Dark Currents

by Lindsay Buroker

  The light reddening the backs of his lids softened, and he opened an eye.

  The orb still glowed like a sun, but it lay on its side, and the panel shielded Books. Tangled cords attached to the bottom led into a hole, the hollow core of the pillar. Gears rotated within, and he could only guess what the complex machinery in the shadows below did. But he did not need to learn how it worked.

  He dragged the sword close and pressed it against one of the cords. He sliced through it, and a shocking buzz ran up his arm and clenched his chest. His muscles tensed involuntarily, and he dropped the sword. The orb flickered.

  Scared but encouraged, he picked up his sword. He left the cords and jammed the blade between the teeth of the closest set of rotating gears. A displeased grinding issued from the core. He waited, hoping he would not have to cut more of the cords. The artifact started quaking.

  He mulled over his sabotage. Maybe having his sword stuck in there would break the engine, maybe not.

  Numbness plagued the entire right side of his body. He might as well ensure his efforts were irreversible. He slashed the sword through the remaining cords.

  Power surged, hurling him backwards. He spun a somersault, hit his helmet on the lip of the bowl, and tumbled over the edge. He landed on his back in the pebbles. Light flashed several times, then disappeared. Blackness swallowed the bottom of the lake.

  He lay, stunned. A drop of water splashed onto his nose.

  With his mind dazed and befuddled, it took him a second to realize his helmet was leaking. He must have cracked the faceplate. He had to get up and climb out of the lake, but he could not move his limbs. He could scarcely breathe.

  A white light appeared at the edge of Books’s vision.

  “Now what?” he groaned.

  He struggled to rise, and, when that failed, to roll over. His body would not cooperate. Water ran down his cheeks and pooled beneath his head.

  The light drew closer, illuminating the artifact, which stood dark and skeletal. Though he feared death was approaching, Books drew satisfaction from the pathetic way the stem listed to one side.

  A figure floated into his field of vision. The shaman. It had to be.

  Protected by an iridescent bubble, the man hovered above the lake floor, his fists clenched, his pale face contorted with rage. Angry green eyes bored into Books. Then they shifted, focusing on something above his head.

  The air hose. With a wave of his hand, the shaman could finish what the fish had started.

  Did Basilard and the others know the man was down here? Surely not or they would be trying to help somehow. Books feared he was on his own.

  He coughed, spitting water. It was dribbling in faster now and filled the helmet to his ears.

  “Where is the assassin?” the shaman asked in Turgonian.

  Books stared. He could have understood an accusation about the artifact or being a warmongering Turgonian, but a question about Sicarius?

  The shaman floated over and grabbed the air hose. Again Books struggled to rise so he could die on his feet. His limbs would not move. He could not even feel them. Water reached the corners of his lips.

  The shaman tied a knot in the hose and pulled it down, holding it before Books’s eyes.

  “Where is the assassin?”

  Anger simmered within Books, and he hated that he had no power to lash out. He did not love Sicarius enough to die defending him, but he was dead either way.

  “Hunting you,” he said, water leaking into his mouth.

  The shaman sneered, and lifted a hand. As if someone cut off a switch, blackness swept over Books and awareness vanished.

  CHAPTER 21

  Pain brought tears to Amaranthe’s eyes before she opened them. Her breath snagged, and she reached for her abdomen. Her fingers scraped against rough bandages, an act that brought more pain. She yanked her hand away. She tried to draw in a deep inhalation to calm herself, but that hurt too. As she opened her eyes and struggled to focus them, she settled for short, shallow breaths.

  She lay on her back. Bare branches stretched below a gray sky promising rain. Daylight had come, though she could not guess whether it was morning or afternoon.

  Something touched her cheek. She turned her head slowly since her neck, too, had complaints.

  Sicarius sat cross-legged beside her. Relief flooded her at seeing him alive—and at being alive herself.

  He lifted his hand, seemed not to know where to put it, and settled for resting it on her shoulder. Though the pain dampened her humor, she managed a smile. “I must look really bad…if you’re deigning to touch me.” It hurt to speak, and her voice rasped like sandpaper on wood.

