practice area. He peered into the furnace and was mildly surprised someone had shoveled more coal in recently. “Is Amaranthe here?”
“Nah.” Akstyr collected his knives. “She and Sicarius are out, asking about a job.”
“I’d prefer to wait so we only have to tell the story once.”
“Not me.” Maldynado grinned and launched into gory descriptions of the bodies, speculations about an evil man-eating tunnel beast, and-his favorite part-how Books had fallen into the water, gotten tangled up, and screamed like a girl being mauled by a bear. He acted out the last part, which put Akstyr on the floor in guffaws. Even the saturnine Basilard smiled with appreciation for the flamboyant storytelling.
Books turned his back to them and checked the gauges on the boiler. He fiddled with the pressure regulators and pretended he could not hear Akstyr and Maldynado’s continuing mirth.
Basilard joined him, held out a throwing knife with one hand, and twitched a sign with the other: Practice?
Though Books was not as apt at reading Basilard’s hand codes as Amaranthe-who seemed to know what others were thinking whether they used words or not-he had seen that sign often enough to know it.
“I appreciate your willingness to instruct,” Books said, “but the four hours of training Sicarius inflicts on us every morning are sufficient for me.”
At five-and-a-half-feet tall, Basilard stood a foot shorter than Books, but he had the sturdy stoutness of a brandy still. Books poked at the coals in the furnace, so he could pretend he did not see the man’s stern frown.
You practice more, Basilard signed, which Books took to mean he needed more work than the others. No great illumination there.
“If the fate of the group ever rests on me being able to hurl a knife into a person at twenty paces, I suspect we’ll be doomed, extra practice notwithstanding. I’m not even sure I could-” Books didn’t finish his thought aloud- that he did not know if he could kill anyone. Thus far, the job had not required it, not from him. Amaranthe had never implied he need do more than defend himself. Still, Akstyr and Maldynado had fallen silent, and Books sensed them listening, waiting for more laughter fodder.
Basilard merely stood, knife held out, gaze unrelenting.
“Fine.” Books took it and went to the chalk mark on the floor, the one spot from which he could usually make the throw.
Maldynado and Akstyr leaned against the wall. An audience. How delightful.
Books faced the log, lifted the knife above his shoulder, held his left arm out to sight along, and threw. The blade spun three times and landed point first in the log. It quivered a foot below the black heart some artistically challenged soul had painted in grease, but he was tickled whenever the knife did not bounce off or miss altogether.
Basilard pointed to the floor three feet farther back, and Books groaned.
Maldynado chuckled. “No bounty hunter is going to let you line up at precisely ten paces for the throw.”
“Unlike you, I don’t have a bounty on my head.” Books shuffled back and accepted another knife. “I’m here because…” He wanted to be? That wasn’t exactly it. Because Amaranthe had come to him, seeking a research assistant, and he had been tired of drinking himself into oblivion every day, dwelling on the past, and relying on his landlady’s charity to survive. If he had known he was signing up for hours of running, calisthenics, and weapons training every day, he would have kept the bottle. Maybe. A year had passed since his son died, and more seasons than that since his wife left. He had grown weary of mourning and feeling sorry for himself, but he had no other family. Two decades had disappeared since the Western Sea Conflict, where his father and older brothers, marines all, had fallen in naval battles. Not that they had been much of a family, even when they were alive. It depressed him to realize he was probably only here, with these men, because he did not want to be alone.
Basilard bumped his arm: Throw.
“Right,” Books murmured.
He lined up and threw again, but he judged the revolutions poorly, and the knife bounced off the log.
Not for the first time, Basilard demonstrated the no-spin method he and Sicarius used. They could stand anywhere and hit their targets; Sicarius did not even need to be standing. More than once, Books had seen the man hit moving targets while jumping off roofs, rappelling down cliffs, and other athletic feats Books could barely manage by themselves.
“Relax, Books.” Maldynado snickered as the sixth or seventh knife clattered to the floor. “I’ve never seen anybody look so uncomfortable doing-well, everything. How can you have been born in the empire and not have more familiarity with weapons? Didn’t you go to the mandatory training classes when you were a prim little student reading encyclopedias?” He pointed toward the knives. “Your arm needs to do a whip action. You’ve got to be relaxed to make that.”
“Pardon me if the idea of hurling four inches of steel into someone’s chest doesn’t relax me.”
“That’s a log, not a person,” Akstyr said.
“Though we can see how it’d be confusing,” Maldynado said. “Here’s a tip that helps me tell the difference: people scream a lot more when they get hit.”
There were times Books wished he had the gumption to walk over and punch Maldynado in the mouth. Actually, it wasn’t so much a lack of gumption as the knowledge that he would be the one who would end up with his face smashed into the floor.
Basilard waved for Maldynado and Akstyr to give up audience status and practice as well. Unfortunately, that did not silence their tormenting.
When Amaranthe walked in an hour later, Books dropped the knives and greeted her with wide arms and a hearty, “Amaranthe!” that probably sounded desperate. Fortunately, the boys tended to be more civilized when she was around. Despite her gray military fatigues, combat boots, short sword, and dark brown hair swept into a no- nonsense bun, she always struck him as the kind of girl he would have wanted for a daughter rather than some knife-hurling mercenary.
She observed the knives and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Who’s supposed to be on watch?”
“Oops,” Maldynado said. “Forgot on account of the alarm bell and bodies.” He jogged out, path wide to avoid Sicarius, who was gliding through the door.
“Bodies?” Amaranthe arched her eyebrows.
“Remember, one is from me,” Maldynado called back.
Books explained the situation. Amaranthe’s eyebrows remained perked throughout, and he could imagine ideas stirring in her mind. Sicarius stayed silent throughout the story. He stood near the door, back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest. If anything interested him, one would never know. Just having him watching always made Books nervous. He finished the story and handed Amaranthe the key fob and the damp note.
“Bodies in our own backyard,” Amaranthe said. “This may supersede the other mystery we were delving into.”
“Anything interesting?” Books asked.
“Complaints about magic usage.”
“Magic?” Akstyr bounced to her side, the model of an attentive school boy-except for the baggy sleeves pushed up to his elbows, displaying a few other brands from his gang days.
“Sicarius can fill you in,” Amaranthe said. “He knows more about doodads, er, artifacts than I.”
Akstyr shrank back, appearing less than enthused at the idea of a private chat with the assassin. Sicarius’s expression did not change, but Books had the impression of a cranky wolf lizard known for eating its young.
Amaranthe examined the key fob, not batting an eye at the glowing feature. “Ergot’s Chance. What is that? A gambling house?”
“That’s a new place.” Akstyr flipped a knife into the log. “Run by a foreigner. Real popular for some reason.”
“How do you know about it?” Books asked. “Given our current fiscal situation, it’s unwise to spend time blowing money on gambling.”
“It’s my money.” Akstyr sneered. “I’ll do what I want with it. Anyway, I was planning to win, not blow anything. Place is rigged though.”
“A rigged gambling house,” Books said. “Imagine that.”
“Rigged by a practitioner, I mean,” Akstyr said. “I should’ve been able to win with the new tricks I learned in
