by Sam Clark
Preston drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, trying, rather unsuccessfully, not to think about his brother’s latest whim. A car? My god, there is no limit to his capacity for self-indulgence.
He hated waiting at any time, but he especially hated it when he had to do it in a squalid hellhole like the Spread Eagle. There was no helping it, however. Austin had insisted they arrive first. He said whoever arrived first at the field of battle always had the advantage, so they arrived fifteen minutes before the agreed-upon meeting time. Austin had lobbied for thirty, but Preston couldn’t bear to spend that much time in the Eagle. Gamma, on the other hand, seemed to subscribe to the opposite theory. If you could make a person wait on your whims, you gained the upper hand.
At another time, Preston would have considered the advantages of both positions and tried to puzzle out which argument had more merit, but right now he didn’t care who was right. All he knew was that he was in for a wait.
The bartender once again started to approach the table, apparently taking the drumming for some sort of signal that Preston had changed his mind about company. Preston waved him away before he could even get the question out. As the bartender scurried away, Preston adjusted his hood to make sure it was still obscuring his face. He then absentmindedly picked up his mug. It was nearly to his mouth when he got a distinct whiff of horse urine. He immediately set his mug back down without having taken a sip. In all his meetings at the Spread Eagle, he’d never actually tried what they called ale. He wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find out it was horse urine. Preston glanced over at Austin and saw he had no such qualms about the ale. He had a second mug in front of him already.
Another twenty minutes passed before the door opened, letting a sliver of light and a breath of fresh air into the dark, dank room, which had only two very small, very dirty windows at the front for light and ventilation. As that sliver of light touched the patron at end of the bar closest to the door, he recoiled as though allergic to the sun’s rays. All the professional drinkers turned to see who had disturbed their dark little world. Their gazes lingered a moment when they realized it was a woman. Preston suspected very few women who weren’t prostitutes ever came through that door. Perhaps the occasional wife looking for a wayward husband—but this was no scorned wife standing in the doorway, and when the men in the room noticed what the woman was wearing—a black robe heavily embroidered with thread of gold—they all quickly looked away.
Gamma had arrived.
She walked directly over to his table without bothering to look around the room. He had been just a boy the first time he’d seen her. He’d been hiding in the closet of his father’s office, trying to see where all the big and important decisions were made, while Edward and Gamma had a very tense exchange. In some ways, the origins of his present venture could be traced to that day, some fifteen or so years ago.
Gamma had not aged one bit during those intervening years, still appearing to be in her mid-thirties. She was an attractive woman, but it wasn’t because of her features. She was short, barely five feet, and skinny. She had a sharp angular face unadorned by makeup. Without a doubt, her most appealing physical trait was her eyes, which Preston would also have described as sharp, owing largely to their unique chartreuse coloring. However, whenever Preston looked into them, he got the distinct impression of a cat eyeing a mouse. Her dull brown hair was pulled into a severe bun that reminded Preston of his childhood nanny.
What made Gamma attractive was the way she carried herself. Despite her small stature, she had the largest presence in the room. That wasn’t hard given the present company, but it would have held true even in a room occupied by all the nobles in the Free Counties. She held her head high with her chin slightly upturned. Preston was never sure how to describe her manner. Maybe ‘confident’ was the best word for it, but that didn’t seem like nearly enough to capture it. Graceful? Commanding? Or perhaps regal. In any case, she was a strong, capable woman who got things done and had earned the respect she demanded. But he was strong and capable too. Worthy of respect. He wouldn’t be awed. He was no timid mouse. He had come to get answers.
Preston didn’t rise as Gamma reached his table. He was too angry to show any deference today. Gamma didn’t seem to mind. As she took her seat, she nodded her head slightly by way of greeting.
The bartender did not approach. He had learned his lesson during Preston and Gamma’s first meeting, when he made the poor decision of asking the ‘pretty lady’ if she’d like some wine. She hadn’t even looked at the man. She simply said, “You will be gone in five… four…” Despite not saying what the consequences would be, she hadn’t gotten to three before the man was bowing and scraping as he backed away from the table. Now he just stood behind the bar with a sullen look on his face, cleaning the inside of a mug. Probably waiting for the two of them to leave. Having a priest in the common room of your brothel had to be bad for business.
“You look well,” Gamma said. The smile on her face added no warmth to her expression.
“Looks can be deceiving.”
His failure to use Gamma’s honorific, ‘Your Eminence,’ was no slight, for it had been decided long ago that no names or titles would be used during their meetings. What good that did Preston didn’t know, since Gamma didn’t bother to conceal her identity in any way. Then again, no one in the room looked like they had seen the inside of a church in a very long time. If ever.
The cold smile left Gamma’s face. “I imagine that is your passive-aggressive way of referring to the recent difficulties with our shared endeavor?” Her tone was every bit as frigid as her smile had been, and she spoke her words, as always, in a quick, clipped manner, as if she were overly busy and speaking was taking time away from more important matters.
