“Fine.” Temperance shifted uncomfortably as Haliday picked his pencil up and marked a place on the page. “Family name, Whiteoak. First name, Temperance.”
With a sigh Haliday dropped the pencil and looked at her with a tired smile. “If you’re gonna make up a name, you’ll have to do better than that. Everyone knows that particular family, and all you’ll do is stir up trouble by slinging it falsely around. Why, if you’re a Whiteoak, then I’m a Calien, and heir to all their gold mines besides. Now, be a dear and tell me—”
His words died as the heavy metal badge landed on the table. The black iron was streaked with rust at the edges, but the symbol emblazoned at the center showed clear enough: a large tree, painted pure white. No, not painted. The metal itself had turned white as snow, as if something had drained all the color from it. The image of a leafless oak tree burned at the center.
Haliday let out a low whistle. “I’d heard of warlock soul symbols before, but I never thought . . . so you really are related to James Whiteoak, the old Brimstone himself, eh? Daughter?”
This was the last line of questioning that Temperance wanted to answer. Some things were just better left buried. There was no helping it now, though, so she replied, “Granddaughter.”
“I suppose that makes sense. Old codger must be in his sixties by now. Met him once, when I was real young, was like nobody I’d ever seen before, or since for that matter. Like the power of the gods solidified in a single beating heart. What’s he doing these days?”
“Nothing. He’s dead.” Temperance had a lump in her throat, and couldn’t trust herself to say any more. Haliday either didn’t notice, or was too dumb to care.
“Makes sense I suppose. Like I said, would have been in his sixties. What got him, old age or disease?”
“Neither. Something else.” For a moment, Temperance was elsewhere. She heard screams on the wind, and a woman calling her name. Gunshots, and the earth itself tearing apart. She shook her head to clear it.
The silence stretched out between them, and now even Haliday looked uncomfortable. At last he cleared his throat and returned to the volume in front of him. “Back to business. What did you say this creature’s name was? Belchior?”
“Belial. Scourge of Farhampton.”
“Belial, Belial . . . ah, here he is. Oh. Oh my.” Haliday looked up at her. “That’s quite a catch. Says he was last valued at two thousand kos. Suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from the granddaughter of old Brimstone, though.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair and studied her. “So, first the problem, then the solution. Problem is, I can’t pay you.”
His words threw Temperance off guard. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, I have to send this creature to Benson city to verify your claim. Even if I didn’t, though, I still don’t have that kind of kos just lying around. So, either you need to take a room in town and wait the week or two the courier will take to get it there, or ferry it over yourself.”
Resisting the urge to grind her teeth, she said, “There must be something you can do.” Benson was the direction she had just come, and with Belial caught and contained she had a list of other daemons a mile long to seek next. With luck one of them would have useful information.
“Afraid I can’t.” The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck. “However, I think I might have a solution that could help us both. Won’t get your bounty any quicker, but might make the trip to Benson worth your time, at least.”
Temperance stared at the man with a bland expression, and he continued on. “You see, I was expecting another prisoner this morning. Thought that’s who you were bringing in at first. This one needs to go on to the city as well. The acting marshal wanted me to accompany him, but as you see we run a small operation here, and if I leave there’s no one to keep the peace. I could offer you a bit out of the town coffers to go in my place. You seem like the sort who can handle yourself. Heck, after that daemon there, this ought to be a regular holiday for you. What do you say?”
“Sounds outside my area of expertise, is what,” Temperance said, collecting the daemon vial off the counter. She shrugged. “Can’t be much to guarding a few human prisoners, I suppose. What are they, train robbers?”
“Not exactly . . .” Haliday began. They both turned as the door swung open, and two men stepped inside.
The first one had all the trappings of a Federation Marshal: gray boots, white coat and pants, all neatly cut and somehow devoid of grit or dust. Sandy hair trimmed to sharp edges, and not a whisker on his face to speak of. The shotgun strapped to his back gleamed in the morning light as if it had come straight off the assembly line. Only the gray hat on his head stood at odds with the rest of him, grime-smeared and with more holes than felt left to it.
