“I’m sure it’s all there,” Amaranthe blurted. “No need to detail everything. How much do we owe you?”
Rockjaw’s eyes narrowed. The spilled washers were bothering Amaranthe anyway, so she knelt and scooped them up to avoid his scrutiny. She dumped them into their tin, then looked around for a decent place to set the tin. Finding little open shelf space, she held onto it.
“Not much for a savvy businesswoman such as yourself,” Ms. Sarevic said, voice echoing oddly because she had her head stuffed in the metal locker. “Three thousand ranmyas should cover the parts and my time.”
“Three thousand?” Amaranthe forgot the washers and stared at the woman. “You said… I mean your estimate was closer to two thousand.”
“Yes, but the knockout gas was quite difficult. You specified that the canisters had to release an inhalant upon impact, and that involved many hours of intricate work. You don’t want shoddy craftsmanship for something like that, dear.”
Amaranthe groaned at the details Sarevic was leaking while Rockjaw grinned, not trying to hide his interest in the least. Again, she wondered what he was doing there. He couldn’t know about the kidnapping plans, could he? Amaranthe wished she had Sicarius around to glare at him and convince him to leave. Of course, if Ms. Sarevic were less oblivious, she wouldn’t be giving up a client’s information, but the woman seemed to lack any sort of tact in that area.
“Ah, there it is.” Sarevic pulled out a metal device that looked like a cross between a pistol and a teakettle with a cylindrical kerosene canister attached to the underside. She displayed it to Amaranthe with a proud grin plumping her round cheeks. “You said you needed something that would cut through metal. Concentrated flame will do that at a sufficiently high temperature.”
Rockjaw’s eyes grew brighter yet at this new hint. Amaranthe merely sighed. “Yes, I’ve seen something that could do that,” she said, thinking of the torch they’d used to cut through a hatch on that underwater laboratory.
Ms. Sarevic’s grin disappeared. “You have? Someone else made something like my blowtorch?”
“Oh, no, it was… The device we glimpsed wasn’t entirely technology-based.”
“Magic!” Sarevic spat.
“Yes, quite an inferior product though.” Actually, Amaranthe wished she had thought to keep that baton. It had been more compact than Ms. Sarevic’s mundane version and would have been easier to fit in a rucksack. She made a note to hoard future useful artifacts, even if she was busy dodging attacks from krakens at the time.
“Naturally,” Sarevic grumbled. “Do you have the three thousand ranmyas?”
Maybe if Sicarius hadn’t stormed off, and she could send him to a gambling house to win a few rounds, she would. “I don’t suppose you’d accept partial payment now and the rest later?”
“Partial payment gets you partial supplies.” Sarevic propped a grease-smeared fist against her hip. “And the irritation of the woman who worked hard to complete your order on time.”
“Perhaps charging your clients half up front and half once they’ve seen if everything works would be fair,” Books said.
Sarevic’s hands dropped. She grabbed the blowtorch and stomped toward Books like a squad of enforcers approaching a barricaded door with a battering ram. “ If everything works? You doubt my skills?”
Displaying great bravery, Books stepped behind Amaranthe.
Rockjaw, watching the exchange with amusement, shook his head and lifted his eyes ceiling-ward. Amaranthe blushed, annoyed anew to have him there.
She turned, put a hand on Books’s arm, and whispered, “Don’t help,” before he could respond to Sarevic.
“Please forgive him, ma’am,” Amaranthe said, facing Sarevic again and withdrawing her purse. “Of course we know of your reputation and how skilled you are. We don’t doubt that your devices work as promised. We can pay you full price.” Amaranthe could feel Books’s gaze on the back of her head as she untied the purse strings. No doubt he was wondering if she had full price. “Although…” Amaranthe lifted her head, as if she’d just thought of a sterling idea. “Perhaps you’d be better served by partial payment and a trade.”
“A trade,” Sarevic said flatly.
