brewing and distilling. A toolbox rested on the floor by the door, a screwdriver and a hinge set next to it. A lone window looked out on the darkness, unfortunately not large enough to crawl through.
“Under the desk,” Amaranthe whispered.
Books spotted a pair of boots scrunched against thin legs. He walked around the desk, pulled out the chair, and peered beneath.
A boy of nine or ten hunkered there, staring out with wide, terrified eyes. For a moment, Books saw his own son, and he blinked several times to clear the illusion. Other than similar scruffy haircuts, the two looked little alike, though this boy needed help, as Enis once had. Back then, Books had failed to pay attention and provide it in time.
“It’s all right.” He held out his hand, palm up. “We won’t hurt you.”
Footsteps pounded on the stairs. Amaranthe opened the door wide enough to shoot two rounds. A yelp of pain promised that at least one hit home.
“Need another sword?” Books asked.
“Not yet,” she said. “If they all charge at once… Well, at least they can only come at us two at a time on the stairs.” Keeping the door cracked and one eye on the mercenaries, Amaranthe slid a few replacement quarrels into her magazine.
“Who are you?” Books asked the boy. “Do you want to come out?”
The child shook his head, and his bangs flopped in his eyes.
“That was probably his father,” Amaranthe said, nodding toward the front of the distillery.
Books felt as if one of her quarrels had thudded into his chest. Of course.
“I’m sorry, son,” he rasped. “We didn’t kill your father, but we’re going to stop the men who did.”
“I killed him,” the boy whispered.
Books knelt to lean closer. He could not have heard correctly. “What?”
“I killed him. It’s my fault. I made them come.” The boy hiccupped and tears swam in his eyes.
“I’m sure that’s not possible,” Books said. “Ah, what was your name?”
“Terith.”
“Ask him what these mercenaries are doing here.” Amaranthe leaned out the door and popped off another shot. “And if any more are on the property. It’d help to know how many we ultimately have to deal with, especially since you just promised him we’d take care of everyone.”
“Er.” This hardly seemed the time to interrogate the boy-had he witnessed the quarrel strike his father down? Books had seen the knife go into his son’s chest, though he had been too far away to do anything. He rubbed his face, trying to push back the memories. This “distraction” was proving anything but. “How’d you bring the mercenaries?” he asked gently.
“I just wanted to help.” Terith pawed at tears in his eyes. “Mother died last winter. She ran the business stuff. Father knew about trees but not the rest. He didn’t like running things.” The boy sniffled mightily.
“What happened after your mother died?” Books groped for a path to relevance in the boy’s rambling response.
“Father tried to run the business. He tried real hard. But he hated it. I wanted him to be happy again and not yell all the time. I made him think this place was haunted.”
Amaranthe’s head jerked away from the door. Yes, here was the link to the story that brought them out here.
“How?” Books asked.
“Hid stuff, moved stuff, said I saw ancestor spirits.” Terith shrugged. “I thought Father would think Mother’s spirit wanted him to sell the business, and he could go work on someone else’s trees and be happy again. But he thought somebody was trying to scare him off his land, and he got real mad. He decided to hire mercenaries.”
An explosion hit the stairway, and the office trembled.
“How
Terith shook his head. “Father asked a bunch. He wasn’t sure if any would come.”
“Trust me, boy,” Amaranthe said. “If you own a distillery, it’s never a problem enticing mercs to work for you.”
“They shot him. He didn’t have enough money, and they wanted to take all the brandy, and he wouldn’t let them, and they-” Terith’s voice broke off in a choked sob. “It’s my fault.”
“Easy, son.” Books gripped his shoulder. “We’ll work that out later. Now, we have to get out of here.”
He frowned at the small window. Terith might be able to crawl through it but neither Books nor Amaranthe could.
“Is there another way besides the stairs?” Book asked.
Amaranthe’s crossbow twanged. A pistol ball thudded into the frame above her head, raining splinters. She slammed the door shut.
“They’ve got, or they’re making, explosives,” she said.
“How many quarrels do you have left?” Books asked.
“Five.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Her usual smile was bleak.
“Terith.” Books resisted the urge to shake the boy. This had to be done gently, or Terith would break down altogether. “We really need your help. Is there another way out?”
Terith dragged a sleeve across his eyes. “There’s an attic, but the trapdoor is out there.”
“Of course, it is,” Books muttered.
He grabbed the toolbox, hopped onto the desk, and knocked at the ceiling. The first solid thud made him grimace, but he found a hollow spot next to it. If he could cut a hole between the joists, maybe they could squeeze through.
As he withdrew hammer, chisel, and saw, another explosion boomed, this time right below them. The desk jumped, and drawers slid out, crashing to the floor. Books almost pitched over, too.
“I don’t suppose you could keep them from doing that,” he said, setting to work.
Amaranthe looked out the door. Smoke wafted into the room, carrying the sound of ominous snaps and crackles.
“You boys won’t be able to collect my bounty if my body is charred beyond recognition,” she yelled.
“You’ll jump down before that happens,” one called back.
Shouts and laughter mingled with the increasing roar of a fire.
“I think they’re trying to drop the supports for this room,” Amaranthe said. “You might want to hasten the trapdoor-creation process.”
Books sawed. “It’s going to be more of a hole than a door.”
“I’m not fussy. Terith, you fussy?”
With his story told, the boy had fallen silent. He stood in the corner, watching them.
“He’s not fussy,” Amaranthe said.
Books lowered a ragged circle of plywood. “Hand him up, and we’ll see if we can cut our way out on a side where the mercenaries aren’t watching.”
A thunderous crash came from beyond the door, and the room quaked. The stairs had collapsed.
Amaranthe lifted Terith onto the desk. Still silent, the boy allowed Books to push him into the attic. A moment later, Books clambered up himself. He bent to offer Amaranthe a hand, but she gave him the lamp and jumped. She caught the edge and pulled herself up without trouble.
Heat radiated through the floor of the attic, and the smell of warming bat and squirrel dung competed with smoke from below. The lamp spread a wan bubble of light, and metal glinted at one end. At first, Books feared more swordsmen up here, but the metal merely marked a vent.
“We can get out over there,” he whispered.
The chisel made short work of the screws, and fresh night air greeted them. Darkness had descended over the orchard beyond the distillery, but a few lampposts dotting the property provided intermittent light. Below the vent, the roof of a firewood lean-to offered an easy way down.
