Maldynado cleared his throat. “I notice we’re not moving. Won’t that be required? To enact either of our Plan Twos?”
“The Gazette building is a few hundred years old,” Amaranthe mused, too far down the trail of her own thoughts to answer his questions. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it had a basement. What are the odds that there’s access somewhere down here? Or… if it’s been retrofitted with indoor plumbing…”
“You’re not thinking of entering through the sewer, are you?” Maldynado asked. “That’s not whining, by the way. It’s righteous indignation.”
“Let’s take a closer look at the tunnel walls by the building.” Amaranthe led the way back past the first ladder. “As I learned in my enforcer days, there are lots of forgotten underground passageways in the city, especially in the older parts of town.”
“To facilitate secret trysts with lovers?”
“Not exactly.” Once near the Gazette portion of the tunnel again, Amaranthe started searching by touch. “The brothels, drinking houses, and hotels used to have deals with the gangs. They’d get their patrons drunk and lure them into the basements where thugs would knock them out, tie them up, and drag them out through the tunnels, all the way to the docks. The victims would wake up chained to an oar bench on some freighter on its way to the Gulf.”
“Oh, right, I remember reading about that in school. I think there was a Lady Dourcrest book that used that as a plot device. Of course it was a woman who was kidnapped, and the pirate who owned the ship was roguishly handsome and-”
“Finding anything?” Amaranthe interrupted. She didn’t need the plot summary.
“Not yet, no.”
She grimaced when she encountered a moist, fuzzy growth too hearty to succumb to the frost. She wiped her hand and contemplated finding a lantern. Of course, if she saw the walls she’d feel compelled to scrape off the grimy patches, not simply avoid them. The soldiers might notice the light seeping through the storm drains and the sounds of her scouring the tunnel clean of decades of accumulated gunk.
“Didn’t most of those old passages get walled up?” Maldynado asked. “On account of… Wasn’t some emperor kidnapped?”
“Yes, Guffarth the Third. Apparently, he was visiting a brothel to-”
“Get his snake greased?”
“Er, yes. But he went anonymously and without much in the way of security, so his shrewish wife wouldn’t find out. He was kidnapped and nobody believed his claims of imperial greatness. He died from an infection while at sea. It wasn’t until a year later that an enforcer investigator put the ore cart on the right rail and figured out what had happened to Guffarth. The freighter involved in the kidnapping was hunted down by the navy, and all the officers were put to death. It was surmised that such a mistake never would have been made if Guffarth’s face had been better known amongst the populace. After that, the mint started putting the emperor’s head on coins and ranmyas. And, yes, many of the tunnels were walled up, but some of them have been reopened by the gangs in recent decades. Kidnappings still go on, though the enforcers don’t look the other way anymore.”
Amaranthe’s probing fingers encountered a change in the texture of the wall stone. The cement had changed to brick.
“Thank you, Professor,” Maldynado said. “That was a story worthy of Books.”
“Sh, over here.”
When his shoulder bumped into hers, Amaranthe grabbed his hand and put it on the wall. She spent a few seconds following the crease where brick turned to cement. It definitely felt like a doorway-or rather a doorway that had been bricked over.
“There may have been a tunnel here, but it’s not accessible now,” Maldynado said, echoing her thoughts.
Amaranthe sighed. “We might have to try your idea about sneaking in the front after all.”
A number of slams and clangs sounded in the alley above.
“Maybe not,” Maldynado said. “Sounds like those blokes are leaving.”
That would make getting in easier, but it’d also mean the theoretical meeting she wished to spy on had ended. A few more slams sounded, followed by the heavy rumble of lorries rolling away.
A fresh slash of moonlight flowed into the tunnel. Maldynado had already climbed the ladder and pushed up the manhole. Amaranthe was of a mind to chastise him for being too hasty-they should have jogged back up to the other manhole to check in case anyone remained on the loading dock.
“All clear,” Maldynado said before she could phrase an appropriate chastisement. “Someone’s still inside too. I saw a bit of light as the back door was closing.”
“Coming.” Amaranthe climbed up after him.
Maldynado reached the loading dock first and, after eyeing the drainpipe for a moment, put a hand on the doorknob. He paused there, raising his eyebrows hopefully.
“Is it locked?” Amaranthe eyed the street and the dock to make sure they were indeed alone-and to see if the soldiers had left any clues. Only the lingering scent of burning coal remained.
“Nope.” Maldynado pressed his ear to the metal door, then turned the knob and peered through the crack.
The sounds of clanking machinery escaped.
“The presses are running early for the morning’s paper,” Amaranthe said. “It’s not even-”
Maldynado shut the door quickly.
“Did someone see you?” Amaranthe crouched, ready to spring off the dock and into the darkness if needed.
“I don’t think so.”
“We better go in through the attic. There’ll be a number of people around to man those presses.”
“Not people,” Maldynado said, “soldiers.”
Another time, Amaranthe might have pointed out that soldiers qualified as people, but not now. Soldiers? Had Ravido or one of the other erstwhile leaders taken over the Gazette? “The soldiers are working the presses? Or just in the room?”
“I only saw two men, but it looks that way.” Maldynado waved to the drainpipe. “Still want to go in through the attic?”
As Amaranthe knew from her prior trip, the attic would take them to a loft overlooking the journalists’ desks. They wouldn’t be able to see what was rolling off the presses from that perch. She had a feeling the army wasn’t here to simply oversee the production of the next day’s newspaper.
“Let’s see if we can slip in when nobody’s looking.” She reached around Maldynado for the doorknob. He frowned, not moving out of the way. She jerked her chin. Maldynado stood, jaw set, as if he intended to insist on going first. She gave him a firm I-appreciate-your-protectiveness-but-I’m-in-charge-so-move-your-round-cheeks look. His lips flattened, but he stepped aside.
Amaranthe eased the door open, pressing her eye to the crack. Sauna-like heat escaped, caressing her face with its warmth. The gas lamps mounted on the walls diminished some of the nighttime gloom of the printing room-a high-ceilinged open space that took up the back half of the building-but the shadows offered hiding spots. The bulky machines, too, provided nooks and obstacles to duck into or behind.
At the moment, she didn’t see anyone, so she eased inside, choosing a route between the side wall and a roll of paper on a spindle longer than Maldynado was tall. It supplied a two-story steam-powered press that clanked and thunked loudly enough to drown out voices and everything else that would have warned her people were nearby. She waited for Maldynado to join her, then poked an eye around the end of the roll.
A man in black fatigues was heading their way, and she pulled back. He walked past their spot, but didn’t glance behind the press. Instead, he headed toward the back wall where staircases led up and down, and a sign on their floor read WC.