She blushed. “Possibly.”
“I assume there’s soap in…ah, there. And an atomizer, excellent.” Books tossed Amaranthe a bar of soap, then puffed a rubber ball attached to an empty glass bottle. It hissed a few times. “Shave some soap into this and fill it with water. I’ll find a couple panes of glass.”
Trying not to feel bewildered-and dumb-Amaranthe completed her task and met Books at the counter. He nudged the charred ball onto a dirt-free square of glass and picked up the spray bottle. He shook the soapy water and squirted the ball. Mist dampened the black paper.
Amaranthe leaned forward, not sure what to expect, but barely breathing. Once it was wet, Books eased the crinkled mass apart. Instead of crumbling into ash, the black paper slowly but surely flattened onto the glass.
“The soap makes it stay together?” she asked.
“The glycerol in the soap.” Books laid a second pane of glass on top of the first, sandwiching the black paper between them. “Here, hold it up to a light.”
Amaranthe lit one of their kerosene lamps. After a glance at the door, she picked up the glass by the corners.
One of Maldynado’s chickens squawked. She fumbled and almost dropped the glass.
Books watched her, and she feared a mocking comment about her nerves, but only grimness marked his face. “You realize if he finds out we did this, he’ll kill us,” he said.
“Maybe it’s just a grocery list.” Amaranthe tried a smile, but her mouth felt dry and her lips couldn’t manage the position.
“You read it. I’ll wait outside.”
“And leave me holding the condemning evidence?”
“Precisely,” Books said. “He likes you more than me.”
“Warn me if you see him coming.”
Books waved and stepped outside.
Alone except for the snoring men, Amaranthe hesitated. Should she really be spying on Sicarius? If she wanted him to trust her, shouldn’t she be someone he could trust? But if they were at cross-purposes, ignorance of it could be fatal. She chewed on her lip. The obvious attempt at justifying her actions did not sit well with her conscience. Still, she did not set the note down.
She lifted the glass before the lamp, and the light illuminated the pencil through the black paper.
It was not a grocery list.
The past is forgiven. Your old job awaits. Name your price.
Chapter 18
T he ink had dried on the counterfeiting plates, and Amaranthe tucked them into the crate beside the stacks of bills. She, Books, and Maldynado had removed the drying lines and paper cutter. Of course, someone ambling into the fish cannery would find the printing press loitering in the corner a tad odd. Sicarius had not returned since receiving his note the day before, and Amaranthe feared he would not return at all.
Footsteps thundered on the dock. Akstyr grabbed the door frame and swung into the cannery.
“Enforcers!” he blurted. “Coming down the hill.”
“Spitted dead ancestors,” Books cursed.
“Don’t worry.” Given the number of people who had delivered messages to their secret counterfeiting hideout, Amaranthe was surprised enforcers hadn’t come down their street sooner. The meeting with Forge and Hollowcrest was that night; the cannery had served them long enough. “We’re ready. Everyone grab something, and let’s go.”
Books and Akstyr lifted the crate.
“How many enforcers?” Maldynado belted on his sword.
“It doesn’t matter,” Amaranthe said. “We’re not killing any more of them. Door. Now.”
Books and Akstyr hustled onto the wharf. Maldynado sprinted to his chicken pen and threw open the latch. His charges streamed out, squawking uproariously. Amaranthe cringed at the noise. Maldynado tried to usher them to the door.
“Leave them,” she hissed.
“Not for some enforcer to throw in a stew.”
Amaranthe grabbed Maldynado’s arm and dragged him through the doorway. Using the building for cover, she headed for the edge of the dock. She waved for the others to follow and slipped over the edge. When she ducked beneath, the five foot clearance left her hunched, but it was enough. Maldynado followed. Akstyr handed the crate down to him, then came after. Books, the last over, skidded on the ice beneath the snow and landed on his backside.
“I’m too old for this,” he muttered as Amaranthe helped him up.
“There’s never a good age to fall on your butt,” Maldynado said. “That’s why the rest of us stayed upright.” He grimaced as his head brushed the underside of the wharf. “Mostly upright.”
“There’re at least ten coming,” Akstyr whispered. “Where are we going?”
“Across the lake?” Books suggested.
Chin on the top of the crate, Akstyr said, “I’m not hiking to the other side with this.”
“Just be glad we didn’t decide to forge coins.” Amaranthe pointed to the shoreline beneath the head of the dock. “We’ll hide in the shadows until they’re in the building.”
Before they had gone halfway, synchronized footfalls pounded the boards above them. Snow trickled through the cracks in several places.
They reached the shore as the footfalls faded. Amaranthe peered over the edge of the dock. A single man paced in front of the building. The rest had gone inside. Before long, enforcers would move their investigation outside, looking for trails. Her team had to move now, or chance being found later.
Only a few yards separated their dock from the neighboring one. If they stayed low and did not make any noise, maybe the enforcer guard would not see them.
“Slow and subtle,” she whispered, “we’re heading over there.”
Hugging the shoreline, Amaranthe eased toward the next dock. She resisted the urge to sprint-sudden movement was more likely to draw an unfriendly eye. No shouts arose from the cannery, and she made it to the protective cover of the dock.
She hunkered behind a piling and waited for the others to catch up. Between the ice and the weight of the crate, Books and Akstyr crossed ponderously.
Voices sounded on the street.
“Corporal, take your men and check the warehouses in the nearby docks,” someone said.
Amaranthe winced. Back up.
“Hurry,” she mouthed. She waved for Maldynado to help with the crate, even as she watched and hoped the enforcers on the street didn’t look down to the lake. With luck, the men searching the cannery would be content with the evidence they found and assume the building’s occupants had left hours before.
“Find their tracks,” an enforcer called from inside the cannery. “The fire barrels are still warm. They haven’t been gone long.”
So much for luck.
A chicken strutted down the dock alongside the cannery.
“Oh, good,” Maldynado said. “Isabel got out.”
Amaranthe envisioned the chicken hopping down to squawk cheerfully at them. Did other leaders have these kinds of problems?
“We better put a couple more docks behind us,” she whispered.
But, before they reached the far side of their current dock, two pairs of standard enforcer-issue boots skidded down the snowy bank and onto the ice. The owners, two men armed with repeating crossbows and swords, landed on the frozen lake and looked about.
“Uh oh,” Akstyr muttered.
