Dark Currents

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Maybe the enforcers are investigating the phosphorescent-eyed wildlife,” Books said.

  “The what?” Vonsha asked, even as Maldynado nodded and said, “Ahhhh, right.”

  Books explained the wolf attack.

  “That’s troublesome,” Vonsha said.

  “Nothing like that has bothered you here?” Books asked.

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Books let it drop, though he noted it for later consideration. He might not have Amaranthe’s enforcer instincts, but even he could tell the family had a secret or two.

  “If the mountains have grown that dangerous,” Vonsha said, “I’m doubly sure this is a job for an outfit like yours. My father is too old to traipse about, hunting for infiltrators, and my mother and I are the only other ones in the household right now. Perhaps I could pay you a small fee.”

  Books waved away the offer. “No need for that, my lady. We aim to help the empire whether there’s monetary compensation or not.” He caught Maldynado rolling his eyes. The spiel did sound self-aggrandizing.

  “Will your comrades return today?” Vonsha asked. “Can you ask them if they’ll take on the trip?”

  “Tomorrow would be my guess,” Books said. Though spring had arrived, the days were still not long, especially up here in the mountains.

  “Ah.” Vonsha glanced toward the hallway. “You must stay here tonight then. I’ll handle my father. Don’t worry.”

  “Thank you.” In a spasm of courage, Books put his hand on Vonsha’s arm. “We’ll do what we can. Maybe when all this is resolved, and your family is safe, we can have that cider at a nice cafe in the city.”

  Tension ebbed from her, and she gave him a genuine smile. “I’d like that.” Vonsha stood. “Please relax here. I’ll tend to rooms.”

  “Looks like you’ll get your bed tonight,” Books told Maldynado after she left. He also appreciated the idea of warm blankets, and a private room sounded fabulous after the previous night’s adventures.

  “Looks like,” Maldynado said. “Funny, though, don’t you think?”

  “What is?”

  “How much she wants us to take a trip across the pass.”

  “She explained her reasons.”

  Maldynado plucked at a thread on the faded rug. “I guess so.”

  His words made Books realize how little Vonsha had shown him of her notes. If he had not been distracted, he would have taken them to study. Maybe he could investigate the house that night, see if he could learn a little more. He nodded to himself. Yes, a little nocturnal exploring was in order.

  • • • • •

  Amaranthe picked her way past ferns and around boulders, following boot prints in a muddy trail. The scent of the campfire wafted through the air.

  The forest gave way to a rocky landscape again, and the men she had seen earlier came into view. They sat around their fire, heating cans of carp for a late lunch or perhaps early dinner. Noon had long since passed, and the high peaks would bring twilight early. Clouds closing in further darkened the skies and promised rain.

  The two men were the only people in view, though beyond them a canyon mouth parted a fifty-foot-high cliff running parallel to the river far below. From her angle, she could not see into the gap, but, judging by the breadth of the entrance, the ravine could hold an army. Faint clanks and rumbles emanated from within.

  Amaranthe left the trees and strolled toward the campfire. As soon as the men noticed her, she spread her arms, palms open. Theirs faces screwed up in suspicion, but they did not reach for the bows propped nearby. One glanced toward the canyon. Was their boss inside? Amaranthe shifted the angle of her approach to ensure no one could come out without her noticing.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. “I’m looking to speak with the, ah, new owner of this property.”

  “Is that so?” The speaker, a snaggletoothed fellow with tufts of bristly hair sticking out from beneath a wool cap, gave her a long leer.

  Given the unimaginative bun confining her hair and the distinctively unsexy trousers and jacket she wore, she figured he had been up on the mountain without female company for a while. The second man eyed her more professionally and his hand went to a bow.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

  “The same thing as you are,” she said.

  Snaggletooth’s brow furrowed. “Quarrying rock?”

  She managed to keep the surprise off her face. Rock? Surely a rock quarry could not justify all the interest in this land. The entire mountain range was made from limestone. It could be quarried from anywhere.

