CHAPTER 8

As dawn turned the alleys from black to dark gray, Amaranthe jogged the last few blocks of the miles-long route. Usually Sicarius picked their path, and the rest of the men ran with them, but he had not shown up that morning. Books was recovering from his wounds, and Basilard had complained of a stomach bug. Not surprisingly, Maldynado and Akstyr had yet to return from The Pirates’ Plunder.

Amaranthe made sure nobody was following her, then trotted through another alley, up a concrete staircase, and into a door she’d left unlocked. She slipped past the pipes and control valves of the above-ground portion of the pumping station, not expecting anyone inside this early.

The sound of voices made her halt.

“…nothing wrong with the controls, my lord. I assure you, we’ve a man who works here day in and day out. I’d have heard if there was a problem.”

Amaranthe recognized the voice; it was the supervisor who had hired Books. He oversaw the utilities building for the industrial area and rarely visited the pumping house.

“Something’s going on,” a second man said. “You figure out if there are rusted pipes or malfunctioning machines, or I’ll send a private company in with the expense taken out of your salary.”

Footsteps thudded on concrete—the men heading for the door through which Amaranthe had entered.

She squeezed between a fat pipe and the wall, hoping the shadows hid her. Little light came in through the windows yet.

“I know how to do my job, my lord,” the supervisor said. “If something strange is going on, it has nothing to do with my machinery.”

The men passed within a few feet of her. Amaranthe held her breath. The supervisor carried a lantern, but it did not illuminate the face of the other man. He was well-dressed in slacks and a frock coat, as one would expect from the warrior caste. The lord who oversaw the public works?

The door opened, then clanged shut. Amaranthe waited, not sure if both had left, but no more footsteps sounded. She was tempted to follow them outside to see if she could hear more of the conversation, but dawn’s light would make staying close difficult on the open streets.

She eased out of hiding and slipped through the control room to the access shaft in the back of the pumping house.

She wondered what had come up to bring the public works supervisor here. The corpses? After considering several options, she had finagled her team into taking the bodies of the appraiser and the workers to another part of the aqueducts. She had sent a note to Enforcer Headquarters in hopes they could be identified and their families informed. But this sounded like something unrelated to the deaths.

When Amaranthe reached the lower level where she and the men stayed, the sound of someone retching waylaid her thoughts. Basilard?

Frowning, she wound through passages toward the source. Maldynado hunkered over the washout, sides heaving, face pale.

“Are you…uhm?” Amaranthe stopped herself from saying “all right,” since clearly he was not.

Maldynado issued a final heave and sank back against the wall. “Just regretting the night’s activities.”

“You’re back earlier than I expected.”

“I was too miserable to stay.” He dragged a sleeve across his mouth and rubbed his face. “I didn’t think I was imbibing that deeply. I even drank a bunch of water, figuring Sicarius might come yank us out of bed before dawn for some of his horrible exercises. I—” He lifted a hand, cheeks bulging out, and returned to his previous activity.

Amaranthe backed away. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Strange, she had seen Maldynado hung over, but not sick like this. If Basilard also felt poorly, and he had not been drinking, some bug must be about.

Amaranthe stopped to grab a jug of apple juice, then headed past the boiler room, through the following door, and into a cramped space she called, for lack of an official-sounding name, the big pipe place. Most of the chamber lay underground, but shafts of light angled through windows high on one wall. Sicarius’s latest sleeping spot lay in an elevated, dark corner atop a round cap that appeared as uncomfortable as a blanket on the concrete floor. Of course, he could see people coming from the perch. And he, unlike she, apparently had the unconscious wherewithal not to roll off in the middle of the night and crash to the floor.

“Sicarius?” she asked.

When no answer came from the depths, she clambered across the fat pipe leading to his spot, an act that would have been easier if she left the jug behind, but if he was there and also sick, he might like a drink. She struggled to imagine him ill. If he had ever so much as sneezed in front of her, she could not remember it. Of course, he might be out, skulking around the city for his own reasons. He did that from time to time, but he always showed up for morning training.

“Sicarius, are you there, or am I crawling up here for no reason?” Her knee cracked against a wheel for regulating water flow, and she grimaced. “For no reason except to bruise myself, that is.”

Amaranthe hopped off the pipe and onto wooden scaffolding left against the wall after some project. From there she could climb to Sicarius’s niche.

“I’m here.” His voice gave little away—as usual.

