barrels?”
“That process is usually automated these days,” Books said, “but, yes, a smith would still be required for fastening the stock and firing mechanism.”
“And where would this be happening?” Amaranthe waved toward the bucolic setting.
“Underground,” Sicarius said. “There are a number of sleeping areas in that bunkhouse, far more than there are people visible working on the farm right now.”
“People on the day shift, eh?” Amaranthe said.
“It’ll be difficult for us to explore with the sun out,” Books said.
Sicarius flicked a glance down at him, and, though his expression never changed, Amaranthe thought she read “Speak for yourself” in it.
“Maybe you can scout around,” Amaranthe said to Sicarius, “while Books and I seek out…”
“Trouble?” Sicarius suggested.
Books’s eyes narrowed.
“Not necessarily. I thought we might have a chat with this Ma Kettle.” Amaranthe smiled and took up her idea of a backwoods drawl. “On account of how we come up from the south, hoping to help with the harvest, and mayhap she has some work left here for a couple of sturdy hands.”
“Trouble,” Sicarius said.
“I concur,” Books said.
“So nice when you two are in agreement.”
Amaranthe adjusted her borrowed straw hat, pulling it lower over her face, then walked up the porch steps to the farmhouse’s front door. To her side, Books alternated glancing over his shoulder toward the bunkhouse and fidgeting with his own straw hat, one she’d embellished with feather-and-bead tassels dangling from the brim. “So they won’t recognize it,” she’d told Books while he glowered fearsomely at her. They’d found the headwear in the shed, and, while hers was plain and forgettable, his had blue flowers on the brim, flowers now hidden by the tassels. She was glad Maldynado wasn’t there to comment, though she wasn’t sure whether it would have been to mock or approve; she’d seen him wearing hats as silly, and he had no qualms about donning tassel-bedecked clothing.
To further their disguises, Amaranthe and Books had smeared dirt on their faces-after the night’s adventure there’d been no need to add grime to their clothing. Amaranthe’s fingers kept straying toward a kerchief in her pocket, and she had to clench her fist to keep from grabbing it and cleaning the mess off.
She knocked on the door, putting the fist to good use. Books checked over his shoulder again.
“Relax,” Amaranthe said, ostensibly to him though the word could have been for her as well. She worried that the information they might get out of this woman wasn’t worth the risk of being identified later. She glanced at the shuttered windows on either side of the wooden porch.
“I’m not very good at extemporaneous mendacity,” Books said. “Or carefully rehearsed mendacity either.”
“Think of it as acting.”
“What, in the credentials I gave you when we met, suggested I’d be good at acting?” Books asked.
“You can’t be any worse than…” Amaranthe inclined her head toward the field, though naturally they could not see Sicarius about anywhere.
“He acts?”
“He stands there and goes along with me, answering my prods in a monosyllabic monotone.”
“So, the same as usual,” Books said.
“Essentially.” Amaranthe knocked on the door again. She’d seen a woman come out onto the porch earlier to beat dust from a rug, so she knew someone was home.
A shutter on one of the windows opened an inch. Amaranthe pretended not to notice, figuring the person wanted to make a secret inspection of them. Though she doubted rural farmers were up on the latest wanted posters, she kept her chin tilted downward, so the hat would hide part of her face.
Wooden floorboards creaked on the other side of the door.
“Who is it, Ma?” a voice called from the depths of the house. “That enforcer woman again?”
For a stunned second, Amaranthe thought “enforcer woman” referenced her, but nine months had passed since she’d been employed in that capacity, and she’d certainly never visited this place. Because there weren’t many female enforcers, her next thought was of Sergeant Yara, the woman they’d dealt with on the dam mission. This was her district.
“No,” came a voice from the other side of the door. “Go back upstairs.”
Her mind caught on the notion of enforcers visiting, Amaranthe barely heard the words. If the local authorities were already snooping around, aware of illegal weapons being manufactured in their district, that was good, but it meant this might not be quite the discovery she’d thought.
“What do you want?” a woman asked, voice directed toward the door this time, though she did not open it.
“Friendly,” Amaranthe mouthed to Books, before calling out, “We’re two hard workers wondering if you’re hiring help for the harvest, ma’am.”
“No.”
“And blunt,” Books mouthed back.
“We’re real good workers, ma’am, and help for nothing more than a hot meal and a chance to sleep in one of your sheds.” Or perhaps whatever building was hiding the machinery they’d felt…
“Don’t need no more help,” the woman responded. “Go away.”
“It seems my acting skills won’t be called upon after all,” Books murmured.
Amaranthe liked to think she was decent at negotiating, or, as the men put it, talking people into things, but it was hard to get a read on someone through a door. If the woman was already being paid well to look the other way, Amaranthe didn’t know what she might entice her with. Perhaps simply an appeal to her humanity?
“Please, ma’am, would you let us talk to you for a moment? We’ve come down out of the mountains on foot. Our rations are low. If you don’t have work, we understand, but perhaps you could point us in the direction of-”
“If you ain’t off my porch in five seconds, I’ll sic the hounds on you.”
Books scooted down the steps so quickly, Amaranthe wondered if he had a dog phobia. She followed, though she hated admitting defeat.
“It seems I’ve lost my touch for talking people into things,” she said as they walked away.
“I don’t know about that.” Books removed the hat and flicked at the tassels. “You got me to wear this.”
It didn’t take long for men to come searching for their missing comrades. Akstyr was standing guard-actually he was sitting and practicing some of his mental science exercises-when new footsteps clomped on the roof. He kicked Maldynado’s boot to wake him up and stop a bout of snoring that had probably already given away their position. He tossed an empty food tin at Basilard, clunking him in the chin and waking him instantly. Akstyr might have woken them more gently, but he wasn’t feeling accommodating after they stuck him with the watch.
Overhead, the footsteps ceased. Akstyr grabbed one of their new rifles. By the early morning light slanting through gaps in the wooden car walls, he’d figured out that it was loaded with six rounds.
Basilard squatted next to him and put a restraining hand on his arm. Akstyr squinted to read Basilard’s hand signs in the morning gloom.
That’ll make too much noise. The engineer might hear and halt the train. We need him to make the weapons delivery, so we can see where they go.
Akstyr doubted the engineer could hear anything over the noise of the locomotive, but he shrugged and set the rifle aside. He had other ways to deal with people.
The footsteps resumed, and Akstyr tracked them across the top of their car. It sounded like two men again, but this pair didn’t try to open the trapdoor. They moved on to the next car.
“What do you boys think?” Maldynado asked when the footsteps had been gone for a minute. “Should we try to pick them off on their way back?”
Perhaps they will give up and return to their car when they don’t find their comrades, Basilard signed.