  “Looking to acquire this property for my own purposes.” Amaranthe waved in the direction of Hagcrest’s cabin. “I came to see the owner, but it seems he’s passed on recently.”

  “No kidding?” Snaggletooth smirked.

  “I run a few businesses down in the capital,” she said. “I have funds available for acquisitions. Perhaps I could make an offer to the new owner. I’m guessing Lord Hagcrest had no next-of-kin, and whoever holds the title now holds the land?” In the city, it would not be that simple, but out here it probably was.

  “You have money?” Snaggletooth leaned forward, eyes bright. “With you?”

  “Of course not. Who would go hiking with a rucksack full of ranmyas? My armed men are watching it somewhere safe and defensible.”

  The speculation did not leave Snaggletooth’s eyes.

  “Why,” the bowman asked, stroking his chin, “would someone from the capital be interested in land all the way up here?”

  “I could use the timber and limestone for my construction business. Since this lot is located on the river, it’d be easy to ship the raw materials out of the mountains.” There. That sounded plausible. Right?

  “Shipping stuff down that river won’t be easy for long.” Snaggletooth snickered.

  His comrade glared at him.

  “Oh?” Amaranthe considered the rocky hillside below. The river flowed past, its view impeded by only a few boulders and scrappy trees sprouting from the cracks. “Changes afoot?”

  “Nothing we can talk about,” the bowman said.

  “Of course.” Perhaps if she took things in a more roundabout direction… “How’d you fellows get stuck working up here, anyway? It’s kind of a forsaken plot, isn’t it?”

  “Got that right,” Snaggletooth said. “Ain’t a woman for miles, unless you count old Lady Spearcrest, but she’s about a hundred and not worth raiding the property for.”

  The bowman leaned over to dig an elbow into his comrade’s side. “Shut up,” he whispered. “You’re yapping too much.”

  “Slag off,” Snaggletooth said back, not bothering to lower his voice. “We ain’t had no womens to talk to in ages.”

  Amaranthe waited, happy to let them argue, hoping they would divulge more.

  Someone walked out of the canyon. Braids of pale brown hair swayed around his sleeveless buckskin vest. His bare arms lacked the tattoos she associated with Kendorian shamans, but he otherwise had the look. Or perhaps he was another Mangdorian?

  Well over six feet, the man towered over Amaranthe as he approached. If he was a Mangdorian, he was a tall one.

  “Greetings.” Amaranthe lifted a hand and hoped she kept the concern off her face. “Are you the new owner of this property? I’m interested in making an offer on it.”

  The man’s green eyes lacked the sinister chill of some megalomaniacal villain intent on overthrowing the empire, but he did not appear pleased to see her. His face had a frazzled cast to it.

  He waved for the two other men to grab their weapons and scoot out of earshot, though not out of bow range. His eyes shifted to Amaranthe, but they grew unfocused for a moment. A tingle grazed the back of her neck. Her imagination? Or perhaps he was a shaman, inspecting her through some otherworldly skill.

  “You want me to believe you are businesswoman?” he asked, voice heavily accented.


  Amaranthe had to concentrate to understand him. “Yes. I’m prepared to offer you a respectable sum, considering this is a remote, forsaken piece of land.”

  “Not enough forsaken. Too many people are showing up here. Who tells you this land good? Spearcrests?”

  Amaranthe kept her face blank, but inside her gut twisted. If the Spearcrests were involved with what was going on over here, which, at the least included their neighbor’s murder, then sending Books and Maldynado to visit may have been a mistake.

  “Are you able to discuss selling the land?” Amaranthe asked. “Or are you merely someone’s henchman, here to stand guard?”

  “I no henchman.” He jerked his chin up and thumped his chest with a fist, causing his braids to sway about his torso. “I valued partner.”

  “I see. And would you and your partners be piqued by an offer of fifty thousand ranmyas?” It was a few thousand below the appraisal amount on the waterlogged note the men had retrieved from the woman’s body. A good starting point to negotiations.

  The shaman snarled and slipped a primitive bone-blade knife from a sheath.

  Maybe not a good starting point after all.

  “That’s not my final offer,” Amaranthe said.

