Dark Currents (23 page)

“Not really.”

The rain grew heavier, pattering on the tent roofs. Amaranthe hoped it kept the shaman from hearing her chitchat. She continued to pry at her bonds as she talked.

“Then why work way out here?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It seemed like a smart thing to do when they offered the job. I didn’t have any work in Stumps.”

“Dobb, quit your yammering and get back to work,” the bowman said.

The knot Amaranthe was working on loosened. Careful to keep her shoulders from moving too much, she untied it.

“Gonna be a big storm,” Dobb said. “Pit boss said to get the lanterns lit and bring tarps to cover the machinery.”

“Then you best do that,” the bowman said.

Amaranthe sat up straighter at the words “lanterns lit.” Dobb slipped into the tent, revealing crates and food sacks before the flap fell shut. When he came out, he carried a large folded tarp. A box of matches stuck out of his pocket.

“With your looks, you could be working as a female companion,” Amaranthe told him.

The tarp slipped from Dobb’s arms. “A what?”

“An escort for well-to-do women seeking handsome men to attend social events with them.” Amaranthe unwound the rope from her wrists.

Dobb stared at her. “You can get paid for that?”

The bowman stood. “Get back to work, Dobb.”

“Paid well,” Amaranthe said, eyes locked with the youth’s. “One of my comrades used to be in that business. Maybe I could have him arrange an introduction for you.”

“An introduction? Like to vouch for me?”

The bowman stalked over and grabbed Dobb’s arm. “I said, get to work.”

Dobb yanked his arm free. “You’re not the boss here.”

The bowman took him by the collar. “I’m in charge of the prisoner, stupid. Don’t let her talk you into—”

With her hands free, Amaranthe lunged to her feet. She yanked the match box from Dobb’s pocket, then sprinted around the bowman, kicking him in the back of the knee as she passed. He crumpled, grasping his leg. Dobb jumped backward to avoid him and fell through a tent wall.

Amaranthe threw open the lid to the crate and grabbed two blasting sticks.

“Get her!” the bowman yelled.

She tore open the box of matches, spilling them everywhere. She snatched one, swiped it against the crate, and lit the fuse.

“Idiot, don’t let her—”

Amaranthe tossed the stick into the center of camp as the shaman stepped out of his tent.

“What—” he started.

“Run!” The bowman crashed into him in his race to escape the camp.

Amaranthe snatched a handful of spilled matches and ran toward the mouth of the canyon. Ahead of her, dozens of men chiseled at the stone walls with pickaxes, and two ambulatory steam shovels belched smoke.

The explosion rocked the earth, its thunderous boom echoing from the walls.

The workers dropped their pickaxes and gaped in her direction. She veered toward one of the rock walls, hoping she could follow it to the mouth of the canyon before someone shot her.

“Get woman, or nobody get paid!” the shaman roared, voice muffled.

Amaranthe hoped a tent had fallen on him.

Despite his ultimatum, most of the workers scurried out of her way when she waved the remaining blasting stick. The closest steam shovel operator did not. He rotated his machine toward her, and it rolled forward on its huge treads.

She kept going, hoping she could outrun the steam shovel. She lifted the blasting stick in one hand and a match in the other so the operator could not miss her threat. Amaranthe did not want to blow anyone up, but she was not going to let him crush her beneath those treads either.

As she ran, rain blew sideways, stinging her eyes. More orders to stop her came from the remains of the camp.

The operator continued toward her, narrowing the gap between the machine and the wall. He must think the metal cab enclosing him would make him invincible to the blasting stick. Not likely, she thought grimly.

Amaranthe slowed down to swipe the match. She tried to light the fuse without stopping completely, but running made it difficult.

An arrow clattered on the rocks a half foot from her. No, she dared not stop. The match flame brushed the fuse. It smoldered but did not light. Too wet.

The steam shovel bore down on her. Another arrow skimmed past, stirring her hair. Her match went out.

“Cursed ancestors.” She gave up on lighting the fuse and pumped her legs faster.

Amaranthe hurled the unlit stick toward the smoke stack, thinking she might get lucky and it would drop inside and ignite. It bounced off the roof of the cab. The driver swung the long, extendable shovel at her. It scraped along the wall, sheering off rock as it veered toward her head.

