“Ten ranmyas says they get caught in the next ten minutes, and these outlaws get shot,” one said.
“I’m not taking that bet,” the other said. “That’s a foregone event. The real question is whether Lord Mancrest will give his son a spanking when he finds him out of his cage.”
The two men shared snickers. Maldynado was leaning against one of numerous crates he’d shoved in front of the door, wiping sweat from his brow. “We’re not getting caught,” he told the prisoners. “But if we did, I’d pay a lot more than ten ranmyas to see Deret spanked.”
“Maldynado,” Amaranthe said, causing him to start.
“I was taking a break. A quick one. I swear. Look at all I did.” He flung his arms wide to highlight the size of the stack he’d piled up.
“You and your prisoners aren’t in trouble.” Amaranthe smiled at the tied men, figuring it couldn’t hurt to start talking to them if she hoped to draw them to her side later. “But I need help.” She picked up one of the jars of ink and nodded for Maldynado to grab the other.
“I’d rather see her spanked,” one of the prisoners said as she moved away.
His cohort guffawed. “I’d pay fifty ranmyas for that.”
Maldynado snickered. Amaranthe raised an eyebrow at him.
“Sorry,” he said, “I could thump them around so they couldn’t say such things, but you mentioned winning them over. I thought that might be easier if we didn’t mash up their faces or perforate any important organs.”
“Thoughtful of you.” Given that spanking comment, she wouldn’t mind some light thumping, but she decided she shouldn’t encourage brutality.
When they reached the wall, Deret was still pushing boxes aside. Amaranthe and Maldynado deposited their loads and went to retrieve more jars of ink. By the time they’d made their last trip, Deret had cleared the area. He stopped to mop sweat from his face and eye the semicircle of giant jars.
“You think the storm tunnel is on the other side?” Maldynado waved to the outline on the wall.
Amaranthe pictured the street, the tunnel, and their location within the building in her mind. “I’d guess ten or twelve feet away.”
“What if this side stub is bricked in all the way?”
“Let’s hope it’s not.”
A resonating bang came from the stairway. Huh, the soldiers might have gotten a battering ram into the stairwell after all.
“Deret, printing press ink is flammable, right?” Amaranthe had better make sure she had her facts right before she started making fuses.
“Yes. It’s made of soot, walnut oil, and turpentine. When we run the presses, we have to be careful not to let the bearings on the rollers overheat or…” Deret’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
Maldynado laughed. “The more pertinent question, old boy, is which one of us will get blamed when she blows up your father’s building?”
Deret looked back and forth from the bottles of ink to the brick wall. “Oh.”
Maldynado elbowed Amaranthe. “He’s volunteering.”
“Really?” Amaranthe asked. “I didn’t get that.”
“It was inherent in the lack of a strenuous objection. Please note, I am objecting. Strenuously.”
“We can face the soldiers if you wish, Deret,” Amaranthe said, though she fervently hoped he did not wish-especially if someone had run off to fetch the elder Lord Mancrest and if Mrs. Worgavic was still with him. She was the last person to whom Amaranthe wanted to reveal her presence.
Still eyeing the ink, Deret rubbed his jaw. She shifted from foot to foot, but didn’t rush him, though the banging at the door surely made her wish to do so.
“No,” Deret finally said. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m done arguing with my father-and those Marblecrest lackeys.” He scowled at Maldynado.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Maldynado prodded his thumb to his chest. “I’m disowned, remember? And when Ravido finds out I was present-though not, I assure you, responsible-for his wife’s death, I’ll be lucky if I’m not dismembered.”
“Mari’s dead?” Deret gaped at him, then turned the gape onto Amaranthe.
“I’m not responsible either,” Amaranthe said. “I was busy being tortured by Hollowcrest’s former master interrogator at the time.”
“What?” Deret continued to gape, though his gaze shifted back to Maldynado, as if to check if this were a joke. Maldynado shook his head solemnly. Deret swallowed, pity entering his eyes.
Amaranthe hadn’t wanted that. She’d just meant to-bloody ancestors, she shouldn’t have brought it up at all. They needed to get out of here.
“It seems we have much information we should exchange with each other,” Deret said.
Glad he was ready to drop the conversation too, Amaranthe managed a smile. “That’s why we came looking for you.”
“And here I thought it was because you’d grown weary of the company of that assassin and sought emotionally stimulating conversations.” Deret picked up one of the jars of ink.
Amaranthe tried to read whether there was hurt lacing his flippant words-and whether that hurt might be a problem. She thought the humor reached his eyes, but she couldn’t be sure.
Deret must have understood her uncertain silence, for he patted her arm and said, “I’m teasing. I’m actually seeing a nice girl-or I was until Father detained me.” He growled and set the jar down by the wall.
Amaranthe told herself that it was good that he’d found someone else, though a silly part of her felt stung that he’d so quickly dismissed her and fallen for another. Come on, girl, she thought, you’re not some spell-bindingly alluring maiden from the stories of eld, the kind soldiers pined over for decades while they were away at war. So long as one certain man didn’t dismiss her, that was all that mattered.
Deret pushed the other jars toward the wall. “You two stand back a bit. I’ll handle this. I’ve inadvertently started enough fires with the presses that I’m practically an expert.”
Maldynado pumped a fist. “Yes.”
Amaranthe cocked her head at him.
“He is volunteering to take the blame.”
Deret snorted and waved for them to back away. “Turpentine is noxious stuff. You don’t want to inhale any more than is necessary.”
“You be careful, too, then. Especially if there’s a new lady worrying about you right now.” Amaranthe pushed Maldynado toward the blocked door. “Let’s get your rowdy friends.”
The two prisoners had been attempting to free each other. One clenched half of a broken pair of scissors in his mouth and was trying to saw the rusty blade across his comrade’s wrist bonds. Amaranthe doubted they’d free each other within the hour-or month-that way, but she removed the tool from the man’s mouth anyway.
“Sorry, gentlemen, but we’re taking a walk.” She nodded for Maldynado to hoist the bigger man to his feet. “You’ll have to try to escape later.”
Amaranthe had no more than helped the second fellow to stand-her pistol nudging his back to encourage alacrity-when an explosion roared through the basement. The ground bucked, and she staggered, catching her balance on a press. Crates and machinery crashed to the floor. The wooden ceiling trembled and groaned. She eyed the old boards through the clouds of dust that arose, choking the little lamplight they had. Maybe setting off an explosion in the basement of a centuries-old building wasn’t a good idea after all.
The noise in the stairwell disappeared. The creaks from the presses on the floor above sounded loud in the new quiet, one broken only by soft wheezing coughs and dirt and debris trickling from the ceiling, or perhaps that brick wall.
Still pushing her prisoner, Amaranthe continued in that direction. “Deret? Are you all right?”
The noxious odor he’d promised clogged the air, a charred burnt smell with a piny underpinning. It stung her throat and eyes, bringing on tears. Her prisoner balked, but she prodded him onward. At the same time, she tugged her shirt up over her mouth and nose.