blade wide and darted in. He backed into the still and ran out of room. Before he could align his blade to defend, Amaranthe thrust hers into his chest.
Books’s opponent advanced and lunged, slashing at his neck. Books parried, but the power of the blow forced him to the side, and his shoulder banged against the wall. With his blood surging, he barely felt it, but he lowered his sword and pretended a true injury. He retreated several steps. His assailant charged after, apparently forgetting about Amaranthe in his eagerness for the kill.
As they reached the flywheel, she stepped in behind the man. Her blade flickered, cutting through his hamstring. His legs crumpled, and she finished him. Books started to say thanks, but movement froze his mouth.
Two men, pistols reloaded, popped around the flywheel. Amaranthe tore her crossbow from her back and dropped to a knee. Books threw himself out of the way, and her quarrel zipped into one man’s cheek.
“Cursed ancestors!” They backed out of sight.
“They’ve got crossbows!”
“You’ve got guns,” someone growled. “Get back in there.”
“It’s a repeating crossbow,” Amaranthe called, “and I’ve got a full magazine, plus a box of quarrels in my pocket. Oh, and sorry about your friend there, but the tips are laced with deadly poison.”
Mutters came from the door, but no one else poked their heads around the flywheel or tried to approach from the other direction.
Amaranthe threw a wink at Books. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to still trembling hands. How could she so obviously be enjoying herself?
“Isn’t that just a temporary paralysis poison?” he whispered.
She held a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell them that.”
Between the crossbow, the sword, and the gray military fatigues, she should have looked like a hardened warrior, but she always wore a smile and, more often than not, a warm glint of humor sparkled in her brown eyes. Any man would have proudly taken her home to meet the parents.
She peered over the churning piston rods. “More of them. At least eight by the door. They’re milling around, talking.”
Books grimaced. “Sorry I’m not more help. You should have brought one of the others.”
“I should have brought
Yes, investigation and research were much more his realm.
“Besides, you looked glum this morning,” Amaranthe continued. “I thought you could use a distraction from whatever’s plaguing you.”
“So you arranged a band of twenty mercenaries to attack us?” Books raised his eyebrows. “Very thoughtful, thank you.”
“Nah, it’s only-” she checked on them again “-twelve now.”
“Give it time.”
“See, glum.” She quirked an eyebrow his way. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“
“Well, we
“It’s nothing,” Books said. “It’s just, today is-would have been-my son’s birthday.”
“Ah.” She gripped his shoulder. “That’s not nothing.”
“I know, but it’s not-” He broke off, not able to say important. “It’s not our primary concern now. We need to escape.”
“Or figure out what’s going on.” Her gaze lifted toward a set of stairs on the other side of the distillery. They led to a room with a couple small windows, an office most likely.
The first shot had dulled Books’s interest in the haunted-distillery mystery, but the room did look like a better place to make a stand than behind a steam engine. Besides, maybe it had a nice window to the outside that would allow them to climb down and escape into the orchards. Unfortunately, getting there would involve crossing open territory where every one of those twelve men could take shots.
“Think us a way up there, professor.” Amaranthe raised her voice toward the door. “By the way, folks, we’re not on anyone’s payroll yet, seeing as you’ve killed the owner who was going to hire us. There’s really no need to risk your men’s lives attacking us. We could all just walk away.”
“We ain’t going anywhere until we get the other half of our money,” someone growled. “Or the equivalent in brandy.”
Chortles of agreement followed.
Books eyed the machinery-filled wall they were trapped against. He could rig the boiler to explode, but that would bring down the building and kill everyone, themselves included.
“We don’t have it!” Amaranthe called back.
“Maybe not, but we know who you are. There’s only one woman mercenary leader working around the capital. Amaranthe Lokdon, and you’ve got a bounty for 20,000 ranmyas on your head. That’s a heap more than we were offered for this gig. And I’ll bet your gangly friend there has a bounty on his head, too.”
“Technically we’re fugitives, not mercenaries.” If the mention of the bounty worried her, Amaranthe did not show it. “While we do take occasional freelance jobs to pay the bills, our ultimate goal is to impress the emperor with tales of our patriotic heroics so he’ll grant us pardons.”
That earned so many laughs the building seemed to reverberate with the noise.
“Why doesn’t anybody ever believe that?” Amaranthe asked.
“I have an idea.” Books tugged her closer to the furnace. “Draw some fire.”
“Next to the boiler? Is that wise?”
Books ticked his sword against the wrought iron cylinder. “A pistol ball isn’t going to bother this. Failures are caused by internal pressure.”
“If you’re sure…”
Amaranthe leaned around the boiler and shot toward the door. She ducked back as a pistol fired in response. The ball clanged against the iron plating above her head.
“Look out!” Books shrieked. “They ruptured the boiler. It’s going to blow!”
The wide-eyed concern Amaranthe launched his direction said his act had been convincing. She caught on promptly though.
“Wouldn’t the explosion be instantaneous?” she whispered.
Books raised a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell them that.”
Pounding feet, shouts, and curses came from the door.
“Get back, get back!” someone cried.
With the mercenaries distracted, Amaranthe and Books charged across the open floor toward the stairs. He glanced out the door. The men were darting behind trees. The front door was still not an escape option, but Books and Amaranthe ought to have time to-
A shot cracked, and a pistol ball skipped off the cement floor in front of his feet. Urging his legs faster, he pelted up the stairs after Amaranthe.
They made it to the top, only to find the door locked.
“Cursed distiller’s ancestors,” Books spat as Amaranthe rattled the knob.
“Shoot them when they come out!” someone in the trees ordered.
Books glanced at the door again. It would not take the mercenaries long to figure out they had been duped, and that he and Amaranthe were not coming out.
“Lock picks?” he asked.
Amaranthe hammered a sidekick at the wood. The bolt gave, and the door flew open.
They leaped inside as a pistol ball cracked into the railing, shattering a baluster. Amaranthe slammed the door shut, and the knob clunked to the floor.
“Lock picks.” She nodded.
“Indeed.”
A startled squeak made Books whip around, eyes searching the small office. A desk squatted in the center, a lamp burning on one corner. In the back, jugs of applejack and bottles of brandy shared shelf space with tomes on