She ducked low but did not slow down. Shards of rock thudded onto her shoulders and head, and warm blood trickled down the back of her neck, but she pressed on. The shovel was not agile enough to outmaneuver her. She escaped its reach and sprinted for the end of the canyon. Ten meters and she could run around a corner and disappear in the forest. She hoped.

A dark figure stepped from around that corner, rifle raised.

At first, she saw only that weapon trained her direction. It fired, billowing smoke into the soggy air. Sicarius.

A cry sounded behind her. The driver tumbled from the cab, a pistol flying from his fingers. It fired when it hit the ground.

Relief washed over Amaranthe, both at seeing Sicarius alive and at his action. That weapon had surely been aimed at her back.

The driverless steam shovel crashed into the wall.

Amaranthe sprinted around the corner, slapping Sicarius on the shoulder. She wanted to wrap him in a great hug, but there was no time. They needed to put distance between themselves and the shaman.

She ran several steps before realizing Sicarius was not following. Thinking he had paused to reload, she whirled to tell him to do it later. He was not there.

One of the rifles, the one he had fired already, leaned against the rock face where he had been standing. Amaranthe backtracked and peeked around the corner.

Sicarius stood, the second rifle raised, using the crashed vehicle for cover.

Before she could decide whether to join him or yell at him to get out of there, he fired. The steam shovel blocked her view, and she did not see what—who—he hit, but she could guess.

“The shaman?”

“Yes.” Sicarius jogged past her without slowing. “They’re gathering weapons.”

Amaranthe grabbed her rifle and chased after him.

“He knew you were out here,” she said when they reached the trees.

He slowed so she could run beside him.

“He knew your name and your history with Mangdoria,” Amaranthe went on. “I think he told someone. Someone who speaks Mangdorian. If it’s Ellaya, well, she’s already irked with me for destroying her gizmo-making machine. She’ll want us extra dead now. Me anyway.”

“I’ll kill her when we get back.”

Amaranthe missed a step. His cold, blunt efficiency should not surprise her by now, but sometimes, when he was acting more…human than others, she could forget about it. “She didn’t actually seem to loathe you, not the way this man did. Maybe I can talk with her, convince her she doesn’t want to be our enemy.”

“Doubtful.”

“You’re in a dour mood. Is it because I almost got you blown up?” She eyed him as they jogged between the trees, mud splattering with each footfall. With his black attire, it was hard to spot blood, but he appeared unharmed. “I am sorry about that, but…” She started to make an excuse, to explain that it was the shaman sensing him that had caused trouble, but it had been her scheme to go down and talk to him in the first place. “I’m sorry. How did you escape?”

“They weren’t as stealthy as they thought. I’d moved before they threw the blasting stick.”

“Good. I’d feel—” utterly and irrevocably devastated, she thought, “—a little upset if I got you killed.”

He slanted her a flat look. “You should.”

Thunder boomed through the valley, and the rain picked up.

“I found out some new information at least.” More about him than the mystery, but her mind did not want to process that yet. Safer to think about the land and the water plot. The pieces of that puzzle floated on the periphery of her mind, and she felt close to drawing them together into a cohesive picture.

Her comment only made Sicarius’s expression harder, and she wished she had said nothing about his history with Mangdoria.

•  •  •  •  •

Books fought back a yawn. He shifted in his hard chair and turned his gaze from the crackling fireplace toward the log bed—and its soft, inviting quilts. He had the room to himself and the opportunity to enjoy a serene night of sleep. Too bad that was not the plan.

A thump occasionally sounded downstairs, audible over the rain pelting the roof. Someone in the household remained awake. In another hour, he might be able to leave his room to investigate. Amaranthe would call it snooping.

He wanted to accept Vonsha’s explanations as truth, but Maldynado was right: she had shown them no evidence to justify a trek through the pass.

His chin drooped. He dozed until his own snores woke him.

The fire burned lower. Books listened but heard no footsteps, no bumping about, only wind buffeting the walls.

