Dark Currents Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  EPILOGUE

  Afterword

  Author Q & A

  DARK CURRENTS

  by Lindsay Buroker

  Copyright © 2011 Lindsay Buroker

  Ebook creation by Dellaster Design

  Acknowledgements

  Before you jump into the next adventure, please allow me to thank Becca Andre and Kendra Highley for reviewing early versions of this. More thanks go to Shelley Holloway for editing services and to Glendon Haddix for the cover art. Lastly, thank you, good reader, for trying the first novel and coming back for more. This book would not have been written if not for you.

  CHAPTER 1

  The clanging of the alarm bell reverberated through the aqueduct tunnels. Marl “Books” Mugdildor squished along the slippery ledge as quickly as the footing allowed. It was a long, twisty walk to Pumping Station Five’s Intake Duct Number Nine.

  “How about you speed it up, Booksie?” his comrade asked. “It’d be nice to figure out what’s blocking up the tunnel before piles of city workers come down to check on the alarm and realize wanted men are hiding out in their pumping house.”

  Books glared over his shoulder. Of course Maldynado had no trouble with the treacherous footing. He was younger, stronger, more agile, and—according to the women—the most gorgeous human being in the city. Not that the latter offered an advantage in navigating aqueducts, but it added to Books’s overall annoyance with the man.

  “Do you want to go ahead?” Books asked.

  “Gladly.” Maldynado planted a hand on Books’s shoulder and mashed him against the wall to pass.

  Books dropped his kerosene lantern and nearly lost an important appendage when Maldynado’s sword hilt grazed him. “Blundering troglodyte,” he muttered.

  “Save your endearments for later. There’s work to do.”

  Books rolled his eyes toward the arched ceiling but picked up his lantern and followed. He increased his pace to keep up. More than once his foot slipped off the ledge and splashed into the water flowing through the channel. It could be worse: they could be hiding out in a sewage pumping station.

  Maldynado slowed down when the water rose over the ledge and lapped at their boots. “I didn’t know this would involve getting wet.”

  “When the waterway is blocked, the water rises. Surely even warrior caste louts such as yourself have heard of dams.”

  Maldynado lifted a soggy leather boot and grimaced as droplets dribbled from the tassels. “Yes, but these were made by Svunn and Hilderk. They cost a fortune, and we’re making…rather less than a fortune.”

  Books rolled his eyes. “Just keep moving.”

  They slogged through ever deepening water, and Books shivered as icy currents tugged at his calves. Somewhere nearby, machinery clanked and ground. They had worked their way through the maze of tunnels and now walked close to the pumping station’s exterior wall. Books hefted his lantern, figuring they should be able to see the blockage soon.

  There.

  Steel glinted, reflecting the lantern flame. A grate across the channel marked an entrance to the pumping house. Something dark and shadowy pressed against the rusty bars, partially blocking the water flow.

  Books leaned out for a better look. His heel slipped off the ledge, his butt slammed into the slick brick, and he bounced into the channel with a startled squawk. His lantern flew free. Cold water engulfed him, flooding his mouth and nostrils. He flailed for the surface.

  Despite the blockage ahead, a strong current tugged him down the tunnel. Books maneuvered his head above water, but the only light was behind him. Maldynado, still standing on the walkway, soon faded from view, and darkness smothered Books.

  He groped with his feet, trying to find the bottom. The water was too deep. He reached for the ledge, but the slick surface evaded his scrabbling fingers.

  He bumped against something. Not the grate, but…cloth? A rigid protrusion jabbed into his ribs. He tried to swim away, but it tangled in his clothing.

  Or something was deliberately grabbing him.

  Heart thundering, he kicked, desperate to break the hold. His foot caught in something else. He flailed uselessly until his knuckles rapped against metal. The grate. If he could grab it, he could use it to pull his way to the side of the tunnel. But when he reached for it, his hand brushed against seaweed. No, not seaweed. Hair. He gripped something smooth. A forehead and a nose and…

  “Gah!” Books shrieked. He was tangled up with human bodies. “Get them off, get them off!”

  He tried again to push away, but he grew more entwined in the mess. There were bodies underwater too.

  Finally, a hand grabbed him by the collar and dragged him free. Maldynado. Books latched onto his arm like a starving tick clinging to a dog’s tail.

  With Maldynado’s help, Books found the ledge with his feet and braced himself against the brick wall. More than five feet of water covered the walkway, and it offered little respite. Water streamed past his chest, still tugging at him.

  Panting, Books maneuvered behind Maldynado before turning to look at what their one remaining lantern revealed.

  At least three bloated bodies were caught in the grate. With a shaking hand, Books rubbed water off his face. It took him a moment to realize a new sound had joined the clanging alarm bell. Maldynado’s deep laughs echoed off the walls with riotous enthusiasm.

  “Oh, be quiet,” Books muttered.

  “That was priceless.” Maldynado wiped tears from his eyes. He imitated Books’s screams and burst out laughing all over again.