A single bandolier across his chest also drew Temperance’s eye. Even from this distance she could smell the rune work on his shells, though they all appeared to be of common varieties. No more than she expected from a government warlock. Her grandfather would have been livid, seeing his life’s work used so poorly.
The figure accompanying the marshal, wrapped about the chest and waist with heavy chains, could not have been any more different. Slick black hair, trimmed but rather tousled from time on the road, and a day or two of stubble on his chin. A suit that had been nice once, but now looked disheveled and worn around the edges, his cravat untied and hanging loose about his neck.
While Temperance was no expert, the prisoner didn’t look like much of a threat to her, not the sort to justify the chains, at any rate. She wondered if the sheriff had been attempting some charity on her part. There was nothing here that showed this prisoner needed two guards to get him to Benson, let alone one of her skillset.
The pair drew closer, and she got a good whiff. There were the usual odors of sweat, tobacco, horseflesh and everything else one grows accustomed to from life on the road. Underneath, though, was something else, something familiar she couldn’t quite place. Temperance stood there, mentally running through a catalog of experiences that she had spent her whole life building.
“Beg pardon the interruption, Sheriff.” The marshal spoke with a sharp northern drawl. “Name’s Peter Scrimshaw, duly appointed marshal of these Federated Territories. This here is one Obadiah Lalaish, bound for trial in Benson. I assume you received my message?”
Haliday nodded. “I did at that, but concerning your request for escort, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
“What?” Scrimshaw looked like the sheriff had just slapped him. His prisoner let out a wheezing chuckle before a glare from the marshal set him back to silence. Scrimshaw returned his attention to the sheriff. “Need I remind you, per regulation eighty-six point four of the Federation charter—”
“I know what the law says, Marshal. However, it also gives me authority to appoint a proxy of equal caliber. I happen to have one in this young lady here.”
The marshal turned and seemed to see Temperance for the first time. He nodded at her, giving his hat a brief tap. “Mornin’, Miss. Y’know how to use those weapons you’re packin’?”
“Reckon I do, or I wouldn’t have them in the first place.”
“Miss Whiteoak here is an accomplished Pistol Warlock,” the sheriff added, looking as proud as if he had trained her himself.
The marshal, however, still seemed unconvinced. “How old are you, Miss?”
Already Temperance could see where his thoughts were going. She debated lying, but didn’t see the point in it. “I turned seventeen a few weeks ago, by my accounting.”
“Seven—” Scrimshaw turned back to Haliday. “This is a joke, right? You don’t expect me to believe she’s qualified to transport a man such as this.”
Temperance opened her mouth, an acidic retort on her lips, but at that same moment the memory of the smell came back to her like a thunderclap. She moved forward, right next to the prisoner. Lalaish regarded her with a look that was half sneer, half hungry wolfhound. She slid a ha
nd inside the man’s pants, and his expression changed, first to confusion, then horror. Haliday and Scrimshaw both yelped, the latter jumping back a step.
“See here now, what in the bloody name of the Three are you on about?” Scrimshaw yelled at last. “I have a good mind to—”
He went silent as Temperance held up a small bag. “Your man had this sewn into the fabric of his pants.”
The marshal took the bag and peeked inside. “What is this?” he asked at last.
“Cedar shavings and spearmint, by the scent of it. Sorcerers can use them to burn through just about anything, including those chains you’ve got there.”
“I’ve been with this prisoner for near two weeks,” Scrimshaw said, tossing the bag onto the sheriff’s desk. “Why wouldn’t he have used somethin’ like that before now?”
“Hell if I know, maybe there wasn’t an opportunity. Is that what this one is then, a sorcerer? I didn’t know there were any practitioners of the old ways left.”
Scrimshaw nodded. “Not many in the east, where Pistol Warlocks are practically the new nobility, but out here at the far edge of civilization there’s still more than I prefer.”