He stood and removed his boots, not trusting his ability to walk stealthily in the clunky footwear. He padded to the door in his socks. A floorboard creaked like a howling coyote.

“Oh, yes, this will work,” he grumbled.

Books slipped into the hallway. And stopped. Where should he go to snoop? Rambling through the sprawling house, hoping to find some sign of nefarious plots, seemed unlikely to deliver results. Would Vonsha have her notes in her room? He shied away from the idea of sneaking into her bed chamber. He remembered passing a study on the bottom floor. Maybe Lord Spearcrest kept information about the property there. That might be a place to start.

No sooner had he started down the hallway when a door ahead opened.

Books halted, not sure whether he should flee back to his room or concoct some excuse for wandering.

Vonsha stepped out, a lacy nightgown swirling about her calves. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders in brown waves, almost hiding the bandage on her neck. The thoughts spinning through Books’s head ground to a halt, and he could only stare.

“Books?” she asked. “Were you going somewhere?”

“I…wanted to talk to you.” Not exactly, but maybe he could obtain his information from her. He would have to take charge of the question-asking though. No sitting close and smelling her perfume and definitely no gazing at the bare flesh revealed by that sleeveless, low-cut nightgown.

“Talk?” Vonsha asked. “I don’t usually ‘talk’ to men in my bedroom while I’m at my parents’ house, but I guess I’m too old for them to chastise about such things now.”

“I—uhm.” Books swallowed.

She took his hand and led him into the room. The only thing he noticed inside was the bed and how its sheets were already turned down.

Vonsha stepped close, her chest brushing his torso. “Are you always shy and awkward, or do I make you nervous?”

“Oh, I’m
always
awkward, but yes to the latter.” Of course, some of that nervousness was due to the fact that he was supposed to be investigating. If he didn’t feel obligated to research the place, he would—

She stood on her tiptoes, and the floral scent of her perfume teased his nostrils. Her lips brushed his, warm and inviting.

He slid his arms around her waist and forgot about research, and about being shy as well.

•  •  •  •  •

Rain hammered the top of Amaranthe’s head, while wind whipped branches into her eyes. Daylight had vanished from the valley. She stumbled along behind Sicarius, stretching out a hand every few moments to make sure he still walked in front of her. Soaked clothing stuck to her body, chafing and rubbing skin raw. A tree snapped and crashed to the ground behind them.

“Where are we going?” Amaranthe yelled to be heard over the wind.

“The cabin,” Sicarius said.

“We need to get back to the lorry and over to the Spearcrests. The shaman knew about the family, so I think it might have been a mistake sending Books and Maldynado there.”

“Not tonight.”

Lightning flashed. For a moment, trees and branches stood out, stark and cold in the white brilliance. Seconds later, thunder rumbled, a great peal that rang in Amaranthe’s ears. Up here, surrounded by mountains, the storm seemed louder, rawer, and more dangerous than any she remembered from the city.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I may have sent them into a trap. We have to warn them.”

Sicarius spun about even as lightning flashed again, highlighting his wet blond hair and the hard angles of his face. “It’s foolish to stay out in this. Going—”

Thunder drowned out the rest of his words, but she got the gist. Going down that trail in the dark would be treacherous. She knew it in her head; her heart was what objected.

Amaranthe was about to nod and wave Sicarius onward, when the hair on her arms stood on end. Her skin tingled, as if ants crawled all over her.

“Down!” Sicarius dropped, pulling her with him.

She tucked her head under her hands, burying her face in the ground. The sharp earthy scent of mud flooded her nostrils.

Lightning struck, and a boom hammered her ears.

The air stank of charred wood. A tree groaned, then cracked like rifle fire. Branches snapped. She wasn’t sure whether to look up or keep her head buried.

Something—Sicarius’s arm?—snaked around her waist, tearing her from her huddle.

Mud and trees blurred before her eyes as she was yanked several feet. She landed hard on her rump, her back thudding into Sicarius.

The trunk of a massive tree smashed to the ground where she had lain. Eyes wide, chest heaving for breath, she gaped for several long seconds. Sicarius held her, arm wrapped around her waist.

“Are you injured?” he asked.

Amaranthe waved her hand in dismissal, not trusting her voice.