“I’ve heard Ms. Sarevic is a stickler.” Though only recently. Amaranthe had patrolled this neighborhood as an enforcer for years, and she’d had no idea that the proprietor kept two sets of shop hours.
Books’s lips puckered, reminding Amaranthe of an old lady contemplating a diatribe on the wayward nature of today’s youth. He’d been in a rotten mood all evening, railing at the others and demanding that whoever took his journal return it. As far as she knew, he didn’t suspect Sicarius. Amaranthe hadn’t told Books where the journal had gone or that it’d likely be returned with blood on the pages.
“You could have gone with Maldynado if you find this errand distasteful,” Amaranthe said.
“You think I’d find watching him seduce some businesswoman for the use of her very expensive private vehicle less reprehensible than purchasing illegal blasting sticks? A private vehicle that will likely, under our care, be shot full of bullets or perhaps crashed.”
“Should I be more offended that you find my shopping list reprehensible or that you’re certain we’ll wreck our getaway vehicle?”
“Given our history with stolen conveyances, it’d be shocking if we didn’t damage it.”
Amaranthe checked the clock. Three minutes to go. “We won’t be stealing this one, simply borrowing it, assuming Maldynado can sufficiently woo this woman with his talents.”
“Please, he’s as talented as a sock,” Books said. “Besides, didn’t you borrow that garbage lorry last summer? The most recent newspaper article I read on the subject said the Imperial Ash and Refuse Collection Service is still looking for one of the articulating arms.”
“It is not,” Amaranthe said, though the deadpan way Books had said it caused her to eye him with concern. There hadn’t truly been an article, had there? “As to the borrowing, no, I think the magistrate would find us guilty of theft in that case.”
As they so often did, Books’s comments showed her how flexible her morals had become of late. Amaranthe hoped the team would successfully snatch Sespian and earn a chance to talk to him. With a hand wave, he could remove their bounties and her new hobby of crime could come to an end. So long as he still had the power to act within the Imperial Barracks. Amaranthe winced, thinking of the implant.
Two minutes to go.
“You haven’t mentioned who will be responsible for the landslide,” Books said.
“I haven’t?”
“No.”
“Ah.
One minute to go on the clock. Amaranthe was tempted to knock early, so she wouldn’t have to answer Books right away, but she needed a good deal from Ms. Sarevic, and she didn’t want to risk irking her.
“Who is planting the blasting sticks?” Books asked.
Amaranthe cleared her throat. “I need my best fighters on the train. Even with smoke grenades and knockout gas-” she pointed to the appropriate items on her shopping list, “-it’s likely we’ll have to brawl with numerous well-trained soldiers.”
“I see. So, Akstyr and I get this portion of the mission.” Books couldn’t have sounded less tickled if a dog had peed on his leg.
“Why, thank you for volunteering, Books,” Amaranthe said, hoping enthusiasm on her part would encourage the same from him. “You’re the only one I can trust with an independent mission of such importance.”
“Uh huh. Even if you hadn’t just admitted you were choosing based on fighting prowess, I know you trust Sicarius more than me, though only your dead ancestors could guess why.”
“That’s… actually not true. I’d trust him to protect my back in a fight, but not necessarily to do things in a way that doesn’t endanger my plans.” Indeed, Amaranthe worried that he was off doing something like that as she spoke. “Trust me, you’re far more steady and reliable in this regard.”
“All right, you already have me. You can save your flattery for outsiders,” Books said, though his tone had lightened, and Amaranthe thought her words might mean something to him.
“If it makes you feel better, you’ll only be dealing with blasting sticks, not the empire’s elite bodyguard and a train full of soldiers. If the infiltration team gets itself killed, you’ll still be alive, and you can escape.”
“We’ll see. I’m not convinced sharing a vehicle with blasting sticks and a young wizard who likes to light things on fire with his mind is healthier than fighting soldiers.”
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.