“Indeed so.” Amaranthe spread an arm to encompass the basement. “It’s clear that you’re in need of a cleaning service, but I imagine the covert nature of your work makes you hesitant to invite outsiders down, outsiders who might blab about your special workshop and second set of office hours. Suppose we pay you two thousand ranmyas in cash tonight,” Amaranthe said, taking a guess at how much Sarevic had paid for parts and how much of her fee was the result of personal hours invested in the projects, “and then I come back several times over the next month or two to clean and organize everything here?”
“Organize?” Sarevic scratched her head while she considered her shop.
“Yes.” Warming to the idea, Amaranthe walked about, gesticulating as she explained. “We could do a rack over here with baskets, a shelving unit there, and all of those cogs, nuts, and bolts could have separate smaller containers that would go in a bin system. I’d put labels on everything, of course. Think how much time you could save if you didn’t have to hunt around for things.” Amaranthe went on for two or three minutes, describing her vision. By the time she finished with, “And we haven’t even talked about hooks and racks for ceiling storage,” Sarevic was gaping at her.
Amaranthe decided she had better let her potential new client have a moment to mull over the idea. Meanwhile, Rockjaw was stroking his mustachios and watching with an expression somewhere between bemusement and incredulity. Nothing new. Her men gave her those looks all the time.
“You are… qualified for such work?” Sarevic finally asked.
“Oh, yes,” Amaranthe said. “I’ve been inflicting, er, providing organizational paradigms for friends and relatives for years.”
“It’s true,” Books said. “You should see her work with rucksacks. Did you know underwear apparently won’t wrinkle when tucked into tight little rolls?”
Because Amaranthe’s roaming explanations had taken her from Books’s side, she couldn’t grab his arm and whisper, “Don’t help,” again. Fortunately, Ms. Sarevic threw her head back and laughed.
“You do look like a neat and prim little thing,” she said.
“She is,” Books said, before Amaranthe could decide if she wanted to encourage the new line the conversation had taken. He pointed at her. “Look, not a spec of dirt beneath her nails, nor a strand of hair gone stray from her bun. And you can probably tell she irons her fatigues. I bet you’ve never met a mercenary who does that. And look at the shine on those boots. You can view your own reflection if you gaze into them. Ask to see her sword and knife too. They’re spotless. Precisely sharpened and not a smudge on the blades. You’d think they just came from the smithy.”
Sarevic was nodding, so Amaranthe kept her mouth shut.
“Yes, yes,” Sarevic said, “you’re right. Organization would be good.” She lifted the blowtorch, propping it against her shoulder, and stuck out her free hand. “We have a pact.”
Amaranthe clasped the woman’s forearm to close the deal, and Sarevic demonstrated how to use the kerosene torch. When she pointed out the pump used to pressurize the fuel in the tank and explained the possible hazards, Amaranthe wondered if the blasting sticks might actually be the less dangerous item to tote around.
After Sarevic finished demonstrating her goods, Amaranthe helped Books cart their supplies out of the basement. She wasn’t surprised when Rockjaw followed them into the alley.
He stopped in front of them, blocking the way as he planted a hand on the brick wall and leaned against it.
“Are you certain you want to impede a man carrying a box full of blasting sticks?” Books asked.
Amaranthe simply waited to see what Rockjaw wanted.
“I’ve never seen anybody talk Ms. Sarevic down a single ranmya, much less a thousand,” he said. “Although I’d rather pay in solid gold than clean that place.”
Amaranthe knew he hadn’t stopped them to chat about her bargaining skills, so she kept her answer short. “I like to have projects like that. It gives my hands something to do while my head is worrying about things.”
And she knew her men preferred it when she had something legitimate to clean instead of trying to tidy them. Fortunately Books didn’t bring up underwear again.
“I see,” Rockjaw said. “What are you worrying about now?” His gaze flickered to the boxes Amaranthe and Books held.