“Are you sick too?” This close, she could make out his supine form on the wide pipe cap. “I promise I won’t run out and tell your enemies you’re an easy mark right now if you admit you have the flu,” she said.

Wood cracked at Amaranthe’s feet. The hilt of his black knife quivered, the tip a centimeter from her big toe. His way of saying he was not an easy mark, sick or not. She hoped there was not more of a message behind the flung weapon than that, but it sent an uneasy chill down her spine. A reminder that, though he seemed to tolerate more from her than most, she might be unwise to presume he found her teasing amusing.

Out of a sense of stubbornness, or maybe some delusion it would impress him, Amaranthe opted for bravado rather than outward unease—or an apology. She tugged the blade free and held it up. “You dropped this.”

His soft exhalation might have been a snort.

The strange black metal of the knife seemed to swallow the wan light coming through the window above. He had never explained where he had acquired it or what it was made from. She shuffled over and laid it next to him.

“Do you want some apple juice?” She hefted the jug.

“No.”

“You’re probably not that practiced at being sick, but the doctors say you’re supposed to drink liquids.”

“Bring water then. That’s too sweet.”

“You say that about everything that tastes good,” Amaranthe said. “Maybe the reason you’re sick is that you don’t eat anything except fish, meat, and vegetables, and all you ever drink is water. You—” She halted as a new thought ricocheted through her head. “Water. Is that it?”

Sicarius issued an inquisitive grunt.

“When did you start feeling sick?” she asked.

“Last night.”

He had been snippier than usual the night before, and maybe not just because of Ellaya’s interests.

“You drink a lot of water,” Amaranthe said. “Where’d you drink yesterday? The city fountains?”

“Yes, and the tap here.”

“Maldynado’s sick, too, and he said he drank a lot of water. I feel fine.” She closed her eyes, thinking about what she had consumed the previous day. “I had water yesterday morning, but switched to a pitcher of tea in the afternoon—tea I made the day before.” Was it possible the public works lord had come because of a complaint about water? Were other people in the city ill? Maybe it had been the water itself Akstyr had sensed down in the tunnels. Some kind of magical poison? “I have to talk to the others.”

Amaranthe started to turn away, eager to check her hypothesis, but she paused, remembering Sicarius probably felt miserable. She touched his shoulder.

“Can I get you anything? Milk? Tea?”

“I require nothing,” Sicarius said.

Of course not. He had probably never accepted help from anyone in his life. “You know,” Amaranthe said, “you’ve saved my life countless times. I owe you a lot, and I certainly wouldn’t mind taking care of you while you’re sick.”

“Go solve your mystery.” Sicarius rolled onto his side, turning his back to her.

Amaranthe sighed and left to talk to the others.

•  •  •  •  •

Books finished his glass of milk and bent over a three-day-old copy of The Gazette. More newspapers, those from underground presses as well as government-approved ones, scattered the desk. He scribbled notes onto a piece of paper, cursing when his pencil pierced the page, thanks to a knot hole beneath.

The wood plank balanced on crates made a poor desk, and the lack of windows left him grumbling about the lamp’s weak illumination, but at least he had the boiler room to himself while the other men moaned and bellyached in the sleeping area. Though not Sicarius, of course. He would never deign to wallow in communal misery.

Amaranthe walked in, a fresh newspaper tucked under her arm. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it going? Last night, I was nearly blown up, then I was attacked by a loon with a club, and then I almost smacked into a pile of enforcers, and finally I twisted my ankle following Sicarius out a window. Today I have a monstrous headache, not to mention scabs in places that should never be exposed to violent acts. Also, at some point, I tripped and stubbed my toe against the end of my boot. The nail is turning purple. I think it may fall off.”

She pointed at the desk. “I meant the research.”

“Oh.” His cheeks warmed. “The research is fine. I’m your researcher extraordinaire. You know that. Why else would you have given me this pile of work?”

Someone else would have made a snide comment, pointing out he was the only other person in the group who hadn’t been drinking water and wasn’t sick, but she simply patted his shoulder and said, “Because you can handle it.”

He shuffled through his notes. “I haven’t found anything about the water in these papers, or remote lots in the mountains, but there are a lot of incidents of vandalism and violence toward the foreigners who have set up shop here in the last few months.” He paused at the sound of rustling papers. Amaranthe was tidying the desk, though she watched him as she did it, maybe not aware of her busy hands. “These problems aren’t all that surprising,” Books went on, “but they do seem to be escalating. More incidents in the last couple of weeks than in the previous months combined.”

