the mountains sounds nice, don’t you think?” He hoped that tale did not sound as woefully fabricated to her as it did to him. Maybe adding flattery would improve it. “And a spot with a pretty neighbor would be nice.”

“I live in the city and am only able to visit my parents a couple of times a year. Also, you’re a little young to be thinking of retirement, aren’t you?”

He sat taller. “You think I look young?”

“Yes, that’s the sort of complimentary thing you’re supposed to say when talking to someone with gray in his—or
her
—hair.” She appeared more amused than offended. Good.

“Sorry, I’ve been told I don’t have the smoothest tongue. My name is…Marl. Well, Books these days. Yes, call me Books.”

“Vonsha,” she said.

He wanted to chat and find out more about this unlikely coincidence, but he feared he would give her more information than he received himself. Maybe he should simply find out where she lived and have Amaranthe visit. Of course, even that might prove difficult if he couldn’t unearth some charm.

He steeled himself with a deep breath. He had to try.

“Would you like to have hot cider later?” he blurted, then winced. That was hardly charming.

A rustle came from an aisle behind Books. He glanced back but did not spot anybody. Night had fallen outside the library’s windows, and the deep shadows between the lights on the outer wall could have hidden…much. Only the lamp on the desk illuminated the area around Books and Vonsha. For a moment, he thought it might be Sicarius, but Sicarius did not rustle.

“Something wrong?” Vonsha asked.

“Thought I heard something.”

“It’s a public library,” she said, though she glanced down the back aisle too. “Other people could be here this late.”

“Could be.”

Though he figured regular patrons would walk normally, with their footsteps thudding on the tile floor, not sneak about without making an appearance. He wondered if Sicarius remained in the building, monitoring, or if he had left, knowing Basilard would arrive soon.

Books slipped his hand beneath his jacket and touched the hilt of his dagger for reassurance.

“…back here?” someone whispered.

“…the light.”

Vonsha’s eyes widened. Books held a finger to his lips and pushed his chair back silently. He folded the Irator’s Tooth Valley map and another of the surrounding mountains, then slipped both into his satchel. Vonsha opened her mouth, as if she might object, but a scuffle in a nearby aisle stopped her.

Books backed away from the table, crooking his finger for her to follow. After a brief hesitation, she eased out of her chair. The back of it bumped against a bookshelf.

“You hear something?” one of the voices whispered.

“This way.”

Hesitation gone, Vonsha rushed to join Books in the shadows. He drew her back into an aisle in the opposite direction from the voices and found a spot where they could peer over the tops of books between shelves and glimpse the table.

A man with a scruffy beard and scruffier clothing shambled into view. Bulges beneath his coat at waist-level may have represented weapons. He eyed the table, glanced around, then shuffled back the way he had come.

“Homeless?” Vonsha whispered.

“What would a homeless man hope to find in the real estate library?” Books whispered back.

“Maybe he’s looking for retirement property in the mountains.”

The shadows hid her face, but Books had no trouble deciphering the teasing in regards to his weak cover story.

“I sense you’re a sharp lady,” he said.

“I teach young people. When it comes to lies, I’ve developed a knack for shifting through people’s slag piles to find the nuggets of ore.”

“You teach?” Delight at finding a kindred soul infused his tone, and he had to force himself to lower his voice. After all, they were being stalked by someone. “I taught history for more than fifteen years at Bartok,” he whispered. “Do you—”

A clatter stilled his tongue. An unmarked tin can had landed on the table. It rolled toward the edge, a lit fuse sticking out of one end.

“Back, back!” Books grabbed Vonsha and pulled her down the aisle.

An explosion roared. Wood shattered, and shelves toppled into aisles, hurling their contents. Something sharp struck Books’s temple, and heavy tomes pelted him from all sides. The book cases framing his aisle wobbled and tilted inward, cracking together. He ducked. They met over his head, forming an A. Certain one would collapse, burying Vonsha and him beneath it, Books hustled faster. Still pulling her, he lunged out of the aisle and planted a hand on the brick wall at the end.

She slumped into his arms.

“Vonsha?” he asked.

Blood saturated the front of her shirt and dripped from a shard of wood embedded in her neck. Closer to her collarbone than her throat, it did not appear to have hit the jugular, but he hesitated to pull it out, fearing that would make the injury worse.

Light—no, flames—grew behind them. Fire.

The light revealed movement, someone stepping out of an aisle farther down the wall. The figure, a young man in ill-fitting clothing, lifted a crossbow and aimed for Books’s chest.

“Sicarius!” Books blurted. “Would you take care of this bloke?”

The crossbowman spun to look behind him. Too bad Sicarius was not truly there.