  Knife in one hand, the shaman reached for her with the other. She hopped back, evading the grasp. If he was a Mangdorian, he was doing a horrible job following his pacifist religion.

  “I see you’re a foreigner and perhaps not educated in Turgonian business practices,” Amaranthe said, “but trying to kill the other party is not an acceptable negotiation tactic.”

  “I no here for money, and land is no for sale.”

  “Why are you here?” She did not expect him to answer truthfully, but one never knew. Maybe he would feel the urge to confess.

  He swiped at her with the knife.

  Or not. Amaranthe evaded him again. He had reach with those long arms, but his size stole some of his speed, and she read the attacks easily. He lacked the practiced moves of an experienced fighter, so she decided not to reach for her pistol or signal Sicarius. Not yet. The bowmen were watching, but neither had an arrow nocked.

  “To keep people like you from nose about,” he answered.

  “Nosing,” Amaranthe said.

  The shaman grumbled under his breath in a different language. He stopped advancing and lifted a hand toward the bowmen.

  “Are you sure I can’t interest you in coin?” Amaranthe said, meeting the bowmen’s eyes. They seemed more likely to be persuaded by money. “Five thousand ranmyas if you simply tell me what it is you men are doing up here. Offer open to anyone.”

  Snaggletooth grew thoughtful.

  “Enough,” the shaman said. “Shoot her.”

  “Wait.” Amaranthe lifted a palm toward each bowman. “You’ll be dead if you try it. Do you think I’d come out here alone?”

  The shaman snorted and waved for his men to carry out his order.

  Amaranthe touched her forehead.

  A rifle shot rang out from a high ledge overlooking the canyon and the campfire. Snaggletooth flew backward, landing spread-eagle, a bloody hole in the center of his forehead.

  “Cursed ancestors,” Amaranthe breathed. She had told Sicarius to fire a warning shot.

  The dead man had a salutary effect on the remaining two. The second guard lunged behind a boulder. The shaman’s knife drooped, and he gaped about, searching for the source of the shot. Rock and scrub brush dotted the top of the ledge and provided copious hiding spots. Amaranthe saw no sign of Sicarius.

  “As I was saying, I did not come out here alone,” she said.

  The shaman muttered something under his breath. His eyes grew glazed.

  Afraid he meant to hurl some magic at Sicarius, Amaranthe stepped forward, hand slipping inside her jacket for her pistol. The shaman snapped out of it and stopped her with a glare.

  “One man,” he said. “Only one man.”

  “Only one, yes, but he’s very good. He can pick your people off one at a time from up there.”

  “Not if I kill him.” The shaman turned his gaze toward the ledge again, focused, then sucked in a startled breath. “The assassin! Sicarius!”

  Uh oh. How could he know that? Sicarius was under cover.

  “He’s here,” the shaman breathed. “I didn’t think…I mean, they say at the end, they would show us where he was. That if we cooperate we could—” He snapped his mouth shut and glared at Amaranthe.

  Though she had not yet removed the pistol, her hand gripped the butt, and her finger found the trigger.

  “You work with this monster?” Accusation—almost a look of betrayal—hung in the shaman’s green eyes.

  “If your people are responsible for Lord Hagcrest’s death, then you’re no better than he. What killed the old man anyway? Did you make that device under his skin?”

  His stare did not waver. “Fifteen years ago, you know news? You know what happens in our country?”

  “Kendor?” Amaranthe still did not know where the man was from.

  “Mangdoria! Chief Yull unite tribes, make plans to negotiate for lands back from your empire. Your people think him a threat. Chief Yull was peaceful! Your assassin—that monster—kills royal family. All family. Mother and children also. He cuts off their heads to deliver to your emperor.” The shaman pointed a finger at Amaranthe’s chest. “For much time we no know who responsible. He enter and leave without nobody see. Like ancestor spirit. But we know truth now. Partners tell us, promise help us get his head. Even if we fail, now all Mangdorians will know this monster, what he do.”