“Interesting.” Amaranthe finished straightening the papers, swept pencil shavings into her hand, and carried them to the furnace for disposal. “The question is, does this tie in with the water problems, or are we looking at two mysteries?”

“You don’t look daunted by the possibility.”

“More problems, more work. We need to focus on the water issue though. It’s more of an…opportunity. More of a chance for us to get noticed if we solve the problem.” She laid the morning’s newspaper on the newly tidied desk.

The front page headline of The Gazette screamed: THOUSANDS ILL; EPIDEMIC COMES TO CITY.

“Ah, I see.” Books skimmed the article. “No mention of the water.”

“My guess could be incorrect, or maybe they hadn’t figured out the connection when the paper was put together.”

“Or they may know and not want people to burst into hysterics,” Books said. “As much as this city enjoys its juice, brandy, and wine, it wouldn’t take long to run out of water alternatives and for people to start hoarding. Theft and fights would break out. It could be utter chaos.”

“The soldiers in Fort Urgot would impose martial law before complete pandemonium broke out, but, yes, this represents a massive problem.” She bounced on her toes and smiled.

“Good birthday present, eh?”

“Well, I don’t wish people to be sick, especially our own men.”

“But…”

“But, yes, this is a gift. Maybe. If we’re able to make use of it.”

“You have something in mind?” Books asked. “A journey into the mountains to investigate the source?”

“That would be a good idea, but we’re not sure where that source is yet. I think another trip is in order first.” She nodded at him. “And you’re the perfect person to go on it.”

“A mission for just the two of us?” The incident at Mitsy’s Maze—where he had proven completely ineffectual in a crisis—still haunted him. Though their daily training had improved his fitness and combat skills over the last couple of months, he worried how he would react in another desperate situation.

“More like an errand,” Amaranthe reassured him. “I want to seek out your new lady friend and have a chat.”

“Lady friend?” he asked casually, though a tingle of anticipation fluttered through his belly at the thought of Vonsha.

“Aren’t you wondering how she’s doing after the explosion? And why there was an explosion to start with? Was she the target? Were you the target? Would anyone who was researching that spot in the mountains have been targeted? Is it all tied in with this new illness? That lot is on a river, maybe a river that feeds into the city’s water supply. I want to know what she knows.”

“She didn’t tell me where she lives.”

Amaranthe pointed at the paper stacks. “I thought you were a researcher extraordinaire.”

He rubbed his lips. “That is true…”

“You find out. I’ll check the men and see what my new disguise looks like—Maldynado picked it up before heading to The Pirates’ Plunder last night.”

“This should be good,” Books murmured as she walked out.

•  •  •  •  •

A breeze blew a rumpled food wrapper across the empty street. Sidewalks that should have been busy with workers running about on lunch break were sparsely populated. More than one business had its windows shuttered or a CLOSED sign hanging on the door. Books could not believe how quickly this “epidemic” had manifested.

With few trolleys running, he and Amaranthe had to bike to the upscale urban neighborhood at the base of Mokath Ridge, a task she found difficult in her “disguise.” At least, he assumed that was what the frequent invocations to dead ancestors signified. The curses may have been for the disguise itself.

A flamboyant white-brimmed hat with a dangling tail of mink fur perched atop her braided hair. Her low-cut blouse revealed…a lot more than he was used to seeing from her. The short skirt hugged her thighs like a sausage casing, giving her legs little freedom for peddling. The short hem caught when they parked the bikes and got off.

“Don’t say it,” she said when Books opened his mouth.

“As you wish.”

“I assure you, I already discussed the inappropriateness with Maldynado, and I pointed out my thought had been to cover up more of my body rather than less, to which he said, ‘Yes, but nobody will be looking at your face in that.’”

“Possibly true.”

“I am grudgingly trying it until I have time to shop for something more my style. I did make a modification.” She untied a sash, revealing a hidden belt with a sideways knife sheath. “A spot for my sword would be better, but so few women carry them that it’s a suspicious accoutrement.”

“Yes.” He fought to keep a smile off his lips. “I, too, believe Maldynado would say it clashes with that outfit.”

“Wouldn’t want that.” She jammed the bicycle into a rack with more force than the task required. “At least you’re armed.” She nodded to his short sword.

Lucky him. “The address is a couple of blocks down the street.”