  His eyebrows rose infinitesimally.

  “You usually only do that in combat practice.” She kept her voice soft so she need not take big inhalations. “Or to pull me out of the way…because I’ve gotten myself in trouble.”

  His jaw flexed, and Amaranthe regretted the last sentence. He might feel he should have been faster and pulled her out of the way this time.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. Her ancestors knew it was not his fault she had nearly died. He had tried to stop her from the ludicrous plan.

  “For what?” He spoke quietly. His gaze flicked toward the lake.

  The susurrus of men’s voices came from that direction. A conversation, not casual but argumentative. There was still trouble. Amaranthe would ask what it was soon, maybe even attempt something ambitious, like sitting up, but she wanted another quiet moment before the need to plan overwhelmed her. Besides, there was a hint of downward pressure from Sicarius’s hand, as if he knew about, and did not approve of, her thoughts to sit up and get involved.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “for risking all our lives on something that we could have left for others to handle, for getting mauled, and for being a burden. I should have listened to you. Next time I will. I’ll…acquiesce to your wisdom.”

  His eyes crinkled. “You will not.”

  “No, I will. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Doubtful.” Was that a smile on his lips? Ever so slight? If so, it faded quickly.

  “Akstyr did his best to close your wounds,” Sicarius said, “but he detected the beginnings of an infection.”

  “Those makarovi claws did look dirty.” She smiled, though Sicarius’s tone, even grimmer than usual, warned her worse news was coming.

  “The knowledge of how to heal it is beyond him. He did better than I expected, but he lacks experience.”

  “Well, I’m tough. I bet my blood schemes just as much as my brain, and it’ll figure a way to destroy any pesky infections.”

  Sicarius said nothing. He always said nothing, but this time he avoided her eyes, and she had no trouble reading his silence: he thought she was dying.

  “She’s awake!” Maldynado blurted. “She’s alive!”

  Footsteps pounded her way. Maldynado, Basilard, and Akstyr knelt around her. Sicarius stood and backed away.

  “Boss, are you all right?” Maldynado asked. “How do you feel?

  Amaranthe blushed, feeling foolish to have gotten herself in so much trouble that she needed this much attention. But emotion welled inside her too. It meant much that they cared enough to provide that attention.

  “I’m alive,” she croaked around the lump her in throat.

  Basilard pushed Maldynado to the side, lifted a canteen, and raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, right,” Maldynado said. “You need to drink.”

  He slid a hand under her shoulders and elevated her head gently. He waved for the canteen. As much as Amaranthe appreciated his solicitude, she would not have minded being taken care of by Sicarius. Just the two of them. Alone. Maybe in her weakened state, he would pity her enough to let slip a few more tidbits about his past. That would almost be worth the price of…being wounded. Yes, being wounded. A temporary state. No way was she going to let some stupid animal claw bring about her death.

  She inhaled a touch too deeply, and a pang in her
abdomen made her gasp. Water spilled and ran down her chin.

  “Oops,” Maldynado said.

  Basilard smacked him on the shoulder.

  Amaranthe sipped from the canteen more carefully. Sicarius had retreated to the trees to stand guard, though he glanced her way now and then. She sighed and fiddled with one of the bandages wrapping her torso.

  “Akstyr fixed you up real good,” Maldynado said. “I’m sure you’ll pull through. Because we need you. We’ve been squabbling. Without you here to keep us glued to—what are you doing?”

  Amaranthe froze in the middle of loosening a bandage. “Er, nothing?”

  “You’re not trying to take them off, are you?” Maldynado said, stern as a schoolteacher reprimanding a wayward pupil. “Akstyr helped, but you’re all sorts of messed up under there. Better not remove them.”

  “No, I was just…” She cleared her throat. “They were crooked. Akstyr,” she said before her admission could draw comments, “thank you.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Sorry I couldn’t…you know. All the way.”

  “I’ll just have to talk the shaman into doing it.”

  All four men stared at her.

  “Not even conscious five minutes, and she’s already concocting crazy plans,” Maldynado said.

