Basilard looked away. Sadness, or maybe guilt, lurked in his blue eyes.
Best to shift back to the problem. “But you decided to come here at one point, and you passed through the mountains and saw this river.”
Snared, Basilard signed.
“You were? By slavers?”
Yes.
“Ah, but you’re free now. Why not go home?”
Basilard hesitated, then shook his head.
“Nothing to return to? No family?”
Another head shake. He lifted his hands, hesitated, then tapped his chest and signed. Female.
“You have a wife?”
No. Dead. Small female.
“ Daughter? “ Books stared. When Basilard nodded, Books went on: “Why? Why wouldn’t you go back? How old is she?”
Basilard closed his eyes for a moment, and Books wondered how long he had been a slave. Had there been owners before Larocka? So much for the practice being outlawed in the empire.
Ten, Basilard signed. Yes, ten now.
“Don’t you want to see her again?” Thoughts of Enis flooded Books’s mind. What he wouldn’t give to see his son again… To live those fatal moments over and this time save Enis. How could Basilard not return to a daughter?
See her, yes, Basilard sighed. Her see me…no.
“Why?”
Basilard pointed to the sky, then to his scars, then shook his head sadly.
Books puzzled over his meaning. Basilard scrawled on the page: God requires peace.
Understanding dawned, and Books frowned, thinking of what the man must be going through. “Your people are pacifists, but you’ve killed.”
Basilard’s chin drooped to his chest.
“A lot.” Books raked his fingers through his hair, thinking of what he knew of the Mangdorian religion. Hell. They believed in an eternal hell for those who committed acts of violence. He wondered if Amaranthe knew Basilard’s story. He remembered how she had swayed Basilard to let them go from the cell in Larocka’s basement by seeming to read his persona and voicing his guilt. Had she guessed at some of Basilard’s torment even then? “You had to kill to survive, didn’t you? You had little choice.”
The pencil wrote: Always a choice.
“Death isn’t much of a choice.” Books grabbed the jug and took a deep swig, again missing the days of drinks stronger than apple juice. “You know, you could convert to the Turgonian ‘religion.’”
Basilard’s eyebrow twitched. Atheism?
“Absolutely. There’s no heaven, but there’s no hell either. It’s all about what you do in this life. Of course, a lot of folks still believe ancestor spirits float among us and are available for consultation. I’ve noticed these spirits tend to give the advice the living want to hear. Either way, it sounds better than having one’s soul condemned for eternity.”
Heathen, Basilard wrote.
Books chuckled and handed him the jug. “We’ve been called much worse by those we conquered. And traded with. And talked to. Are you sure you don’t want to return to your homeland?”
After a deep swig of his own, Basilard wrote, Perhaps someday. When we’ve…mattered. Better empire. No illegal slavery.
Books smiled. So Amaranthe had convinced him to become a crusader too.
Books showed Basilard the plat map, thinking he might prefer a distraction. “This is the lot that was on that sheet of paper that came from the dead woman’s body. It overlooks this river. Do you remember this land, by chance?”
Basilard lifted his eyes in thought. Trees, rocks, hills, snow.
“You just described the entire mountain range.”
Maybe goat.
“So, nothing distinctive there.” Books let his finger stray across the enormous plots of land. Though the topography map showed much of the area was steep and inaccessible, ore and lumber could mean a lot of wealth. Vonsha had not struck him as someone swathed in riches though. “You said trees. Was there a lot of timber up there?”
Basilard made a circle with his fingers.
“Small trees? New growth?”
A nod.
“So, it’s already been logged. That’s not surprising, since there’s a river and road running through the valley.”
Basilard pointed at the maps, at Books, and shrugged.
“You’re wondering if there’s a purpose to my rambling? Well, I’m trying to figure out what’s interesting about this land. Someone hired that appraiser we found in the aqueduct, then slit her throat after she delivered her information. Presumably there’s something to hide up there. Though-” Books fished out the original scrap of paper, “-while this seems like a lot of money to me, it’s not enough to imply there’s anything valuable on the land.”
Dead men? Gashes?
“Yes, I’m curious about the dead workers too. I have a feeling we’re going to end up taking a trip soon.”
Basilard yawned and pointed to his own sleeping area.
“I guess that’s enough research for tonight.” Books blew out the candles and lay down with a groan. He wondered if the others had found anything interesting in the gambling house.
• • • • •
For the seventh time, Amaranthe tried the door. For the seventh time, it did not move. She pried at the hinges, probed the ceiling, and peered into every corner of the unimaginative vault, but no escape options presented themselves. By now, it felt as if days had passed, though it had probably only been an hour.
She nibbled on a thumbnail and tried to tell herself she had no reason to worry. “Herself” did not listen, choosing instead to contemplate the worst.
Since this was not the money vault, no one would come in at the end of the night to deposit earnings. For all she knew, this contraption was only checked once a week. She had no food or water, and the air was probably limited. Worse, she had to pee.
She put her back to the door and studied the machine again. The chest-high contraption took up most of the space in the cramped vault. It clanked and whirred, oblivious to her presence. Maybe if she broke it, someone would sense a problem and come check on it. That would open the door, but it would also get her captured. Most likely by someone irritated she had busted the machine.
Still…
What other options did she have?
She pulled out her short sword and utility knife and debated whether finesse or brute force would be best for the task. Too bad she did not have a pistol. Or maybe not. She eyed the hard walls and pictured a pistol ball ricocheting everywhere.
Sword in hand, she stalked around the machine, searching for weaknesses. The glowing orb caught her eye. If it powered the machine, destroying it should halt everything. Of course, the orb might throw off some magical surge of energy that would electrocute her faster than a lightning bolt…
“Why do I get myself into these situations?” she muttered.
After taking a deep breath, she gripped the sword in both hands, raised her arms above her head, and slammed the tip into the orb.
Amaranthe expected it to shatter like glass or repel her blade like metal. Instead the sword sank in slowly, as if through dense mud, and the orb deflated, collapsing in on itself. The magical light faded, leaving her lantern as the only illumination. Machinery whined and ground to a halt. Silence filled the vault.
Until the alarm went off.
The sound, something between an alley cat’s yowl and a baby’s scream, reverberated from the walls and hammered Amaranthe’s eardrums. Footsteps pounded through the hallway overhead.
She sucked in her belly to slide past the machine, crouched behind it, and cut off the lantern. Scrapes sounded on the other side of the door. Amaranthe gripped her sword, though she hoped to hide and slip out during the confusion.
The door swung open. Keeping her head low, she peered around the corner of the machine. Light from the hallway silhouetted two figures and threw their shadows across the floor. Maybe she would get lucky and one would be Sicarius.