Books slipped his hand beneath his jacket and touched the hilt of his dagger for reassurance.
“…back here?” someone whispered.
“…the light.”
Vonsha’s eyes widened. Books held a finger to his lips and pushed his chair back silently. He folded the Irator’s Tooth Valley map and another of the surrounding mountains, then slipped both into his satchel. Vonsha opened her mouth, as if she might object, but a scuffle in a nearby aisle stopped her.
Books backed away from the table, crooking his finger for her to follow. After a brief hesitation, she eased out of her chair. The back of it bumped against a bookshelf.
“You hear something?” one of the voices whispered.
“This way.”
Hesitation gone, Vonsha rushed to join Books in the shadows. He drew her back into an aisle in the opposite direction from the voices and found a spot where they could peer over the tops of books between shelves and glimpse the table.
A man with a scruffy beard and scruffier clothing shambled into view. Bulges beneath his coat at waist-level may have represented weapons. He eyed the table, glanced around, then shuffled back the way he had come.
“Homeless?” Vonsha whispered.
“What would a homeless man hope to find in the real estate library?” Books whispered back.
“Maybe he’s looking for retirement property in the mountains.”
The shadows hid her face, but Books had no trouble deciphering the teasing in regards to his weak cover story.
“I sense you’re a sharp lady,” he said.
“I teach young people. When it comes to lies, I’ve developed a knack for shifting through people’s slag piles to find the nuggets of ore.”
“You teach?” Delight at finding a kindred soul infused his tone, and he had to force himself to lower his voice. After all, they were being stalked by someone. “I taught history for more than fifteen years at Bartok,” he whispered. “Do you-”
A clatter stilled his tongue. An unmarked tin can had landed on the table. It rolled toward the edge, a lit fuse sticking out of one end.
“Back, back!” Books grabbed Vonsha and pulled her down the aisle.
An explosion roared. Wood shattered, and shelves toppled into aisles, hurling their contents. Something sharp struck Books’s temple, and heavy tomes pelted him from all sides. The book cases framing his aisle wobbled and tilted inward, cracking together. He ducked. They met over his head, forming an A. Certain one would collapse, burying Vonsha and him beneath it, Books hustled faster. Still pulling her, he lunged out of the aisle and planted a hand on the brick wall at the end.
She slumped into his arms.
“Vonsha?” he asked.
Blood saturated the front of her shirt and dripped from a shard of wood embedded in her neck. Closer to her collarbone than her throat, it did not appear to have hit the jugular, but he hesitated to pull it out, fearing that would make the injury worse.
Light-no, flames-grew behind them. Fire.
The light revealed movement, someone stepping out of an aisle farther down the wall. The figure, a young man in ill-fitting clothing, lifted a crossbow and aimed for Books’s chest.
“Sicarius!” Books blurted. “Would you take care of this bloke?”
The crossbowman spun to look behind him. Too bad Sicarius was not truly there.
Unable to move quickly or draw his knife without dropping Vonsha, Books shuffled toward the aisle they had exited, hoping his ruse would buy them time. The shelves chose that second to collapse, barring the route.
Even with wood crackling nearby, Books heard the twang of the crossbow bolt firing. He ducked his head, and turned his shoulder. The bolt flew high.
Books set Vonsha down, prepared to attack the archer, but he halted. The rumpled man dropped the weapon. Eyes wide, face frozen in a rictus of pain, he went down.
Sicarius stood above him, his black dagger dripping blood. Books gaped, surprised his summons had worked. A hint of annoyance hardened Sicarius’s dark eyes, and Books imagined him thinking, I can’t leave for five minutes without you getting into trouble…
“There are others,” Sicarius said. “Get out.”
“Out is good.” Books reached for Vonsha, intending to sling her over his shoulder.
“Leave her.”
“No.”
Books lifted Vonsha without waiting to argue. He turned his back on Sicarius and followed the outer wall, figuring the aisles were too dangerous. Numerous sets of shelves had toppled, and flames burned in several rows as well as on the ceiling, which was charred from the explosion. Heat rolled from the growing fire, warming Books’s cheeks and forehead.
Behind him, someone screamed. It ended abruptly.
With the corner closest to the front door in sight, Books broke into a jog. He rounded it and almost crashed into the homeless man-and the pistol in his grip.
Hands busy holding Vonsha, Books jumped to the side and lashed out with a kick. His shoulder rammed the wall, but his boot found its target. The pistol flew from the man’s grip. Books shoved him into the wall and ran past. He only wanted to get out of the building with Vonsha, not start a fight. Besides, Sicarius could handle that more proficiently.
No one else blocked his route on the way to the front door, but a steam horn pierced the air in the street outside. Someone must have heard the explosion and reported it.
He paused at the threshold, juggling Vonsha so he could free a hand to open the door. He peered outside. Two steam wagons painted with enforcer red and silver chugged to a stop in front of the building.
Books wavered. As far as he knew, he had no bounty on his head, but the enforcers might know he worked with questionable types by now. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting Sicarius to be behind him. Someone was there, yes, but it was not Sicarius.
A spiked club whistled toward his eyes. Books ducked, but not quickly enough. The club glanced off the top of his head, and pain erupted in his skull.
He stumbled back, losing his grip on Vonsha. She hit the ground and moaned.
Books’s attacker, another man who looked as if he had come off the streets, swiped at him again. Dodging, Books reached for his dagger. Blood dripped in his eyes, and numbness made pulling the weapon out harder than it should have been.
Shouts came from outside along with footsteps pounding up stairs. Books cursed and ducked another wild swing. The man had the finesse of a steamroller, but it was all he needed. Dizziness gripped Books, and his limbs were not moving quickly enough. He swiped blood out of his eyes and almost cut himself with his own knife.
“Not thinking,” he muttered. “Not-”
The man hefted the club overhead, and Books stumbled back, not sure he could evade the blow this time.
The door flew open. Books’s attacker froze, then whirled, charging them.
“Enforcers! Halt!”
A crossbow twanged.
Someone grabbed Books’s arm from behind. He tried to spin and pull away. It was Sicarius.
“Stairs,” he barked.
“But Vonsha-” Books slurred.
“They have her.” Sicarius yanked on Books’s arm, dragging him forward.
He stumbled up the stairs after Sicarius, and they escaped through a window. He slipped, trying to climb down, and landed hard on his back. Sicarius yanked him to his feet. Blackness flirted with Books’s consciousness, and the rest of the retreat faded to a blur.
CHAPTER 6
A maranthe leaned against the side of a headless statue, one of thousands in the capital that gave it the dubious nickname of “Stumps.” She wore the hood of her parka pulled low over her eyes while she watched the busy street.
Though evening had fallen hours earlier, people clogged the sidewalks. Numerous drunk men meandered onto the cobblestones where they provided ambulatory obstacles for bicyclists and the occasional steam carriage. Gambling houses, sport venues, and drinking and eating houses packed the neighborhood. Many of the male passersby wore the lush, vibrant clothing-and gold-gilded swords-of the warrior caste, but just as many had the miens of off-duty soldiers. More than one black-clad figure wearing weapons strode past, and Amaranthe did a few double glances, thinking one might be Sicarius. But, despite his disinterest in disguises, he had a knack for invisibility, and he would likely find her first.