plowed into the deeper water.
Again, Books jumped free before the crash. This time he expected the screech of metal and the flying parts, but something heavy fell on him from above.
He staggered and lost his balance. He tried to catch himself, but the weight drove him down, forcing his face into the water. Not metal but a hand pressed on his back.
Shocked, Books spun onto his back and kicked out with his legs. His boots collided with flesh. He struggled to lift his head out of the water, but a solid grip held him. Water flooded his nose, burning his nostrils. He grabbed his assailant.
A shout sounded, distorted by the water. The hands let go.
Books came up sputtering-and swinging. His fist smashed into someone’s abdomen. Water streamed into his eyes, but he glimpsed his opponent grunting and bending over. From his knees, Books drew his arm back for another blow.
“Books!” a familiar voice cried.
Books froze. He dashed water out of his eyes and gaped at the array of men before him. Basilard, Akstyr, and-
“Emperor’s balls, Booksie, haven’t we told you not to wander around with your shirt off?” Maldynado asked, a hand to his stomach. “Nobody wants to look at that hairy rug of yours.”
Books groaned and climbed to his feet. “Good to see you too, you fodder-for-brains ignoramus.” He peered about, confused as to where they had come from, then gazed up at the shaft. A rope dangled from the shadows. “You climbed down here?”
“We’re here to rescue you,” Akstyr said.
It was an obvious statement, but Books found himself surprised by it-by their presence here. That they actually cared enough to climb down that long shaft, risking a drop to their deaths, to get him…
“Though it looks like you started without us.” Maldynado pointed at the smoking borer and the smashed pumps. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had a knack for destroying things.”
“You should see the spider,” Books muttered. “Where’s Amaranthe? Is she…doing all right?”
“Uhm.” Maldynado traded uncertain looks with Basilard and Akstyr.
“She’s not…” Books swallowed.
“Dead?” Maldynado asked. “No, no. At least, she wasn’t when we parted ways, but she…”
“Has an infection I couldn’t cure,” Akstyr said. “So she’s going to ask the shaman to heal her.”
“ Ask the shaman?” Books stared at them. “You did tell her he’s the villain, right?”
“She has a plan,” Maldynado said.
“Her plan is walking in with Sicarius and asking the shaman for help? That’s not up to her usual creativity level.”
“Actually, Sicarius isn’t with her.”
Books spent more time staring, then said, “Tell me what’s going on.”
They plodded out of the water while Maldynado shared the past day and a half’s events and detailed as much of the overall plan as he grasped. Books had a feeling he was missing some insight into Amaranthe’s thoughts, but, either way, the scheme did not sound promising.
“Let’s go help her,” Books said. “Anyone bring me a weapon?”
“We figured you could just run in bare-chested,” Maldynado said, “and the shaman would think you were some sort of deranged furry predator and flee the other way.”
Akstyr snickered. Basilard lifted his hands and mimicked a roaring bear.
“I’ll take that for a no,” Books said. Had he actually been feeling grateful that these louts came to rescue him? It had been far more peaceful with the malevolent machines. “This way. Follow me.”
“You got it, Booksie.”
• • • • •
An hour after the men left, Amaranthe headed up the hill toward the mine. A damp breeze tugged at her clothing, and the hem of her jacket flapped against her thighs. The noise did not matter, she reminded herself. She was not trying to sneak in.
The mechanical sentries waited, unmoving, on either side of the tunnel entrance. Their red eyes stared outward, burning into the night. Moisture gleamed on their metal shoulders. She supposed it was too optimistic to hope the rain had rusted the constructs’ innards, and they would fall over when they tried to stop her.
Amaranthe approached slowly with her arms away from her sides. She had a knife tucked into her boot, but otherwise carried no weapons.
When she closed to within ten steps, the constructs stepped forward as one to block her route into the mine. Each lifted a right arm, and gleaming harpoon heads pointed at her chest.
“I need to see your…” Boss? Creator? The Mad Shaman who had crafted them? She was not sure what title they might understand. She settled on, “Maker.”
They stared at her, inhuman eyes searing holes into her chest. At least the constructs were not shooting. Cold inhuman stares she could deal with. Thanks to Sicarius, she had all sorts of practice. She pushed him out of her thoughts.
“I have information your master will be interested in.” Or so she hoped.
One construct returned to its place beside the entrance while the other rotated and strode into the mine.
“Uhm?” Amaranthe pointed at its back. “Am I supposed to follow?”
The remaining construct did not move. She shrugged and eased past it. It did not halt her.
“Guess I’m invited in.”
Small, white globes hanging on support posts lighted the way. An ore cart track ran down the center of a rough-hewn tunnel high enough for the ten-foot-tall construct to walk without hunching. If it could hunch. Its broad, barrel chest did scrape the walls from time to time, causing a trickle of dirt to crumble free.
Other dark passages veered away at points, but her guide continued down the main, lighted tunnel. It sloped downward, and Amaranthe soon lost sight of the entrance. Eventually they turned into a side tunnel that dead-ended at a shiny copper door. It reflected the construct’s crimson eyes.
When several heartbeats passed with nothing happening, Amaranthe edged closer. Maybe she was expected to knock.
She lifted a hand. Before she touched the copper, the door swung open silently. Amaranthe followed the construct into a long rectangular space that resembled a room more than a cave. A room filled with workbenches and machines.
A row of sleek, metallic creatures stretched along one long wall. Some were bipedal, some animal-shaped, and some vehicular, though none had the size or mass of a steam carriage or lorry. They must have been built to navigate these tunnels. Tables, shelves, and desks lined the opposite wall. They housed a variety of smaller devices, some with glowing orbs. How many of those contraptions were weapons? Was this some stockpile that could be used against the empire?
Busy gaping at the devices, Amaranthe almost missed the blond man leaning against a desk near the far end of the room. He wore factory-weave wool garments and practical boots typical of the style sold in Stumps. If not for his long blond hair and fair skin, he might have passed for an imperial citizen.
“Have you come to bargain for your man’s life?” the shaman asked.
“Actually, I came to bargain for medical attention,” Amaranthe said. “Your monsters tried to lunch on my insides, and it appears they didn’t wash their paws before dining.”
His eye twitched when she called them his monsters.
“Though I’m pleased to know Books is alive,” Amaranthe said. “Thank you for that.”
He snorted. “I didn’t spare him for you. Where is the assassin? Mounting a rescue while you distract me?”
“Rescue? Sicarius? He’s not that sort. Get yourself captured, and he’ll be the first to let you know you were an idiot for not paying attention. He’ll leave it in your hands to escape-or not. Good training or the last lesson you’ll ever learn.” She wished she was lying, but after Sicarius’s words outside, the statements were easy to make.
“Where is he? I want him.” The shaman walked to the wall and placed a hand on a black metal machine that seemed inspired by spiked maces and flails.