  “I’m sure it’s been closer to ten,” Amaranthe said.

  Maldynado was still propping her up, giving her a decent view of the beach and the diving equipment.

  “Where’s Books?”

  The men’s faces darkened.

  “The shaman got him,” Maldynado said. “Books broke the thing in the lake, but somehow… We didn’t see the shaman go in the water. If we had, we would have thumped him.”

  “Got him?” Amaranthe swallowed. “Is he…”

  “We think he’s alive, otherwise why would that blond bastard have taken him, right?” Maldynado looked to Basilard and Akstyr for confirmation, but they only shrugged. “But we don’t know where they went. He flew out of the water in this bubble wrapped around himself and Books, and then they poofed away.”

  “Teleported,” Akstyr said.

  “Either way, we have no idea where they are now. In slagging Mangdoria probably.” Maldynado kicked one of the air pumps across the camp.

  Amaranthe closed her eyes. A few raindrops pattered on her cheeks. “I wonder what his reason was for taking Books with him.”

  “Torture,” Sicarius said. “Revenge for thwarting his plans.”

  “Or perhaps he assumed we’d come after Books,” she said.

  “Why would he think that?” Maldynado asked. “Books is a tedious, lecturing know-it-all, something the shaman will figure out after about two seconds of talking with him. Why assume we’d risk our butts to get him back?”

  “Because that’s what friends do for each other.” Amaranthe rotated her head to find Basilard, wondering if he would continue to keep things from her with Books’s life at stake. “Will you have a problem battling a countryman to get Books back?”

  Basilard gazed at the dam, but not for long before shaking his head. I wouldn’t help someone who harnesses makarovi. Who kills.

  Amaranthe pointedly did not mention Basilard’s own record of kills, but his lips twisted wryly, as if he guessed her thoughts.

  The wryness shifted to sadness. I wouldn’t help me either.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  Maldynado lifted a finger. “I’m confused.” He paused, glancing around, almost as if he was waiting for Books to insult him. “Why would the shaman want us to start with? Unless he’s after bounties, but if he can make something like that—” he waved toward the defunct artifact in the lake, “—he could earn a million ranmyas legitimately. Well, legitimately outside the empire.”

  “There are other reasons to want someone,” Amaranthe said.

  “But he could have had us when you were unconscious and I was concentrating on healing on you,” Akstyr said. “He had Books helpless and just would have had to go through Maldynado and Basilard.”

  Maldynado propped his fists on his hips. “Just? Basilard and I are burly and formidable.”

  “What were you able to do against that wizard, Arbitan?” Akstyr asked.

  Amaranthe watched Sicarius while the men argued with each other. Where had he been during Books’s kidnapping?

  “I don’t recall,” Maldynado told Akstyr. “My face was busy being scrubbed by his carpet.”

  “May I have a moment alone with Sicarius?” Amaranthe asked.

  Maldynado arched his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t you surround yourself with pleasant things when you’re healing?”

  As Sicarius stepped to Amaranthe’s side, he fixed a glare on Maldynado, who threw his hands up and backed away. Akstyr shrugged and went down to the water. Basilard—the one she most wanted out of earshot—picked up a spyglass and joined Akstyr.

  “Where were you during all this?” Amaranthe asked when Sicarius crouched beside her.

  “In the dam, looking for the shaman.” His dark glare returned to Maldynado. “I was told he was in there.”

  “I agree with Maldynado that it’s strange this fellow would take Books as bait for one of us, but these Mangdorians have made it clear they want you.”

  “This whole plot would not have been conceived to get at me.”

  She checked on Basilard. Too far away to listen in on their conversation, he was scanning the opposite shoreline with the spyglass. Maldynado sat on a stump, ears turned toward Amaranthe and Sicarius. Though she was not sure he was close enough to hear, she caught his eye and waved for him to move farther away.

  “Maybe the shaman isn’t worrying about his partners or the water scheme at this point,” Amaranthe said. “Maybe, with you in his sights, he’s changed focus. He could have taken Books, hoping you’d come for him or that Books would provide information on you.” When Sicarius did not respond, she lifted a hand, palm up. “Either way, we have to find the shaman and get Books back.”