  Though cold water surrounded Books, the heat flushing his cheeks kept him warm. “Are you done yet? We need to move these bodies so that ancestors-cursed bell will stop.”

  Maldynado wiped his eyes again. “Oh, my. Even if the pay is lacking, I must say I love my job.”

  They dragged the corpses back to a dry alcove. With the obstruction clear, the alarm cut off, and Books allowed himself to relax an iota. He removed his shirt to wring it dry. Rivulets of cold water dripped from his shoulder-length hair and ran down his back.

  “Did you know,” Maldynado said, “you are possibly the hairiest Turgonian man I’ve ever seen?”

  Books sighed, wondering how much torment he would have to endure before the day ended. “Let’s examine the bodies, see what they’re doing down here.”

  “I’m not even sure why you wear a shirt. I’ve seen sweaters with less fuzz.”

  “Why are you looking anyway?” Books wrestled the sodden shirt back on and pushed past him. “I thought you preferred ladies.”

  “Oh, I do. And you’ve thoughtfully reminded me why.”

  Books made a point of turning his back to Maldynado as he studied the corpses. They had recovered three men and one woman. All the bodies had the bronze skin and dark hair of Turgonian citizens. Fortunately, the icy water had preserved them somewhat, and they did not stink yet. The men wore shredded gray utility uniforms, torn open where deep, garish wounds scored their chests and limbs. Someone had slashed the lady’s throat. She wore a businesswoman’
s long black skirt and jacket, both torn and stained from the trip through the channels. All appeared to have been killed before they hit the water. Unless there was something clawed and inhuman lurking in the capital city’s aqueducts. Books grimaced at that thought.

  “Where do you figure they came from?” Maldynado picked a clump of something green off his shirt.

  Books paced around the corpses, in part to think, in part to generate warmth. His sodden clothing clung to him, damp and cold. “The aqueduct access points are locked, and only city workers have keys,” he said. “Either someone got a hold of one of those keys and dumped the bodies, or they’ve been in here since the source.”

  “The source? The lake?”

  “Municipal water doesn’t come from the lake,” Books said. “Dolt.”

  “How would I know?”

  “We’ve been living in, and stoking the fires for, a pumping house for a month and you never looked at any of the diagrams on the wall?”

  “Unlike you, I don’t intentionally bore myself with tedious information,” Maldynado said. “I prefer action—a fencing match or wrestling bout, for instance.”

  “You may get both if whatever mauled these men is roaming—or swimming—around these tunnels.”

  That dimmed Maldynado’s ever present smile.

  “Our sewer waste goes into the lake,” Books said. “The drinking water comes from Lake Karmast Dam in the mountains and is carried to municipal pumping stations and reservoirs via underground aqueducts. That protects it from outsiders thinking of poisoning it or otherwise interfering. The empire has made a lot of enemies during its centuries of conquering and plundering.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson, professor. What’re we going to do with the bodies?”

  “Why don’t you search them for clues?”

  “Me?” Maldynado asked. “You’ve already been close and intimate with them.”

  Books wiped his hands on his trousers, wincing at the memory. “I assumed a scion of the warrior caste would not be squeamish.”

  “Warriors stick swords in people’s bodies; they don’t grope them after the fact.”

  “Let’s just search the pockets.”

  A few minutes later, Maldynado and Books pooled their findings. A few coins, a metal ring with a fob and two keys, and a waterlogged envelope from the woman’s buttoned jacket pocket that snared Books’s curiosity.

  He managed to open it and retrieve the paper inside without tearing it. The writing was in pencil and still legible. Legible but unhelpful. Two strings of numbers, one sprinkled with letters. The other had a decimal and might represent a monetary amount. A large amount, if so.

  “Huh,” came a surprised grunt from Maldynado. He rubbed the flat circular fob on the key ring, and an oval in the middle glowed red. Even after he released it, the soft light continued. He touched it, then withdrew his finger quickly, as if he had brushed against something hot. “Magic? That’s not something you expect to see in the empire. Especially not in this subterranean portion of it.” He lifted his gaze toward the variegated mold decorating the ceiling.

  “That came out of one of the men’s pockets, didn’t it?”

  “Bald and Stubby, yeah.”

  “Nice of you to create such respectful names for the corpses,” Books murmured, returning his attention to the paper.

  “This thing looks handy.” Maldynado prodded the fob, causing it to glow red again. “You could see the keyhole to your flat late at night. I bet this is hot enough to light a candle wick too.” He squinted. “There’s writing on the back side. Ergot’s Chance. There’s an address.”

  Books glanced up. “That could be useful. Keep that.”

  “Oh, I am. This is a good find. Sorry yours isn’t as fun.”

  “Different people, different definitions of fun.” Books tapped the numbers. “I wonder if this is some kind of secret message. Some cipher created by a cryptographer?”

  “Or the work of a three year old using Father’s pencil. What’re we going to do about all this?”

  “Consider ourselves fortunate.”

  Maldynado’s jaw slackened. “How so?”