Books led the way down an old but well-kept cobblestone lane. Tall, narrow row houses rose three stories high on either side. One or two steam carriages were parked in the street, but most houses had bicycles secured out front. An upscale neighborhood, but not as drenched-in-ostentatiousness as the ones further up the hill where people looked down upon the city from their vast estates.

“Nice area.” Amaranthe waved at early spring flowers peeping from window planters and hanging baskets.

“Nothing I could have afforded as a professor.” Books and his wife had rented a small house near campus. The empire did not pay its educators well unless one happened to be a retired officer teaching at a military academy.

“Maybe she’ll let you move in with her.”

“Premature to speculate on such things. Though…I wonder if, ah… The directory only listed her name under the address.”

“Hoping there’s no lover, eh?”

“No,” Books said. “Well. Maybe.”

Amaranthe smiled. It was a gentle, warm smile, not an amused one, and he sensed she actually cared and would root for him to find happiness, even if it meant leaving the group.

She paused on a corner and laid a hand on his arm. “I am concerned though—did Sicarius tell you about their past?”

“Their past?” Books stumbled and caught himself on the pole of a gas lantern. “They weren’t—I mean, he doesn’t even…” Dear ancestors, he did not want to think about Sicarius sleeping with a woman at all, much less one he had an interest in.

“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply…” Amaranthe lifted a hand in apology, though amusement quirked her lips. “She used to work for Hollowcrest at the Imperial Barracks, part of the intelligence department. She’s a cryptography expert, or she was, and she made ciphers for the empire during the Western Sea Conflict.”

“Oh, that’s actually… Well, naturally, I loathed Hollowcrest, but working for the Imperial Intelligence Network isn’t necessarily ignoble. Indeed, if she’s that smart, I am…further intrigued.”

Amaranthe’s smile broadened. “I love that you’d be interested in a woman because of her brain.”

“Yes, well, you haven’t seen her. She has other fine…attributes as well.”

She chuckled. “Of course.”

They circled a clunky statue towering in the center of the wide intersection. The bare-chested Darkor the Deathbringer held a sword aloft while a shoulder-high wolf stood beside him, water squirting from its maw. The address on one of the corners behind the statue matched the one Books had written down.

A snake wriggled a dance in his belly. Time to see her again. Would she be mad he had left her to the enforcers’ care the night before? Would she blame him for the explosion?

Stairs rose from the sidewalk to the front door. Amaranthe spread her hand, indicating he could go first.

Books paused at the front door, more worries churning through his head. He stared at the knocker, noting the handsome vine and leaf pattern comprising the heavy brass ring.

Amaranthe cleared her throat. “Knocking is usually Step One in these situations.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.” Books drew back his shoulders and thumped the ring three times. As they waited, a new worry reared its head. He eyed Amaranthe—and her revealing attire. “If she’s here, can we say you’re my…” He groped for a relation that would suggest absolutely no sexual connotations.

“Daughter?” Amaranthe suggested.

“Dear ancestors, no. She’ll think I’m ancient. Er, my age, anyway. And what would she think of my parenting influence if she saw you in that outfit?”

“Did you just, in the same breath, call me old and promiscuous?”

“Uhm.”

Fortunately, her eyes twinkled as she waved at the door. “I imagine she would have answered by now if she were home.”

Amaranthe headed down the stairs.

Books knocked again. “We’re leaving? After riding all the way up here? I thought you’d want to snoop around even if she wasn’t here.” He tried the knob, but it was locked.

“Naturally, but invited guests enter through the front door for all to see. Snoopers enter through the alley.”

“Ah.”

Books followed her around back, where a fence contained garden beds with a few green sprouts thrusting through the loamy soil. He and Amaranthe let themselves through a gate and followed a stepping-stone path to a sturdy door. It too was locked.

“Keep watch.” Amaranthe delved under her sash and withdrew a small case of fine tools.

“I didn’t know enforcers were taught to pick locks.” Books put his back to the wall, so he could watch the side street and the alley.

“They’re not.” She slid two slender tools with crooked ends out of the case. “That particular deficiency in my education has proven inconvenient at times, so I asked Sicarius to teach me.”

“Are you sure you should spend so much time with him? He’s a dubious influence.”

Metal scraped as Amaranthe worked the lock. “You gave up the chance to play the role of my father today.”

