“Because I was useful to him, and I wasn’t a threat. Don’t think we walked away friends. I was trying to mourn the loss of my son-actually I was thinking about killing myself-and he didn’t care, not one iota. In the end… Never mind. Just, listen to me on this: don’t ever let him think you’re a threat.”
“I understand. Thank you.” Amaranthe drew in a deep breath. She had meant to get Books sympathizing with her, not the other way around.
“What advice did you want?” he asked.
She shared the last week’s events, glossing over Sicarius’s role and her suppositions about him. She finished by explaining her counterfeiting scheme.
Books stared at her a while before speaking. Remembering Sicarius’s similar pregnant pause, she wondered if she should be worried that her plans stunned men to silence.
“While I suspect a female enforcer is indeed the perfect person to research an underground business coalition, I don’t see how you can possibly start a counterfeiting operation in two weeks. It’s not something you saw done in your years as an enforcer, is it?”
Sicarius returned to the room and his self-appointed observation post at the window.
“No,” Amaranthe said. “I thought there might be a historical precedent you’d know about.”
“It has been attempted numerous times in the empire and even more often in the desert city-states. Elsewhere, gold and silver coinage is preferred over paper money, which is more susceptible to clipping than forgery. In any instance, counterfeiting is a huge liability for all governments, and they squash startups quickly. It has, however, been successful in the short term for various criminals seeking to enrich themselves and for governments seeking to undermine enemy nations. It’s not so much that your plan doesn’t have merit; it’s that it would take months to set up. The paper ranmyas are printed on is a proprietary blend of hemp and pulp, and it’s not something you can buy. And let’s talk about crafting the plates themselves. Do you know a crooked engraver who will help?”
“See-” Amaranthe was more delighted than chagrinned at his logic, “-I knew you could help. You’ve already thought of more than I had. You’re perfect.”
Books snorted, but a smile peeked through that overgrown beard, and something more… Pleasure at being needed again? Maybe that was it.
“Your points are valid,” she said, “but, remember, we don’t have to successfully print billions of ranmyas and pass them to all the storekeepers of the city. We just have to make some convincing-on-the-surface copies, enough to concern Hollowcrest and Forge and bring them together to deal.”
“We?” Books rubbed his lips. “Are you here for my advice or to enlist my aid?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“I see. Well, this is the least tedious chat I’ve had in a long time, and I could use a distraction.” His eyes flickered toward the bottle. “It’s clear you desperately need my help.”
“Desperately,” Amaranthe agreed. “And then there’s that landlady who’s on the verge of kicking you out.”
“Indeed. I suppose payment will be in counterfeits?”
She coughed. “Well, I wasn’t planning to circulate any of the bills. I do have a few scruples left.”
“So, no payment at all?”
“I can promise you a place to sleep and food to eat.” Actually, she couldn’t yet, but she would figure out a way to make it happen. “Think about it.” She stood and dragged the chair back to its original location, identifiable by the lighter, stain-free square of carpet. “If you decide to come, you can find us at the icehouse on Fourth and Wharf Street in the morning.”
“Wharf Street? Didn’t something just happen down there?” Books peered about. “Drat, that nag took my papers.”
“Nothing to do with our mission.” She hoped.
After a farewell wave, she trailed Sicarius into the hallway. Outside the building, gray clouds had thickened, blanketing the city. The breeze smelled of snow, and Amaranthe pulled her parka tight.
She glanced at Sicarius. “What do you think? Any chance he’ll come?”
“Perhaps. You found his vulnerabilities and exploited them.”
Amaranthe winced. Was that what it seemed like to him? How could she relate to someone who saw everything as a battlefield?
An intrepid bicycle delivery boy skidded out from a narrow street, tires rasping on sanded concrete. He cut across their path, daring icy roads for his employer. A tower of crates strapped down with cords tottered behind him. Amaranthe wished she had a bicycle so she could move around the city without having to walk. She had not fully recovered from her illness and likely would not for several days.
“I’m going to look for more recruits,” she said. “Could you find us a place to set up our operation? We’ll need more room than the packed icehouse provides, and I’m not convinced someone won’t walk in to check on the stores before we finish. Also-” she fished out a scrap of paper she had written on that morning, “-this is my address. For obvious reasons, I’d be stupid to show up there, but perhaps you could slip in undetected at some point. There’s a box under a loose floorboard between the bed and the wall. There’s about a thousand ranmyas in it.” Along with some sentimental mementos she hoped Sicarius wouldn’t poke through. “I’m hoping it’ll be enough to buy a used press, paper, and ink.” She supposed stealing paper and ink would be possible but a printing press?
Sicarius accepted the address and left without a word.
Amaranthe waited until he disappeared around a corner, then she leaned against the nearest wall. She had only been awake a couple of hours, but exhaustion dragged at her. The only thing worse than being weak was being seen being weak. She wanted Sicarius to have confidence in her, not worry about her collapsing.
After resting for a few moments, she headed for the business district. Unemployed men and women often loitered outside shops, hoping to win a day’s work. Such folks might be converted to her cause.
A few blocks in, she turned a corner and almost collided with a pair of enforcers on patrol. Her heart lurching, she tried to keep the concern off her face. She nodded greetings to them and continued past. A few steps later, she glanced in a storefront window, pretending interest in a strop-and-razor kit. The enforcers had stopped and were staring at her. Did Hollowcrest already have the word out about her? Had he guessed Sicarius would find someone to heal her?
One man pointed at her. Great.
When she resumed walking, Amaranthe kept her pace normal. This wasn’t her old district, and the enforcers did not know her. They must only suspect her of matching a certain description, or they would have already arrested her.
She turned into an alley at the next corner. When she reached the other end, she turned again, glancing back the way she had come without moving her head. The two enforcers were entering the alley. Definitely following her.
Telling herself to stay calm, she eyed the passing storefronts, businesses, and eating houses. Due to gathering storm clouds, or just bad luck, little foot traffic harried the street. No chance of losing the enforcers in a crowd. If she ducked into a building and slipped out the back door, maybe she could elude them. She crossed the street and turned again at the next intersection.
A sign caught her eye: MALE ESCORTS.
Amaranthe darted into the establishment, suspecting her male followers would prove reluctant to step inside. With luck, they would search every other building on the street first.
Inside, a tall ceiling rose two stories and disappeared over the railing of a loft on the second floor. Several fine couches and overstuffed chairs welcomed visitors. Amaranthe, who was no more likely to visit such an establishment than the enforcers outside, half-expected men draped across the furniture. Only one person occupied the room, however, a handsome, impeccably dressed woman.
“Greetings, do you have an upcoming event that you require an escort for?”
Did blackmailing the most powerful man in the empire count as an event? Amaranthe resisted the urge to ignore the woman and hunt for a backdoor. If she plowed through, the proprietor would be suspicious, and likely volunteer information to the enforcers when they came in. If Amaranthe was a potential customer, though, the woman might be less inclined to point her out.
“Possibly,” Amaranthe said. “Do you have…” A list? A pamphlet? A room full of naked men lined up like pastries on the shelf at Curi’s Bakery? “How does it work?”
