“Enforcers?”
“A ten-year-old boy.”
“Oh, yes. Terrifying.”
“He’s someone’s spy,” she said.
“I could go thump him around a bit, find out whose.”
“Let’s try to avoid child-thumping for now.”
They walked to the trolley stop, and at every intersection, Amaranthe glanced left and right for the boy. She did not see him again but did not relax until she and Maldynado boarded. He set down the packages, dug out a wad of bills, peeled a couple off the top, and handed them to Amaranthe.
“Your split.” He winked.
With a team to feed, she saw no reason to reject it. “You seemed surprised that was what she wanted. I would have thought you’d have run into that kind of situation before. Were you really taken in by her flattery?”
“We had servants who did the shopping. Never had much reason to interact with those kinds of people.”
Amaranthe wondered what kind of people he considered her.
“That was good of you back there,” he added. “To catch that. Maybe after you’re done with your current scheme, we could work together. You can get me posing gigs. I’ll be pretty and you can be…”
“Your agent?”
“Precisely.”
“Assuming I survive this, I haven’t thought too closely about what my next career should be.” She had never wanted a ‘next career.’ “I’ll remember your offer though.”
“Excellent, boss.”
Amaranthe smiled. Maldynado seemed to be loose with who he called boss, and she doubted it came with any heartfelt feeling of indenture-he had left his previous employer quickly enough-but the title warmed her nonetheless. Maybe she had earned a modicum of his respect.
None of the others were there when Amaranthe and Maldynado returned to the cannery, though two knotted ropes hung from the rafters, their tufted ends dangling a foot from the floor.
Thank you, Sicarius.
“What are those for?” Maldynado asked.
“Calisthenics.”
Afternoon light flowed through the cracked and missing windows, and dust motes floated in the air. Dust floated everywhere, Amaranthe corrected. And coated everything. How could she possibly plot a government coup in a filthy base reeking of fish guts?
After some searching, she found a closet with cleaning supplies cowering under grime dating back to the Bronze Era. She strode triumphantly out with mop in one hand and broom in the other. Maldynado had dumped the ink and boxes on a counter. He leaned against it and watched her warily.
“How about I sweep and you mop?” Amaranthe asked.
He eyed the cleaning implements with the enthusiasm of a child debating a plate of spinach and liver. “My father used to warn me that gambling would land me in jail or the poorhouse. He neglected to mention indentured cleaning.”
“I could mop and you could sweep.”
“Oh, gee. Much better.” Sighing, Maldynado accepted the broom.
Hours later, Amaranthe surveyed the cannery with satisfaction. Despite Maldynado’s propensity for using the broom to spar with imaginary foes instead of sweeping, the hardwood floors gleamed. The now-pristine counters would allow them to work without worrying about sawdust or fish guts sticking to their bills.
She wondered where Sicarius had gone. Even his daily training ought not take all afternoon.
Akstyr returned before any of the others.
“I need Maldynado,” he blurted as soon as he entered.
If he noticed, or cared about, the new cleanliness of the cannery, he did not show it.
“Why?” Amaranthe asked.
“To help with the press.”
“You found one? Good. Is somebody going to deliver it with a steam wagon?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then how-”
“Don’t worry. Books has a plan. But we need Maldynado.”
“Even he isn’t big enough to port a printing press on his back.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”
“You’re not going to steal a wagon, are you?”
“No, no. Maldynado, you coming?”
Maldynado shrugged and shuffled over to join Akstyr at the door.
Amaranthe leaned on one of the counters and frowned at Akstyr. “Why can’t you tell me what you’re doing?”
“Because it’s Books’s plan.”
“Yes, you said that. I notice he’s not here, however.”
“I know.” Akstyr grinned. “He didn’t want to explain it.”
“Maybe I should come with you.”
“No, no. We don’t need you. Why don’t you make dinner? It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” Akstyr dragged Maldynado outside.
“Telling someone not to worry three times is not the way to ensure it doesn’t happen,” she muttered.
Through a window, she watched the two men trot up the hill. She lifted her index finger to her lips, found the nail already chewed to the quick, and started in on her thumb.
After chewing and pacing for a while, she decided to follow Akstyr’s suggestion. A master chef she was not, but they were working for her-for free-so she could certainly prepare some food.
Before dusk settled, she dragged in metal barrels from a neighboring dock and started a couple fires for light and warmth. For dinner, she laid out ham slices, flat bread, carrots, and dried apples on ‘plates’ pilfered from the building’s siding. Just as she set out a jug of cider, shouts came from outside.
Amaranthe ran out the back of the cannery, skidding on the snowy dock. After Akstyr’s admonitions, she expected the worst. She slid around the edge of the building in time to see a large makeshift sled barreling down the snowy hill. A bulky canvas-wrapped object rode on it. The press?
Maldynado perched atop it like a lizard rider from the desert. He leaned left and right in a semblance of steering. Shouting with glee, or maybe terror, he weaved and wobbled down the slick street with Books and Akstyr pounding after him. Runners scraped on sand and ice. The press slid from side to side, barely restrained by the flimsy rope tying it to the sled.
Amaranthe glanced up and down the waterfront, afraid someone would see the strange scene. Counterfeiters were supposed to be inconspicuous. Maldynado whooped, voice ringing from the buildings. Amaranthe shook her head. This was not inconspicuous. Fortunately, twilight had brought the end of the work day, and no one remained on the streets to witness this un-clandestine delivery method.
Through some feat of agility or raw strength, Maldynado and his cargo stopped in front of the cannery instead of skidding out onto the lake. Books and Akstyr came slipping after, shouting and laughing at their success.
“That was fun,” Maldynado said, eyes bright, lips peeled back in a toothy grin.
“I want a turn,” Akstyr said.
Only Books had the sense to peer uncertainly at Amaranthe.
“Whose idea was this?” She struggled to keep her voice even.
Akstyr and Maldynado pointed at Books in unison.
“We found it in the back room of a bookseller who’s closing her business,” Books said. “She was willing to sell it cheaply. It’s an archaic model, maybe the first one ever made if the rust is any indication, but I’m certain I can get it working. As for our arrival…” He cleared his throat. “It occurred to me that the bookshop, though many blocks away, is almost in a straight line from our current location and, uhm, at a rather higher elevation.”
“I see. Well, this was…” Something that could have attracted attention. Something that could have gotten one of them injured or killed. An insane idea that could have seen the printing press go careening onto the lake,