  “Amaranthe’s birthday is next week and, with our limited funds, I didn’t think I’d be able to find her a gift.”

  “So, you’re getting her…dead bodies?”

  “Perfect, don’t you think?” Books smiled.

  “Most women like jewelry and flowers.”

  “Do you honestly believe she would prefer jewelry over a mystery to solve?”

  Maldynado jiggled the key fob thoughtfully, then nodded toward the bodies. “Can we say one is from me?”

  • • • • •

  Amaranthe Lokdon sharpened the last pencil. She placed it in a holder on the desk and knelt to compare its height with the seven others in the cup. A hair too high still. She removed it, twisted it through the sharpener a couple more times, and checked the height again.

  “Better,” she murmured.

  A steam whistle pierced the air. In the factory outside the office, the fleet of sewing machines stopped. A hundred women and children grabbed brooms and dustpans, hastily cleaning their areas so they could go home.

  “Finally,” Amaranthe said. “Maybe Ms. Klume will deign to meet with us now.”

  “Likely,” Sicarius said, laconic as usual.

  Clad in fitted black clothing that bristling daggers and throwing knives, he stood in the shadows against the wall, his gaze covering the door and the window. Neither his angular face nor his dark eyes gave any hint of impatience, but then they rarely hinted of anything.

  “Good.” Amaranthe stood. Her thighs, still rubbery after the morning’s training session, twanged in protest. “There’s nothing left to tidy.” Thanks to her restless fingers, the trash bin now housed scraps of material, windowsill dust, and pencil shavings, all of which had plagued the office when she entered. The papers and files that had scattered the desk were stacked in a tidy pile, edges aligned with the corner.

  “There’s an alphabetical misfile on the bookshelf,” Sicarius said.

  Amaranthe gave him a startled look, more surprised he had said something than that he had noticed. His expression never changed, but she thought she spotted a faint glimmer of humor in his eyes. She crossed the office, short sword swaying on her hip, and moved Marketing to the Imperial Mind to its proper place.

  A shadow fell across the threshold, and Ms. Klume walked in. She wore a cream blouse, the top buttons unfastened, and a short plaid skirt that did not seem practical given the early spring weather. Vivid ruby paint adorned her lips, and clashing rings gleamed on every finger. The woman’s gaze slid past Amaranthe, as if she were a particularly bland piece of furniture, and landed on Sicarius.

  “Ms. Klume. I’m Amaranthe and this is—”

  “Sicarius.” Klume’s gaze roved from his black boots to his short blond hair, taking in everything in between. “You’re just what I expected.”

  “We’re here because you have work to propose,” Amaranthe said, not sure whether she was more annoyed because the woman was ignoring her or because she appeared to be three seconds away from inviting Sicarius back to her flat. Maybe less.

  “Is it true you single-handedly killed a platoon of soldiers?” Klume asked him. “And walked past Lord Satrap Dargon’s fleet of household security to assassinate him? And killed the empire’s most notorious bounty hunter with the throw of a knife?”

  Sicarius stared at her in stony silence. If the woman’s interest affected him in any way, he kept it hidden behind an unreadable mask. For once, Amaranthe appreciated his standoffishness. She took a deep breath, telling herself it did not matter whether Klume spoke with her or Sicarius, and gave him a single nod.

  “Your offer,” Sicarius told Klume.

  The woman blinked, smiled, and glided to her workspace. “Business first, yes, of course.” Confusion flashed across her face as she noticed the tidy desk, but she recovered and located a fat file. “This is all the info
rmation I have on a Kendorian woman named Telnola. She’s the new owner of Farth Textiles. She’s an old wart who strode in the day Emperor Sespian enacted those tax incentives for foreign businesses and investors.” She mimicked spitting in the waste bin. Not a fan of the policy, apparently. “She bought out Farth, promptly tripled profits, and cut my business—the business of a loyal Turgonian citizen—in half. She hasn’t been to a proper school, and I’m certain this unprecedented success has to do with some magical aid. If she is using magic, it’s completely illegal here, and the punishment is death. If she isn’t…” Klume shrugged. “Either way, her success displeases me. I want her dead. I’m paying five thousand ranmyas for the job. An extremely fair price for a night’s work.”

  Amaranthe sighed. She had feared the offer might be something like this.

  Sicarius met Amaranthe’s eyes, and she sensed the question there, even if his expression did not change. Yes, he would have no problem taking the job, but that was not the image she wanted to establish for her team.

  “I’m sorry you lost time contacting us,” Amaranthe said, “but we don’t do assassinations, Ms. Klume.”

  The woman considered Amaranthe for the first time, though she pointed at Sicarius. “That’s not what his reputation says.”

  “He’s changed.” Sort of. “He’s working for me now.” Amaranthe checked Sicarius for a response; though he had said as much, she still felt presumptuous and uncertain making such claims.

  He merely stood, arms folded across his chest and back to the wall.

  “I see.” Klume’s eyes narrowed as she glanced back and forth between them. She settled on Amaranthe. “You’re the agent and must see to your cut. Six thousand then.”