Unable to move quickly or draw his knife without dropping Vonsha, Books shuffled toward the aisle they had exited, hoping his ruse would buy them time. The shelves chose that second to collapse, barring the route.

Even with wood crackling nearby, Books heard the twang of the crossbow bolt firing. He ducked his head, and turned his shoulder. The bolt flew high.

Books set Vonsha down, prepared to attack the archer, but he halted. The rumpled man dropped the weapon. Eyes wide, face frozen in a rictus of pain, he went down.

Sicarius stood above him, his black dagger dripping blood. Books gaped, surprised his summons had worked. A hint of annoyance hardened Sicarius’s dark eyes, and Books imagined him thinking,
I can’t leave for five minutes without you getting into trouble…

“There are others,” Sicarius said. “Get out.”

“Out is good.” Books reached for Vonsha, intending to sling her over his shoulder.

“Leave her.”

“No.”

Books lifted Vonsha without waiting to argue. He turned his back on Sicarius and followed the outer wall, figuring the aisles were too dangerous. Numerous sets of shelves had toppled, and flames burned in several rows as well as on the ceiling, which was charred from the explosion. Heat rolled from the growing fire, warming Books’s cheeks and forehead.

Behind him, someone screamed. It ended abruptly.

With the corner closest to the front door in sight, Books broke into a jog. He rounded it and almost crashed into the homeless man—and the pistol in his grip.

Hands busy holding Vonsha, Books jumped to the side and lashed out with a kick. His shoulder rammed the wall, but his boot found its target. The pistol flew from the man’s grip. Books shoved him into the wall and ran past. He only wanted to get out of the building with Vonsha, not start a fight. Besides, Sicarius could handle that more proficiently.

No one else blocked his route on the way to the front door, but a steam horn pierced the air in the street outside. Someone must have heard the explosion and reported it.

He paused at the threshold, juggling Vonsha so he could free a hand to open the door. He peered outside. Two steam wagons painted with enforcer red and silver chugged to a stop in front of the building.

Books wavered. As far as he knew, he had no bounty on his head, but the enforcers might know he worked with questionable types by now. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting Sicarius to be behind him. Someone was there, yes, but it was not Sicarius.

A spiked club whistled toward his eyes. Books ducked, but not quickly enough. The club glanced off the top of his head, and pain erupted in his skull.

He stumbled back, losing his grip on Vonsha. She hit the ground and moaned.

Books’s attacker, another man who looked as if he had come off the streets, swiped at him again. Dodging, Books reached for his dagger. Blood dripped in his eyes, and numbness made pulling the weapon out harder than it should have been.

Shouts came from outside along with footsteps pounding up stairs. Books cursed and ducked another wild swing. The man had the finesse of a steamroller, but it was all he needed. Dizziness gripped Books, and his limbs were not moving quickly enough. He swiped blood out of his eyes and almost cut himself with his own knife.

“Not thinking,” he muttered. “Not—”

The man hefted the club overhead, and Books stumbled back, not sure he could evade the blow this time.

The door flew open. Books’s attacker froze, then whirled, charging them.

“Enforcers! Halt!”

A crossbow twanged.

Someone grabbed Books’s arm from behind. He tried to spin and pull away. It was Sicarius.

“Stairs,” he barked.

“But Vonsha—” Books slurred.

“They have her.” Sicarius yanked on Books’s arm, dragging him forward.

He stumbled up the stairs after Sicarius, and they escaped through a window. He slipped, trying to climb down, and landed hard on his back. Sicarius yanked him to his feet. Blackness flirted with Books’s consciousness, and the rest of the retreat faded to a blur.

A
maranthe leaned against the side of a headless statue, one of thousands in the capital that gave it the dubious nickname of “Stumps.” She wore the hood of her parka pulled low over her eyes while she watched the busy street.

Though evening had fallen hours earlier, people clogged the sidewalks. Numerous drunk men meandered onto the cobblestones where they provided ambulatory obstacles for bicyclists and the occasional steam carriage. Gambling houses, sport venues, and drinking and eating houses packed the neighborhood. Many of the male passersby wore the lush, vibrant clothing—and gold-gilded swords—of the warrior caste, but just as many had the miens of off-duty soldiers. More than one black-clad figure wearing weapons strode past, and Amaranthe did a few double glances, thinking one might be Sicarius. But, despite his disinterest in disguises, he had a knack for invisibility, and he would likely find her first.

Disguises were on her mind as the sea of people moved about her, any one of whom would turn her in, either for the reward, or simply because she was a wanted felon. She touched the hilt of her short sword, reassured by its presence. She wondered what Maldynado would find for her to wear. She probably should have gone shopping with him, though more than once he had pointed out he had an easier time getting bargains from the predominantly female merchants in the city if they thought him unattached.