“But not your friend, I hope. You do realize how much easier it’d be to clear your name if he wasn’t on your team, right? I know you like to see people as better than they are, but you must be aware of at least a portion of the heinous acts he’s perpetrated in his career. Even if you’re not, I’ll wager the emperor is.”

A click sounded, and Amaranthe pushed the door open. She did not respond to his comments. She was spending too much time with Sicarius.

Books stepped into a hallway after her. He hoped Vonsha was not simply recovering in bed and choosing to ignore the door. But the air held a chill, as if no one had been there that day to feed the stove.

He and Amaranthe padded through the hall and explored rooms. Sparse furnishings adorned the home, all of a lower quality than one expected from the warrior caste. Common woods with few ornaments comprised the chairs and tables. He did nod with approval at a well-appointed library that overflowed into other rooms. Even the hallway had bookshelves. By the front door, a stack of tomes leaned precariously on a boot bench.

Amaranthe’s fingers strayed toward the haphazard pile.

Books cleared his throat. “It’s probably unwise to clean the house you’re illegally trespassing in, assuming you don’t want the person to know you were there.”

“I’ve heard that.” Amaranthe clasped her hands behind her back. “Though, if people invaded my home, I’d view the intrusion with less animosity if they dusted while they were there.”

The house was not dirty by Books’s reckoning, but he did have the impression of someone who devoted more time to her internal world than the external one. He brushed a finger across an easel as he passed, admiring the beginnings of a landscape of the Emperor’s Preserve.

Amaranthe detoured into an office and checked a filing cabinet.

“Should we be prying into her personal life?” Books leaned against the doorjamb, frowning disapproval. “I suspect her of being a victim, not a criminal.”

“I’m not prying.” She flipped through files, reading the labels. “I’m snooping, an activity we discussed outside and of which I thought you approved.”

“It’s true I’m curious about her, but…”

“As for the rest, don’t you find it suspicious she was there, checking lot lines, at the same time we were investigating the adjacent parcel?”

“I doubt it’s coincidental, but I don’t find it suspicious,” he said. “Perhaps her family is being vexed by the same people who killed the appraiser.”

“Hm.” Amaranthe flipped through a dusty file she had pulled from the back. “Vonsha earned a lot of accolades in school and received her professorship at a young age. As Sicarius said, she was recruited by Imperial Intelligence to work on encryption keys during the war. Ah, this is interesting.”

“What?” His disapproval forgotten, Books joined her and peered over her shoulder.

“She was the first woman and the first civilian invited into the intelligence office at the Imperial Barracks, and she was quite the star. Lots of praise from Emperor Raumesys. Less from Hollowcrest. He probably couldn’t acknowledge that a woman might be useful. But then things changed when that Kyattese cryptanalyst started cracking her ciphers. She was under increasing pressure and her position was terminated after a final failure led to the Nurians gaining the upper hand. Looks like a permanent demerit was added to her record, and she wasn’t able to return to the University.”

“Permanent demerit?” Books asked. “It’s not her fault an enemy nation fielded an equally capable cryptographer. The Kyattese are known for academic achievements.”

Amaranthe flipped through more files from the past twenty years. “Since then, she’s made a living as a math tutor.” Her gaze lifted to take in the room. “Hard to imagine that job paying for this house.”

“If she’s warrior caste, she may have inherited it.”

“True.”

“I, for one, find her recovery from her falling out admirable. The emperor’s disapproval must have come with a huge stigma, social as well as professional. She’s an intelligent and fascinating woman.”

Amaranthe smiled. “You’re not falling in love after one evening with her, are you?”

“No.” He sniffed. “But, if I were, I’m sure there are worse people I could fall for.”

Amaranthe looked away, face unreadable. “Yes.”

A rattle came from the front of the house. The doorknob.

“Vonsha!” Books whispered. “We can’t let her find us trespassing.”

He jumped into the hallway while Amaranthe remained calm, replacing the files. The front door was still closed, but a shadow moved beyond a curtained window. Maybe there was time to flee out the back.

He raced down the hallway, toward the rear exit.

“Books, wait,” Amaranthe whispered after him.

He was already at the door. He flung it open and started through.

Amaranthe caught him by the shirt tail and yanked him back.

A crossbow quarrel thudded into the doorframe, passing so close it buzzed his eyebrow. He lurched backward, scrambling for the safety of the hallway.

Amaranthe shut the door and threw the bolt. “Vonsha would have the key.”

“Good point.” Books touched his eyebrow. His finger came away blood-free, but he still snorted in disgust. He kept waiting for Sicarius’s training to turn him into someone whose brain functioned during tense situations.

