Dark Currents

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Still plenty in the camp,” Sicarius said.

  True. Several men stood guard at points around the perimeter, while others dug latrines, shoveled coal for the steam vehicles, and performed other tasks they had probably not anticipated when they enlisted. A couple of soldiers stood outside the tent Sergeant Yara had occupied the last time Sicarius dragged her out to talk. A flag proclaimed it had been turned into headquarters.

  “We’ll have to create a distraction.” Amaranthe considered Maldynado.

  “I’m always happy to be distracting,” he said, “though it’s usually the ladies who are likely to stop and ogle. What if we get in a tussle with these boys? How do you want us to defend ourselves?”

  “We can’t kill anybody,” Amaranthe said. “All the work we’ve done out here will mean nothing if we kill a single soldier. They won’t believe anything we say.”

  “Don’t we have that problem anyway?” Akstyr asked. “Nobody is left alive who saw us in the dam.”

  “That’s right,” Maldynado said. “As far as the soldiers know, they can credit this to some anonymous good-deed-doer.”

  “That licks donkey crotch,” Akstyr said.

  “Relax, gentlemen,” Amaranthe said. “I intend to make sure we get credit and find out where Books is located.”

  She waited, anticipating more of an argument. Surely, they would realize she had nothing with which to back up her promise. Sicarius, especially, would know she had not won over Sergeant Yara. Even if Amaranthe could convince her their story was true, having a rural, female enforcer on their side was hardly the fast route to a pardon. Yara would have little power or sway outside her precinct and perhaps not much more inside.

  “All right, boss,” Maldynado said. “We trust you. What’s this distraction you want?”

  Amaranthe smiled bleakly. Skepticism would have been easier to deal with. Instead the mantel of expectation weighed upon her shoulders.

  “We could grab a couple men,” Maldynado said when she did not answer right away. “Knock ‘em out, steal their clothes, and walk in, pretending we’re soldiers.”

  “They have a challenge and password system to prevent that,” Sicarius said.

  Akstyr snorted. “Even gangs aren’t moronic enough that they wouldn’t recognize their own people.”

  “Well, it’s dark,” Maldynado said.

  Amaranthe was only half-listening to them. To one side of the camp, partially visible through the trees, the trampers and lorries idled. A soldier opened a furnace door and shoveled coal inside. Someone must fear the company would need a quick escape.

  “Couldn’t we thump the password out of someone when we’re stealing his clothes?” Maldynado said.

  “Depends how much damage you want done,” Sicarius said. “Soldiers are trained to resist torture.”

  “Maldynado really wants to take someone’s clothes off,” Akstyr said. “Maybe he prefers men.”

  Maldynado sniffed. “If I do, your homeliness will save you from ever knowing.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Let’s go with my idea,” Amaranthe said, watching the soldier close the grate and move onto the next vehicle in the line. “Maldynado, Basilard, and Akstyr, it’s been a while since you stole someone’s vehicle. Are you interested in reacquainting yourselves with that hobby?” She leaned, trying to find Basilard in the shadows. His inability to talk made it difficult to communicate with him in the dark. He touched her shoulder. She hoped that was an affirmative.

  “You want us to march into this camp full of well-armed men,” Maldynado said, “jump into their vehicles, race off chaotically, and lead a posse of soldiers on a crazy chase?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Problem?” It seemed like the type of ludicrous sport someone who had ridden a printing press down an icy hill would appreciate.

  “Nope,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Just wanted to make sure I got the order right.”

  “Keep them busy, and meet us up the road, where we left our lorry, when you’re done. If it’s guarded, stay hidden. We’ll find you.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “And don’t get caught this time, please,” Amaranthe said. “I don’t know where the closest jail is.”

  Maldynado thumped Akstyr on the back as the three men slipped away. “This’ll be fun.”

  Amaranthe hoped they were careful. Soldiers would be harder to rattle than enforcers.

  She shook away the worry. She needed to focus on her part of the mission.

  “Think the sergeant has been good enough to locate herself in the same tent?” she asked Sicarius. “It had a lovely water view.”