Across from them, the sheriff cleared his throat. “So then, Marshal, if you’ll agree that Miss Whiteoak here has more than proven herself capable, I think we can get on with the day’s business.”
“Just a moment,” Temperance said, holding a hand out to forestall Haliday. “I never agreed to be your replacement.” She turned back to Scrimshaw. “What is this one under arrest for?”
“Oh, the usual reasons. Sorcery used for dark and nefarious purposes, consortin’ with daemons, murder, arson, disturbin’ the peace. The list goes on.”
Temperance doubted that the prisoner had actually consorted with any daemons; he didn’t have the look. Still, the magicks the man might possess could prove a danger to whoever escorted him. She turned back to the sheriff. “Four hundred kos, half now, half paid upon delivery of the prisoner in Benson.”
“Four hundred!” Haliday sputtered over the words so much they were almost indistinguishable. “I don’t make that much in three months!”
“That’s my offer, take it or leave it.” Temperance made as if to head towards the door.
“Wait!” the sheriff called after her. “Fine, I think I can get two hundred from the exchange. Marshal, can your office cover the other half?”
Scrimshaw nodded. “I don’t expect that will be a problem.”
“Very well.” Temperance continued towards the exit. “Mister Scrimshaw, I’ll be waiting outside when you’re ready to leave.”
Chapter Three
The marshal and his prisoner stepped out of the post building ten minutes later. He handed her a bag that had the satisfying weight and feel of Federation currency, and they moved to a nearby corral.
Among the horses milling about was a mule so immense it looked to have a touch of daemon blood in it. It dug deep lines in the earth with its hoofs, spooking the other animals and keeping them on the other side of the enclosure. Even Astor gave the giant a wide berth.
After loading the sorcerer onto the back of the daemonic beast, Scrimshaw mounted a smart claybank that reminded Temperance of the first horse her father had given her when she was nine. All saddled up, they turned their mounts north and began the week-long journey towards Benson, the most civilized city this territory had to offer. Temperance’s stomach churned at the thought. Even when she was younger, crowds and the constant drone of noise that came with them had been a constant source of terror. Still, that was a problem for the future. At least the next week should give her a chance to relax.
For a time they rode in silence. Just when she thought the journey might be halfway pleasant, Scrimshaw ruined it by opening his mouth. “Afraid I never caught your first name, Miss Whiteoak.”
“That’s because I never offered it.” The marshal looked at her as if expecting more, but instead she spurred Astor ahead and turned her attention to the far horizon. Rolling prairie lay in front of them, and beyond that the Iron Cliffs, like someone had applied a razor’s edge to the landscape. They were pebbles compared with the Divide, but still the tallest range for a hundred miles of hard riding in any direction.
She had hoped the marshal might take the hint, but clearly he was as thick-headed as Haliday. Perhaps this was a trait common in all men. He caught up a moment later and fell in beside. “If you don’t mind my askin’, are you a relation of James ‘Brimstone’ Whiteoak?”
“I am, Mister Scrimshaw.”
“Please, call me Peter.” The marshal turned and gave a tug on his rope, drawing Lalaish closer to them. “In that case, allow me to offer condolences over what happened in Cold Valley. That must have been a difficult time for you.”
Temperance had a lump in her throat again. Somehow she forced her words out, regardless. “Difficult? Difficult is hardly the word I would use for the last five years. No, Marshal, if you truly knew what I had been through, we wouldn’t be speaking about it right now.”
At last the marshal lapsed into silence, and Temperance breathed a sigh of relief. She was fast regretting her decision to join this whole endeavor. Spending a week in Scrimshaw’s company would grow tiresome quickly.
They passed the last of Rosea’s buildings. Around the town lay wide pasture, the plain a sea of green and gold stretching out for miles. Several hundred orak grazed near the roadside, the staple livestock throughout most of the territories. Temperance had grown up surrounded by herds such as these, though the variety out here in the west were much larger than what she was used to. Also, most of the animals she saw still had all three of their horns.