The door opened again, and Preston turned his eyes from Gamma to the man who had entered. He was a plain-looking fellow of average height and build, dressed in the clothes of a day-laborer. For a moment Preston thought he looked vaguely familiar, but then he dismissed it. One poor drunk looked a lot like the next. He had more pressing issues.
“I can assure you,” Preston said, returning his attention to Gamma, “there is nothing passive about my feelings. I paid a pretty cap to conclude a piece of business, and last I heard, it remains unfinished.”
The smile returned, more frigid than before. “And I can assure you, the Church appreciates your generous donations.”
“Gunner’s alive.” It came out in a hissed whisper.
Gamma simply arched one imperious eyebrow by way of reply.
He was undeterred. She might have expected the world to conform to her wishes, but he would not be cowed. Money was short, he barely had two caps to rub together, and he didn’t have the votes yet. If he kept making ‘donations,’ he’d bankrupt the family, sooner rather than later, and no matter how dense his brother was, he would likely notice when the cupboard went bare. He needed to get what he’d paid for.
“I want to know what you intend to do about it,” Preston said, hoping his voice sounded appropriately stern.
Gamma took on the expression of an adult indulging a favorite child. “And what would you like me to do about it? Would you like me to send my agent to have another meeting with the Lord of Pennington?”
Since hearing of Gunner’s miraculous return to the living, Preston had thought of little else than how he would answer this very question. He’d gone back and forth dozens of times in the last few days, but he still wasn’t sure what his best course of action was. He’d hoped that when he heard the question from Gamma’s lips, he would just know. Now the moment was here, but still he vacillated. Alive, Gunner was a potential problem. If anyone was likely to resist his hostile takeover of the Free Counties, it was Gunner. He was also the most likely to be good at resisting. He was a proven commander, and men would flock to his call if they thought he would win. However, Gunner was old, just a few years shy of eighty, likely a shell of his former self, and badly injured, i
f the report he’d received from his informant was correct—which seemed likely considering Edison had received a similar report from an acquaintance of his. And so what if Gunner resisted? Preston would welcome the opportunity to test himself against the old goat, to show himself a better commander than his father. After all, Preston knew Edward’s secret shame: His great battlefield victory at Sioux Falls had been a sham. It wasn’t Edward’s victory at all; it had been orchestrated by Gamma. He’d learned that little secret hiding in the closet.
Preston also had to consider the danger of the assassin failing again. “Are we exposed?”
“My agent assures me Lord Gunner did not see him. He hit him on the back of the head with a candlestick, then started the fire. He doesn’t know how Gunner managed to survive if the son-in-law didn’t. They were both in the same room when he set the fire.”
Gamma discussed the failed murder of one of the most powerful men in the Free Counties as if it were a dinner party where the host had served red wine with fish—distasteful but not something to get all worked up about. It infuriated Preston to no end. He had paid good money for a job to be done, and it remained incomplete.
“Well, he did survive,” Preston snapped back, his voice sounding whiny even to his own ears.
“Yes, he did. So again I ask, would you like me to send my agent?”
Preston was being indecisive and he hated himself for it. He had to make a decision—that’s what kings did, after all—but it had to be the right one, or he might never get the chance to actually be a king.
Who knew what Gunner had seen? Gamma said her man was so good he was practically invisible, but the fact that he had failed suggested he wasn’t infallible. Two suspicious events surrounding the Lord of Pennington might raise questions that Preston wasn’t ready for people to start asking. Besides, he couldn’t afford for Gunner to die right now. When he’d sent the assassin for Gunner, he’d planned on getting Edison to fight in most of the eight Inheritance Tournaments that would follow.
However, the timing would no longer work. With the impending challenge against Thoka, Preston couldn’t count on Edison being in fighting shape, and he couldn’t pay the fee for Gamma’s champions to compete on his behalf in all eight tournaments. He might be able to scrape together the caps for two at most, but that would be pushing it. Besides, it wasn’t enough. He needed at least four more votes—six or seven would be better still. He could try to squeeze some money from one of his confederates; Charles might be willing to pay for more lands. Preston could then pass on the cost of hiring champions for two or three of the contests, but that plan carried its own risks. Charles already had an overinflated sense of his own worth. If he got any more lands and votes he might become difficult to control.
Preston had to resist the urge to grasp now that the goal was in sight. Take no undue risks. Patience is your weapon. And if you’re lucky, Gunner will die in a few months, either from his injuries or old age. And with his only heir already taken care of, you can get two for the price of one. It seemed there was only one possible answer to Gamma’s question. The same one he’d arrived at upon first hearing the news of Gunner’s survival.
“No, I don’t want your agent to pay Gunner another visit. I want him to visit Lord Maximilian Daugaard of Fall River. He has one young son at home as well.”
“That can be arranged, and no additional donation will be required. The Church takes promises very seriously. I hope you remember that.”
Preston wanted to laugh in Gamma’s face. The nerve of some people. First she acts like the most benevolent person in the world for not extorting another ‘donation’ out of me, after her man failed to deliver in spectacular fashion. Then she has the gall to issue a threat with her next breath. But he would swallow his indignation. Unlike his father and brother, Preston was never afraid to swallow his pride if it meant furthering his goals.