  “A primary tactical consideration.”

  “Let’s get closer.”

  Before they had gone far, two lights appeared behind them—soldiers approaching. Amaranthe stepped around a tree, hoping it would be enough to hide her. She dared not dive for cover, not when her wounds might make her cry out. Sicarius eased in front of her, guarding her. By night, his black clothing helped him blend in.

  The soldiers drew even with the tree. One glanced toward Amaranthe and Sicarius, and she held her breath.

  “Halt.” A man stepped from behind a tree several paces ahead. A rifle, the barrel wet from the rain, gleamed in his hands. His appearance drew the other two soldiers’ attention. “The coyote cries.”

  “By night’s full moon,” one of the soldiers responded. “Archton and Bedloe. Dog Platoon.”

  “Pass.”

  After the soldiers went into camp, Sicarius whispered, “Stay here. I’ll nullify the sentries. They’ll be less alert now than when the commotion starts.”

  Amaranthe kept herself from reminding him to choose a non-lethal nullification method. He knew what she wanted by now, and he was probably tired of her nagging.

  After he disappeared, she slumped against the tree, a hand to her belly. Her scabs had flexed and torn as they walked, and she knew she was bleeding beneath the bandages. She shivered, too, and it was not that cold. She touched her forehead and tried to decide if it felt feverish. Sicarius never should have said anything about the infection. It would prey on her mind now. Either way, she feared she would be useless in a physical encounter and might prove a liability for the men. If not for Books, and her growing fear that she needed magical aid, she would be inclined to leave the shaman for someone else to confront. Though maybe that was still a possibility. She scratched her jaw. Those soldiers might be disappointed if they came all the way up the mountain for nothing.

  “Look out!” someone shouted on the other side of the camp. Surprised curses followed. “They’re taking the lorry!”

  “Stop them!”

  “Go get—” Steam brakes squealed. “Look out!”

  Amaranthe allowed herself a small grin. A tent went down amongst snapping poles and shouts of fury. If Maldynado had a skill beyond charming women, it had to be crafting mayhem.

  Sicarius appeared a few feet in front of Amaranthe, limned by torchlight. He strode toward her and offered an arm.

  “That’s not your usual entrance.” She shifted her weight from the tree to him. “You usually sneak up so softly I don’t know you’re there until you startle me into jumping.”

  “I didn’t want you to aggravate your injuries.” He guided her toward the back of the command tent.

  “That’s considerate.”

  “Yes.”

  She almost laughed. It was as if he wanted her to know he was going out of his way to be thoughtful.

  They stepped around a pair of gagged and unconscious men tied to a tree. Two officers and a woman—Sergeant Yara—were standing in front of the tent, gesturing expansively. The noise from the vehicles and the shouts about camp made it impossible to hear the discussion.

  Another tent went down. Someone fired at the cab of a second stolen lorry, and metal clanged like a bell.

  Maldynado, or maybe Akstyr was driving that one, veered out of camp and up the road, though not before flattening several crates of supp
lies.

  “Are you sure killing them wouldn’t have annoyed them less?” Sicarius asked.

  “Not entirely, no.”

  Sergeant Yara took a step toward the chaos, as if she meant to lead the pursuit herself.

  One of the officers stopped her with an outstretched hand. “I’ll take care of it. You stay here.”

  “That’s one of our vehicles,” Yara said. “I can help.”

  “It’s too dangerous for a woman.”

  “I doubt the makarovi are the ones stealing our vehicles.”

  “You shouldn’t even be up here,” the officer said. “Stay with Lieutenant Berkvar. Sergeant Betlor’s team should report in soon. Keep updating the map.” He jogged away.

  Amaranthe squeezed Sicarius’s arm. This was probably the closest they would get to finding the sergeant alone. He left her to slip around the tent. Amaranthe moved around the opposite side, carefully choosing her steps through the churned mud.

  “Too dangerous for a woman,” Yara grumbled. “I’m tired of hearing that. Do I look frail and incapable, LT?”