From there the group moved at a quick trot through the rolling hills beyond, winding their way between slopes rather than assault them head on. Temperance had lost track of the days since starting her chase after Belial, but it had to be close to midsummer by now. The weather sure felt like it.
Near evening they started a rabbit from its hiding place, sending it darting across the road. Before she had a chance to react Scrimshaw pulled his gun and gave a shout of, “Tempe!”
The resulting blast roared as loud as a powder keg and left a ringing sensation in Temperance’s ears. The pellets flew through the air, streaks of orange and blue fire left in their wake. One took the rabbit on the skull, dropping it quivering to the dirt.
After collecting the animal and slitting its throat, the marshal noticed her wincing. “Surely that don’t make you squeamish? Have an affinity for fluffy little bunnies?”
“Not in the least. I used to trap them all the time as a child, though they’re not the tastiest critters. No, I’m just surprised you would be so casual with your hexbullets.”
Unless her eye was mistaken, the marshal appeared to packing shot with a mixture of sea salt and maple leaf. The bullets weren’t good for much. They wouldn’t kill their target, or even incapacitate them, only stun for a few minutes. Their only real advantage was that they were the easiest variety of hexbullet to assemble, but each shot would still take a skilled smith several hours to craft.
“Afraid they’re all I’ve got on me. Besides, I can always requisition more when we get back to headquarters.”
Temperance resisted the urge to grind her teeth. Typical Federation attitude. “Perhaps next time let me bring down our dinner, then. I’m always packing mundane bullets just for such an occasion.”
As the sun settled on the far horizon, they made camp in a little hollow that hid their fire from view until you were almost on top of it.
“Can’t be too careful,” Scrimshaw noted. “I’ve spent as much time avoidin’ Lalaish’s men as I have makin’ progress towards Benson. Several times they’ve got the drop on us, but the Three have seen me blessed to escape somehow.”
“Why aren’t you bringing them in as well?” Temperance asked.
“Too many of them. I was lucky to catch this fool alone in a saloon out near Dunbrad.”
Temperance shift
ed. This was information that would have been useful to know before she agreed to accompany the marshal. “Are they all . . .”
“What, sorcerers?” Scrimshaw laughed. “Naw, they’re your usual criminal scrum. Too many bullets and too few brains, but they don’t got so much as a lick of magic between them that I know of. I’m sure that’s how this monster rose to the top of his little social circle.” He poked Lalaish, who glowered at the marshal but remained silent. Temperance also found herself suddenly uninterested in further conversation, the marshal’s words sitting cold in her gut.
They ate the rabbit along with some hardtack that the marshal passed out. Temperance would have preferred to go hungry rather than choke down the stuff, but she didn’t relish going through her turn at the watch with a growling stomach, either.
After she finished eating, she turned to Lalaish. “Well, what’s your story?”
“You’re wastin’ your breath on him, Miss Whiteoak,” the marshal said through a mouthful of rabbit. “His kind don’t know any words that aren’t lies.”
Temperance gave Scrimshaw a level look. “He’s a prisoner, Marshal, not a herd of livestock. Is it so hard to treat him as such?”
Scrimshaw shrugged. “He’s a sorcerer. Frankly I’d have been happier leadin’ an orak or two.”
Temperance turned back, and saw the sorcerer studying her. “What do you mean by my ‘story’, Miss Whiteoak?” Lalaish spoke with slow precision, an accent to his voice Temperance found familiar but couldn’t place.
“The usual, I suppose. Where you come from, how you got here? I assume you haven’t always been a wanted man of the law.”
“Ah,” the sorcerer said. “That. No, my issues with the Federation are somewhat recent. I was raised in a small fishing village on the north coast. So north, in fact, on a clear day I could almost see the home my parents forsook to bring me to this chaotic land.”
Understanding clicked in Temperance’s brain. “You’re from Galinor.”
The Delivery of Flesh Page 2