“I’ll check the roof and windows.” Amaranthe slid the dagger out of her hidden sheath and grimaced. “See if you can find me a decent weapon, please.”

“What kind of weapon am I going to find in a woman’s home? It’d be odd to see a sword—most ladies aren’t fighters.”

“Are you calling me odd, Books?” She jogged for the stairs.

“Eccentric, perhaps.”

“Just check, please,” Amaranthe called over her shoulder.

Books peeped through the small window in the back door. A shadowy figure lurked between two houses on the other side of the alley. He pulled the curtain across the window.

Hoping they had time, he trotted around the bottom floor, checking rooms. Nothing so obvious as a sword or musket perched on a wall. He headed into the kitchen and grabbed the fireplace poker leaning against the wood stove.

His wrist brushed the cast iron. It held a hint of warmth.

Books tapped the stove thoughtfully, an idea germinating. He peeked into the firebox, prodded the ashes with the poker, and unearthed a few orange coals. He tossed dried moss and kindling inside, then turned his attention to ingredient hunting. A canister on the counter held sugar. No problem there. As for the other ingredient…

He lifted a trap door in the back of the kitchen. A narrow stair led to a low-ceilinged root cellar with a packed-earth floor. Jars of pickled vegetables lined shelves, while bins of apples, potatoes, cabbage, and onions sat in the back. A few strings of salami hung from the ceiling. Books nodded. If Vonsha had cured the meat herself, she would have—there: a box on a shelf read “saltpeter.”

“Perfect.”

He grabbed it, returned to the kitchen, and selected a pan in a pot rack hanging from a thick wooden ceiling beam. He poured in sugar and saltpeter and placed it on the cooktop. Amaranthe came in to find him stirring his concoction.

“I’m fairly certain I said look for weapons, not make lunch,” she said.

Books handed her the fireplace poker.

“This is my weapon?” She arched her eyebrows. “Or are we skewering meat for kabobs?”

“It’s all I could find. Do you want my sword?” He plopped spoonfuls of the gooey brownish mixture onto pieces of paper. He grabbed a few matchsticks out of a box behind the stove.

“No, you keep it. We’re not getting out without a fight. There’s one watching the alley, one at the front door, and one on the roof.”

“Are they here for Vonsha? Or is it possible they recognized you through your disguise and are after your bounty?”

“I don’t know. They weren’t wearing uniforms denoting the goals of the dastardly organization they’re working for.” Amaranthe sniffed the hardening blobs on the paper. “Are you going to enlighten me?”

“Combustible smoke-creating devices.”

“Smoke bombs?” She grinned. “You can make those?”

“Very simple, so long as you keep stirring the mixture to keep it from getting black and, er, self-igniting.”

Her grin widened. “How long do your eyebrows take to grow back when that happens?”

Only she could be amused when there were snipers poised to shoot them if they opened a door.

“A couple of months.” As they talked, he tore the paper and folded pieces around the incendiary gobs, creating small packets. He twisted the ends to form rudimentary fuses.

“You could start your own business. Do you know how much Sicarius pays for those?”

“His are probably fancier.”

Glass shattered in a nearby room.

“Work time.” Amaranthe set the poker aside to draw her knife.

“Do you want a couple?” Books held up a packet and a matchstick.

“You handle that.” She eyed the kitchen speculatively.

“There’s a root cellar if you want to hide down there.”

“Too confining.”

Boots sounded in the hallway.

Amaranthe gripped her knife in her teeth, hiked the skirt to her waist, and hopped onto a counter. She climbed up the hanging pot rack and wedged herself between two ceiling beams, poised to drop down on anyone who came through the door. She nodded readiness to Books.

He drew his sword, leaned it against the wall, then knelt behind the stove. He scraped a match along a brick, and its stink filled the air. The kitchen would soon smell of more than sulfur.

Books lit a packet and slid it across the tile floor. White smoke wafted from it.

The footsteps paused outside the kitchen door. He lit another packet and placed this one so its smoke would billow before the stove, hiding him.

The door opened. A man stood in the hall, features obscured by smoke, but Books glimpsed the cold brass detailing of a flintlock pistol.

“What the—In here!”

Leading with his pistol, the man lunged inside. Another set of footsteps pounded toward the kitchen, and a second figure soon loomed in the doorway.