  Sicarius chose that moment to grab the lieutenant in a headlock, his arm snaking around the man’s throat, cutting off air. He dragged the officer behind the tent.

  Yara ripped a sword free, but Amaranthe closed in and poked her in the back with stiff fingers to mimic a pistol. Since her men were trashing the camp, she decided pulling an actual weapon would not help matters.

  Yara glanced over her shoulder. “You!” Disgust curled her lip. Sicarius returned to the front of the tent, and she added, “And you!”

  “Us,” Amaranthe agreed. “Inside, please.”

  Not sure if others awaited within, she nudged Yara, encouraging her to lead the way. Fortunately, only cots and a map-strewn table occupied the tent.

  “Sit, please.” Amaranthe pointed to a cot. “I need to talk, and it’d be appreciated if you’d listen.”

  “What polite outlaws.” Yara pulled away from Amaranthe and spun, hand hovering near her sword.

  Sicarius appeared at the sergeant’s side. He did not draw a weapon, but his presence convinced Yara to lower her hands. She did not sit down.

  Amaranthe nodded for Sicarius to guard the entrance, then met Yara’s eyes and launched into her spiel. “We weren’t fast enough to save the soldiers, but we got the makarovi out of the dam and over the falls. You may be able to verify that if some of the corpses get washed up on the shore downriver with, er, interestingly placed puncture wounds, as if from a giant hook.”

  Skepticism twisted Yara’s face, but Amaranthe hurried on before she could interrupt. “Also, my man, Books—Marl Mugdildor—single-handedly deactivated the contraption tainting the water. He’s a good person who doesn’t deserve a bounty on his head. I doubt the device left inside the dam on the pipe will be trouble without the main artifact, but, with the makarovi gone, it should be easier to destroy now. Books saved the city a lot of trouble. He deserves a pardon. And, if you’re later able to gather evidence that corroborates our story, we would appreciate it if you would inform any of your superiors or co-workers who might listen. Since the emperor is aware of you, a note sent to his office would also be appreciated.”

  “Oh, really?” Yara jammed her fists against her hips. “Perhaps I could arrange a parade for you as well. Or commission a statue that we could put on display at the entrance to the pass? No, better, a giant carving of your team’s faces in the side of the mountain. How would that be?”

  Amaranthe almost quipped that Maldynado would love Yara forever if she could arrange the mountain carving, but she suspected they did not have much time before someone returned to the tent.

  “We need to know where the shaman’s hideout is,” she said. “He has Books.”

  Her lack of response to the sarcastic tirade deflated the sergeant. Yara’s hands lowered, though she still glowered.

  “Please,” Amaranthe said. “If you hate me and you hate Sicarius, fine, but Books has done nothing to harm the enforcers or the empire. The only one with reason to hate him is the one holding him prisoner, doing ancestors only know what to him. Books risked his life to destroy that artifact. To help the city and make your job easier.”

  Yara sighed. “The northern-most of the abandoned Kaker Mines. Base of the mountains.”

  “Thank you.” Amaranthe nodded. Time to play her last tile. “The shaman’s artifact is destroyed, but he’s not done attacking the city. He believes the empire responsible for the slaying of the Mangdorian royal family years ago, and he’ll not stop until he’s exacted revenge.” She could not yet know how much of that was true, but she had to worry the soldiers if she wanted them to help.

  “We didn’t have anything to do with that.” Yara frowned at Amaranthe, then considered Sicarius, and her frown deepened. “Did we?”

  Amaranthe had not meant to implicate Sicarius, and she had to smother a wince at the quickness with which Yara put together the pieces. She imagined his eyes boring into the back of her head. Oh, well. It was not as if he could have stuffed this secret back into the Imperial Intelligence files to lock it away; too many people already knew.

  “It’s what the Mangdorians believe,” Amaranthe said. “That’s all that matters. If I were you, I’d make sure these soldiers get to those mines before it’s too late.”

  “If you were me,” Yara said, “you never would have betrayed the city and killed your co-workers.”