  The loathing in the shaman’s eyes stole any rebuttal Amaranthe might have made. If she could come up with one. She knew what Sicarius had been and what, in many ways, he still was. Just because he was nominally her monster now did not make him less of one to the rest of the world.

  “Your partners told you?” she asked. “Partners who wanted you for some ends of their own? Like to kill Hagcrest and claim this land with your magic? How can you rely on their word? They could simply be using you.”

  “That man is monster. You work with him, you must die.”

  “I thought Mangdorians were pacifists.” Amaranthe slid the pistol out of its holster a couple of inches.

  “Chief Yull was pacifist, and it get him killed. Old religion no good when empire for neighbor. You help Sicarius? Slay our chief? His family?”

  “First off, it doesn’t sound like you have any proof that he did it. Second, I was a child then, so, no, I couldn’t have helped. Either way, this is history and has nothing to do with what’s going on here.” She hoped. “Unless you’re here as part of some revenge attempt on the Turgonian government.”

  She watched the shaman’s face, but he did not seem to hear. His gaze had returned to the cliff top.

  “Did they tell you to kill Hagcrest?” she asked, trying to draw his attention back to her. If he could detect Sicarius with his power, he might be able to attack him with it too. “To get his land? You must know you’ll be hunted for that. The emperor doesn’t appreciate foreigners coming in and killing warrior caste veterans.”

  “They handle your emperor. They say—” The shaman snapped his mouth shut, eyes narrowing. “You a nose woman.”

  “Nosey,” Amaranthe said. “I’m nosey, not a nose.”

  “My people never want to fight. Only to find way to get land back. Hard life in mountains. Seasons too short for farming. Long winters. People hungry. Always hungry.” The shaman clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke, oddly unconcerned over his dead man or the weapon Sicarius likely had trained on him. Perhaps he could deflect a rifle ball, as the Nurian wizard Arbitan Losk had deflected crossbow quarrels and daggers. “Our people never want fight, but they are fools. Many have mastered the Science. Many could kill with a thought.”

  “Or with a tiny device that burrows beneath a man’s skin?” Amaranthe asked.

  “We will avenge the royal family’s death.” He said it calmly. His
rage and his desire to kill her seemed to have vanished.

  Amaranthe kept an eye on the canyon entrance and the second man, who still hunkered behind the boulder. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering if the shaman might be stalling while someone crept up on her. Had he signaled to his workers when she had not noticed? Nothing moved behind her.

  But she was not the main threat. It was Sicarius the shaman needed to worry about.

  Her heart lurched. Did he have some magical attack planned for Sicarius?

  Amaranthe stepped forward. “Perhaps Sicarius is not responsible for what you think. Why don’t we discuss things in your camp?”

  “Yes.” The shaman lifted a finger. “You will come my camp.”

  A boom thundered through the valley and echoed from the mountaintops. The earth rocked beneath Amaranthe’s feet. A cloud of dust mushroomed into the air on the plateau where Sicarius waited.

  “No,” she whispered.

  The ledge crumbled. Earth and rock sloughed down the cliff side, throwing more dust into the air at the bottom. Debris hurtled from the explosion, clacking to the stones around Amaranthe. A shard of rock struck her cheek. Blood trickled down her face, but she barely noticed. All she could do was stare at the cliff top, waiting—hoping—for some movement when the dust cloud dissipated. If her idiotic plan had gotten Sicarius killed…

  The shaman lunged, reaching for her.

  Acting on instinct, Amaranthe jumped back. She yanked the pistol free and fired. The ball thudded into his shoulder.

  She whirled and sprinted toward the trees. Scree shifted and flew beneath her boots. She zigzagged and ducked around boulders, fearing an arrow would land between her shoulder blades any second. The bowman would not be worried about snipers on the ledge any more.

  Something snagged Amaranthe’s legs, constricting them like a rope wrapping around her ankles. She pitched forward. She tried to turn the fall into a roll, but something rooted her feet. The ground came hard and fast. She barely managed to keep from smashing her nose against a rock.

  Amaranthe shoved herself upright and scrabbled at her ankles. Nothing visible or tangible bound them.