“My father’s sins are not my own. I will remember my promise to the Plutonium Handlers.” Preston shrugged his shoulders. “Maize City is worth a mass.”
The indulgent look returned to Gamma’s face. “How very droll. But it will be your actions, not your words, that will tell. We will make you. And if we must, we will unmake you. We were patient with Edward, despite his many failings, because the time was not right. Patience is a luxury the world can no longer afford. Now, let us conclude this business. You have paid for the visit already. We will consider Gunner’s son-in-law the Church’s gift to you, to make up for any inconvenience you may have experienced.”
Oh, how very considerate of you.
“Will your brother still be representing your interests after,” Gamma continued, “or will you require our aid?”
Preston started drumming his fingers on the table again. He wanted to run through it one more time. Did he think Edison could beat Thoka? No. The next question was, did he think his brother would be healthy enough to fight in an Inheritance Tournament a short time later? If the last fight between Edison and Thoka was any indication, the answer was again no. Edison’s left forearm had been fractured, and it had taken him over two months to regain full use of the arm and resume training.
However, there was only one county at stake. Maybe he could afford to take a risk, assume that Edison would be able to fight…? No, if he wasn’t able, he’d have wasted the money he paid for the assassination. He would just have to pay the cost, as steep as it was.
Or maybe he should try for a miracle. He was talking to a priest, after all. “If I’m as important to your plans as you say, and time is so short, then why charge me such an exorbitant price? Why not do it for free?”
Gamma smiled her cold smile. “As I said, actions speak louder than words. Your donations show your commitment. And you would be wise to remember that it is not you who is important to our plans, but the Free Counties. If you will not serve, someone else will.”
Preston sighed. This had to be the last time. He couldn’t afford it anymore. After this tournament, Preston would have to make Edison enter them all. Edison just had to live through his fight with Thoka first. And if he didn’t, well, then Preston was sure he could find another way to get what he wanted. One that didn’t cost so many caps. Regardless of what happened with Edison, he thought, it might be wise to start looking for some freaks of his own. What do the Handlers call them? Survivors? No, survivors are the ones without any abilities, like Gamma. No, the ones with the powers are called… it’s something extremely arrogant— ah, Thrivers. Yes, that’s it. They can’t have a monopoly on them all. There must be some freaks out there who don’t want to deal with all that sanctimonious holier-than-thou tripe. Yes, he’d start investigating that soon; he had no intention of living in his brother’s shadow nor being Gamma’s puppet for much longer. But for now…
“I will be needing your champions.”
“Another donation will be required.”
He wondered how much of the money would go to his champions and how much Gamma would pocket. If she pocketed most of it, that would make it easier to turn her agents. But that was a question for another day. Right now all he cared about was getting what he had paid for.
“You shall find it in tomorrow’s collection plate,” he said.
“Excellent. May God take you above.”
Not any time soon, I hope. “And you.”
Their business concluded, Gamma stood, nodded, then left.
Preston counted to one hundred, dropped a silver bottle cap stamped with his father’s profile onto the table to pay for the ale, then stood to depart.
Austin dropped his own money on the table—there were five empty mugs in front of him—and slid off his stool. As he stood, he stumbled into the man sitting next to him, slurred an apology, and then made for the door on wobbly legs.
As soon as they were outside, Austin turned to Preston and said, “Where to, my lord?”
All trace of alcohol was gone from his voice, and his eyes were clear. He must have not
iced the quizzical look on Preston’s face. “Didn’t drink a drop, my lord. Not while I’m on duty. Even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t touch that swill. I think it might be horse piss.”
Preston laughed. “Where did all the mugs come from?”
“I kept switching them with the guy sitting next to me. If he noticed his mug kept mysteriously filling back up, he didn’t say nothing about it.”
At that moment, the teenager Austin had hired to watch their horses brought them up. It was one of Austin’s many skills—he always managed to pick someone who didn’t steal the horses. Austin handed the kid a cap, then asked again, “Where to, my lord?”
“Let’s find a spot in the woods to train. For some reason, meeting with Gamma makes me want to hit someone with a sword.”
“You’re welcome to give it a try, my lord,” Austin said with a laugh.
“I’ll do more than try. When we are finished, we shall return to the city and take a room. I want to attend mass tomorrow.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
The two men mounted their horses, then set them off at a slow walk.
“How is my training progressing, in your estimation?” Preston asked.
“In all honesty, it’s going well. You’ve taken to the sword better than I thought you would, my lord. Usually, if you don’t pick up the blade as a youngster, it takes a lot longer to learn, and you never get real good. But you, you’ve done very well, and I ain’t just blowing smoke neither. It won’t be long before I’d trust you to watch my back in a fight, and that’s the best compliment I can think of.”
“Still, I’ll never be the swordsman Edison is.”
“No, my lord, you won’t be. But there’s no shame in that. Nobody’s the swordsman your brother is. The blade’s part of his arm. You can’t teach that. Add the fact that he works at it practically all day and all night, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for the best swordsman alive. I’m no slouch with a blade, and I’d be lucky to last half a minute with your brother. On my best day and his worst.”