and turned his shoulder. The bolt flew high.
Books set Vonsha down, prepared to attack the archer, but he halted. The rumpled man dropped the weapon. Eyes wide, face frozen in a rictus of pain, he went down.
Sicarius stood above him, his black dagger dripping blood. Books gaped, surprised his summons had worked. A hint of annoyance hardened Sicarius’s dark eyes, and Books imagined him thinking, I can’t leave for five minutes without you getting into trouble…
“There are others,” Sicarius said. “Get out.”
“Out is good.” Books reached for Vonsha, intending to sling her over his shoulder.
“Leave her.”
“No.”
Books lifted Vonsha without waiting to argue. He turned his back on Sicarius and followed the outer wall, figuring the aisles were too dangerous. Numerous sets of shelves had toppled, and flames burned in several rows as well as on the ceiling, which was charred from the explosion. Heat rolled from the growing fire, warming Books’s cheeks and forehead.
Behind him, someone screamed. It ended abruptly.
With the corner closest to the front door in sight, Books broke into a jog. He rounded it and almost crashed into the homeless man-and the pistol in his grip.
Hands busy holding Vonsha, Books jumped to the side and lashed out with a kick. His shoulder rammed the wall, but his boot found its target. The pistol flew from the man’s grip. Books shoved him into the wall and ran past. He only wanted to get out of the building with Vonsha, not start a fight. Besides, Sicarius could handle that more proficiently.
No one else blocked his route on the way to the front door, but a steam horn pierced the air in the street outside. Someone must have heard the explosion and reported it.
He paused at the threshold, juggling Vonsha so he could free a hand to open the door. He peered outside. Two steam wagons painted with enforcer red and silver chugged to a stop in front of the building.
Books wavered. As far as he knew, he had no bounty on his head, but the enforcers might know he worked with questionable types by now. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting Sicarius to be behind him. Someone was there, yes, but it was not Sicarius.
A spiked club whistled toward his eyes. Books ducked, but not quickly enough. The club glanced off the top of his head, and pain erupted in his skull.
He stumbled back, losing his grip on Vonsha. She hit the ground and moaned.
Books’s attacker, another man who looked as if he had come off the streets, swiped at him again. Dodging, Books reached for his dagger. Blood dripped in his eyes, and numbness made pulling the weapon out harder than it should have been.
Shouts came from outside along with footsteps pounding up stairs. Books cursed and ducked another wild swing. The man had the finesse of a steamroller, but it was all he needed. Dizziness gripped Books, and his limbs were not moving quickly enough. He swiped blood out of his eyes and almost cut himself with his own knife.
“Not thinking,” he muttered. “Not-”
The man hefted the club overhead, and Books stumbled back, not sure he could evade the blow this time.
The door flew open. Books’s attacker froze, then whirled, charging them.
“Enforcers! Halt!”
A crossbow twanged.
Someone grabbed Books’s arm from behind. He tried to spin and pull away. It was Sicarius.
“Stairs,” he barked.
“But Vonsha-” Books slurred.
“They have her.” Sicarius yanked on Books’s arm, dragging him forward.
He stumbled up the stairs after Sicarius, and they escaped through a window. He slipped, trying to climb down, and landed hard on his back. Sicarius yanked him to his feet. Blackness flirted with Books’s consciousness, and the rest of the retreat faded to a blur.
CHAPTER 6
A maranthe leaned against the side of a headless statue, one of thousands in the capital that gave it the dubious nickname of “Stumps.” She wore the hood of her parka pulled low over her eyes while she watched the busy street.
Though evening had fallen hours earlier, people clogged the sidewalks. Numerous drunk men meandered onto the cobblestones where they provided ambulatory obstacles for bicyclists and the occasional steam carriage. Gambling houses, sport venues, and drinking and eating houses packed the neighborhood. Many of the male passersby wore the lush, vibrant clothing-and gold-gilded swords-of the warrior caste, but just as many had the miens of off-duty soldiers. More than one black-clad figure wearing weapons strode past, and Amaranthe did a few double glances, thinking one might be Sicarius. But, despite his disinterest in disguises, he had a knack for invisibility, and he would likely find her first.
Disguises were on her mind as the sea of people moved about her, any one of whom would turn her in, either for the reward, or simply because she was a wanted felon. She touched the hilt of her short sword, reassured by its presence. She wondered what Maldynado would find for her to wear. She probably should have gone shopping with him, though more than once he had pointed out he had an easier time getting bargains from the predominantly female merchants in the city if they thought him unattached.
A familiar man ambled past, hand on the ruby-crusted pommel of one of his own swords, obviously selected to offset crimson embroidery on his black vest. Maldynado. He had no shopping bags tucked under his arms. So much for her disguise.
Figuring he would not spot her with the hood, Amaranthe lifted a hand and stepped away from the statue.
“We have a problem,” came a voice from behind.
Amaranthe jumped before recognition caught up to reflexes. Sicarius.
“Your ability to find me despite the fact I’m hiding incognito in the shadows?” she asked.
He drew her into an alcove behind an overflowing bicycle rack. Maldynado stopped on the street corner to chat with a group of ladies. He must have come with Sicarius.
“What’s going on?” Amaranthe asked.
Perhaps as a concession to the number of weapons dangling on nearby hips, Sicarius, too, wore a jacket with a hood. Black, of course. “The area where Books was researching was attacked,” he said. “There was a woman with him. He may or may not have been the target, but someone sent six men to do the job. I took care of them while he fumbled through rescuing the unconscious woman.”
“Is he all right?” she asked, more concerned by that than whether Books had pulled his own weight in a fight.
“He’s injured but not mortally so. I found Basilard, and he assisted Books back to the pumping house.”
She wrestled with the temptation to forgo the gambling house visit and check on Books. Sicarius’s idea of “injured but not mortally so” could involve missing limbs and eyes. But if he had Basilard to watch over him, Books ought to survive without her for a few hours. It was not as if she had vast medical expertise.
“Thanks for making sure he got back. Shall we head into Ergot’s Chance?” Amaranthe pointed to a dead-end street across the way. “Akstyr went in ahead to scout for magic. Or so he said. He might be putting all his pocket change on the lucky Wolf Star Tile.”
She took a step, but Sicarius caught her arm.
“There’s more,” he said. “The woman Books was with, she’s from the warrior caste, someone who used to do work for Hollowcrest during the Western Sea Conflict.”
“Oh? What use did Hollowcrest have for a woman? Er, assuming it wasn’t for the usual male-female after- sunset activities.” From what Amaranthe remembered of Hollowcrest, he had not respected women overmuch,