Smoke hid Amaranthe’s face—she had to be getting the worst of the stench up there, and she could not even wipe her eyes. He assumed she wanted him to take on the first man while she dropped down when the second entered. The second had paused, though, and he squinted as he searched the kitchen.

Books dug a cracked piece of mortar out from between two floor tiles and tossed it toward the wall opposite the intruders. It clinked against the window. Both men aimed their pistols that way, and the second stepped into the kitchen.

With all the smoke, Books would not have seen Amaranthe drop if he had not been watching. She landed on the second man. He grunted with surprise and went down beneath her.

Books grabbed his sword, adjusted his grip, and lunged for the first man, who was spinning about to check his comrade. Smoke hid Books’s approach. He slammed the flat of the blade against the back of his target’s head.

The man staggered but was not considerate enough to collapse in an unconscious heap. Trusting Amaranthe to handle the other, Books focused on his chosen foe. He sidestepped an attack and drove his heel into the side of the man’s knee. This time, the fellow dropped, pistol clacking as it skidded across the tiles.

Books pressed the tip of his sword into the man’s neck. “Don’t move.”

Two steps away, Amaranthe knelt, her knee in her opponent’s back. She had fished twine from a drawer and was unraveling it to make bonds.

Smoke tickled Books’s nose. He fought back a sneeze. “Who do you think—”

Movement stirred the smoke near the door.

“Look out!” he blurted.

Amaranthe was already moving. She leaped from the floor and lunged at the newcomer’s knees. He proved agile and leaped over her, but she anticipated it. Instead of crashing into the hall, she spun, and her knife came to rest on the man’s throat as he landed.

Books’s man made use of the distraction. He rolled away from the sword and toward his lost pistol. Books jumped after him, but the man’s hand clasped the weapon. He spun onto his back and pointed it at Books.

Books hurled his sword at the man and dropped to the floor. The pistol fired. He cringed, expecting a ball to rip into him, but glass shattered behind him instead.

A scuffle sounded at the door. Books scrambled up, intending to go after the pistol-wielder again, but he was dead. Amaranthe’s knife protruded from his neck. She had saved Books’s life, but that meant she had no weapon to hold on the man in the doorway.

Books scrambled about and found his sword. Amaranthe and the other man had disappeared from view. A thud sounded in the hallway. Books sprinted out of the kitchen, grabbing the jamb as he skidded around the corner. He almost crashed into Amaranthe. The last man sprawled before the door, unmoving.

The fading smoke could not hide the blood trickling from Amaranthe’s temple. She appeared otherwise unhurt, though grimness stamped her face. Books could guess at the reason. She was no more a natural killer than he, and they might not have had to kill at all if he had kept his attention focused on his prisoner.

He turned, realizing he had taken his eyes off another foe. Fortunately the remaining living man, the one Amaranthe had downed when she dropped from the ceiling, was unconscious. She tossed a purloined dagger on the floor beside him. Grim and irritated, Books decided.

“Sorry,” he said, feeling guilty afresh. “I’m not very effective in these types of situations.” Another reason this life was not for him. After this current escapade was over, he would find a new line of work.

“You’re improving,” Amaranthe said. “Let’s check their pockets and see if we can figure out what they were after. Me, Vonsha, or something in her house?”

Books patted down the unconscious man, telling himself it was not cowardly to leave the dead blokes for Amaranthe. After all, she had to retrieve her knife. He found a folded paper in a back pocket.

“None of those things,” he said, apprehension burrowing into his gut as he examined the ink sketch on the page.

“What’d you find?”

Books rotated the paper so she could see. His likeness marked the front, along with a caption: MARL MUGDILDOR WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: 5,000 RANMYAS.

“That’s…unfortunate,” Amaranthe said. “I thought Sicarius and I were the only ones with bounties. And Maldynado, I suppose, if you can count his two-hundred-and-fifty ranmya one as a legitimate incentive. He’ll be envious of you now.”

She smiled, trying to cheer him, he sensed. It did not work. All he could think about was that he had waited too long. He had stayed with Amaranthe out of a sense of honor and obligation, but someone had noticed him in the company of outlaws, and now he was one. No walking away and finding a new job after all. Not unless he left the empire completely, and, even then, he would have to worry his whole life, watching his back for globetrotting bounty hunters.

“I’m sorry,” Amaranthe said softly. “I know you were thinking of leaving. This will make things difficult if you choose that route.”

“Yes,” was all he said as he stared at the page.