  “He could be anywhere,” Sicarius said.

  “Not if he wants you to find him.”

  “I can’t track teleportation,” Sicarius said.

  “He has a hideout.”

  A beat passed, but Sicarius remembered without prompting. “The enforcer sergeant did not tell you where.”

  “No, but she’s on her way back with reinforcements, right?”

  Maldynado ambled over. “You two done being private and secretive yet?”

  “No,” Sicarius said as Amaranthe said, “Yes.”

  Maldynado took that as an invitation to sit down.

  “She’s on her way back with reinforcements,” Sicarius said. “Probably a company or two from the garrison. She’ll be surrounded.”

  “I just need a few minutes with her.”

  “You need to rest,” Sicarius said.

  “I agree with him,” Maldynado said. “Did you see yourself when you were unconscious? You looked dead.”

  “We need to talk to her,” Amaranthe said.

  “I will question the woman,” Sicarius said.

  “No!” Amaranthe tried to sit up, but agony ripped through her belly, and she flopped back with a hiss. “No. Sicarius, you’re, uhm, I appreciate your willingness to help, but diplomacy isn’t your biggest strength.”

  “I wasn’t going to be diplomatic.”

  “I know, and therein lies the problem. When they get back, I need to go. We’ll take it slow, wait for nightfall. Sneak in, chat, then leave. No problem.”

  “Five minutes,” Sicarius said.

  “What?”

  “How long you lasted acquiescing to my wisdom.”

  “Oh.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “Are you sure it wasn’t closer to ten?”

  • • • • •

  Raindrops pattered on the forest floor. Cold water dripped from the branches and splashed onto Amaranthe’s neck, dribbling under her collar. The stink of burning coal hung over the lake and irritated her eyes and nose. The soldiers had broug
ht a caravan of steam vehicles this time.

  Though she leaned against Sicarius for support, her abdomen and back stung with each slow, carefully placed step. Sweat bathed her face, and she breathed through gritted teeth. Under other circumstances, she might have appreciated the heat of Sicarius’s body and the corded muscle beneath his sleeve, but she was busy distracting herself from her discomfort by mulling over what she planned to say to Sergeant Yara. Should she explain the whole story? Everything that had happened since last they talked? No, best to keep it succinct. It was unlikely Amaranthe would get more than a few minutes with Yara, if that. Let the woman research on her own and form her own conclusions.

  Sicarius steered her away from a route that would have ended with her crashing into a tree. “We’re close,” he said in a tone that implied paying attention would be good.

  “We sure this is a good time to infiltrate their camp?” Maldynado asked softly. He, Akstyr, and Basilard gathered close.

  All around the lake, lanterns glowed as soldiers searched the area in pairs. Campfires burned ahead, and Amaranthe could make out the outline of tents through the trees. Many more tents than had been there previously.

  “Must be nice to get paid to show up after all the work’s done,” Akstyr said.

  “Not all the work,” Maldynado said. “We’ve got to get Booksie back.”

  Amaranthe smiled. For all that those two sniped at each other, Maldynado actually seemed to consider Books a friend. She was not sure Books reciprocated that feeling, but perhaps he would one day.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a shame the soldiers are too late for the fun. I wonder…”

  “What.” Sicarius’s tone did not make it sound like a question.

  “Nothing. Let’s find Sergeant Yara.”

  “Back to my original question,” Maldynado said. “Shouldn’t we wait until everyone is sleeping? These people are…” He lowered his voice as a pair of soldiers trod past twenty meters ahead. “These people are looking for trouble.”

  “Yes, but most of them are outside of the camp,” Amaranthe said. “If they’re still worried about the makarovi, Sergeant Yara will likely be inside.” Unless the soldiers left the enforcers behind when they decided to return en masse. She frowned at the thought. As aloof as Yara had been, she already knew about Amaranthe. It would be harder to stalk in and convince a stranger of her team’s deeds.