“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.
“Rockjaw,” Amaranthe said. “Good to see you.”
“ Good? ” Books whispered.
Rockjaw was a murderer and a rapist who ran a guild of thieves. Normally, Amaranthe would have avoided-or arrested-someone like him, but he had a talent for collecting information, and she’d found it useful to trade tidbits with him from time to time, even if she often wished she could scrub her soul with soap and water afterward.
“Good to see you, too, Ammy.” He winked and gave her a long look up and down. It wasn’t quite as long and lurid as the one he had given her the first time they met, so she decided to count that as progress.
Books growled.
“Who’s this, Ms. Lokdon?” Ms. Sarevic adjusted her spectacles and craned her neck to look Books in the eyes. “I thought you’d bring the pretty one to flirt with me and haggle for a better deal.”
Warmth blossomed behind Amaranthe’s cheeks. While that was exactly why she kept Maldynado around, she hadn’t realized others had figured it out and that he was becoming known as her dealmaker.
“Sorry, he was busy tonight,” Amaranthe said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“I am a touch, yes. It’s not often that pretty young fellows flirt with me any more.”
Rockjaw withdrew a pipe and a tin of tobacco, and started preparing a smoke. Amaranthe stifled a frown. She hoped he wasn’t there to collect information on her. Though he had been the one to recommend Ms. Sarevic to her weeks before, it seemed to be too much of a coincidence that he was there at the same time as Amaranthe.
Ms. Sarevic poked into a box and headed for the drawers of a desk half-buried by scraps of leather and canvas. When she started rummaging, a tin fell to the ground and spilled washers across the floor. Ms. Sarevic ignored them, but Amaranthe watched them roll around, her fingers itching to pick them up and return them to their home.
“The blasting sticks are in that box over there.” Ms. Sarevic waved to a corner while continuing to poke through drawers. “Your man can carry them. No need to be overly careful. I created a more stable substrate than the army uses, so they’re less likely to spontaneously explode.”
“ Less likely,” Books said. “Joy.”
“Blasting sticks, hm?” Rockjaw lit his pipe. “Whatever are you planning next, Ammy?”
Amaranthe tore her gaze from the spilled washers and flicked a dismissive hand. “The usual mayhem. Ms. Sarevic, why don’t you finish waiting on Rockjaw first, so he can be on his way? I’m sure he has mayhem of his own to pursue tonight, and I wouldn’t want to delay him.” She certainly wouldn’t want him piecing together her plans based on the supplies she’d ordered.
“Oh, I’m in no hurry.” Rockjaw scraped the end of his pipe through a mustachio, using it like a pick to detangle the rope of hair.
Ms. Sarevic, rummaging in a footlocker now, didn’t seem to hear them. “And then that box on my desk is full of your smoke grenades and-”