  Amaranthe gritted her teeth. She wanted to issue a biting retort, but if there was any hope whatsoever of Yara acting on these words, Amaranthe dared not irritate her more. “Don’t make the mistakes I did then. Warn the soldiers. Protect the city.”

  She strode out, trusting Sicarius to guard her back.

  CHAPTER 22

  Books woke with a gasp, escaping some nightmare where he was falling—and suffocating. He lay on his back with cold darkness enveloping him. He blinked, trying to make out shapes, but his eyes failed to penetrate the blackness.

  Memories hiccupped into his thoughts: the lake, the shaman, the artifact. He was alive, but was he truly in the dark or had he gone blind? Fear chilled him further. Maybe he had worked in the artifact’s blaze for too long.

  “Easy,” he told himself. No panicking. Especially considering the numbness that had taken over his body in the lake was gone. “Definitely a positive development,” he muttered.

  Either the shaman had healed him or the effects had worn off. The details did not matter. Figuring out where he was and getting back to the others—that mattered.

  Cold seeped into his back from a rough, uneven floor. Stone. He rolled to his knees and landed in a puddle. A quick pat-down informed him the helmet and his tools were gone, though he still wore the diving suit.

  He explored further. On three sides, dirt and rock walls rose to meet a low dirt and rock ceiling. Faint reverberations coursed through the stone, as if machinery labored somewhere in his underground prison. A different texture comprised the fourth wall of what he realized was his cell. Smooth and hard, it sent a buzz up his arm when he touched it. When he pressed harder, a stronger buzz coursed through him, making his hair stand on end. It reminded him of the power he had felt when he broke the artifact, and he decided not to risk hurling himself at it.

  Books swept his foot along the floor, hoping to find something that could suffice as a latrine. No luck. A rusty bolt clattered across the ground. He found a few more scraps, but nothing larger than a hand-length scrap of twisted iron. It had a sharp edge, and he might have used it to file his way free if his captor had been considerate enough to put him in a cell with an iron gate instead of a magical barrier. He kept it on the chance the shaman might be foolish enough to come inside.

  He pulled the top half of the diving suit down and was surprised when his movements did not bring pain. He pushed a sleeve up to check his wound. No fish tooth marks violated the flesh of his arm. The shaman had healed him. To what ends?

  Books pushed the suit lower so he could relieve hi
mself. At that moment, footsteps sounded to his left. A familiar white globe of light floated into view, illuminating a rough-hewn tunnel running past his cell. A rusty ore cart rail bisected the center of the passage.

  He started to clamp things off, but a defiant thought curled his lip. Let the bastard find Books peeing on the floor of his hideout.

  “What do you want me to do?” a female voice asked. Books’s eyes bulged. A familiar female voice.

  “Just identify him.”

  Two figures strode into sight behind the light globe. Books fumbled, hurrying to button himself in, though he feared she had already seen him in action. Heat flamed his cheeks. Why did these things happen to him? No villain would presume to walk in on Sicarius while he was peeing.

  Vonsha and the shaman stopped before Books’s cell. She wore a dagger at her belt and carried a lantern. Her stance said “not a prisoner,” though it stung him to admit it. She did seem surprised to see him, so maybe she was not in on the larger scheme.

  Something skittered along the floor behind them, a silver spider-shaped creature the size of a fist. A coin-sized circle on its front glowed red. As the spider passed below the shaman’s light, Books realized it was not a creature at all. The tiny “legs” moved mechanically, and metal, not skin, comprised the carapace. It disappeared into the darkness, heading deeper into the tunnel. Neither person facing Books reacted to it.

  “You recognize him?” the shaman asked. His green eyes were calm instead of raging today. Lines creased the corners of those eyes, making him older than Books had first guessed. Fifty or sixty perhaps. Old enough to have mastered his craft.

  Vonsha hesitated before answering. “He’s one of the party that came through the pass.”

  She knew more than that. Was she protecting him? Maybe she truly liked him. But the fact that she was here with an enemy of the empire…