Iron Jaw and Hummingbird

by Chris Roberson

  Temujin arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Poor associations,” Gamine said simply, and sipped from her bowl.

  A woman entered the room, dressed outlandishly in a strangely cut suit of gray wool, her blond hair cut short. She clutched a leather handbag in both hands, and angled toward the owner.

  “I suppose we could go . . .” Gamine began, but Temujin cut her off with a slight wave of his hand. He leaned to one side, cocking his ear to hear.

  Gamine listened closely, trying to see what had caught his attention.

  The woman was talking to the owner, conversing in low tones. From her accent and pale skin and hair, she seemed to be of Briton extraction. And, to all appearances, she was in trouble. Gamine watched her reach into her handbag and bring out a long string of gold coins, and saw the owner’s eyes widen at the sight of them. Once she had finished her story, though, of which Gamine caught only isolated words and phrases, the owner shook his head uninterestedly.

  “No,” the owner said in a louder voice, gathering up his receipts and pushing away from the table. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Good day.”

  The owner walked away, leaving the Briton woman sitting at the table alone.

  Temujin dabbed at the corners of his mouth and pushed his bowl away from him.

  “I believe that poor woman looks lonely over there, don’t you?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “And I’m a right hobberdehoy if I don’t go over there and give her some company.”

  “Oh no,” Gamine said, shaking her head. “Really? I thought we were just tourists in this city.”

  “We are,” Temujin said, standing up. “But tourists can fit in a bit of business now and again, in amongst all their merry larking, can’t they?”

  Gamine crossed her arms over her chest, glowering.

  She considered getting up and leaving. She had no desire to stay and watch Temujin try to con this poor woman. However, she had two courses of her meal still to come, and the bird’s nest soup had hardly been filling, as tasty as it’d been.

  “Damn,” Gamine said under her breath, and slumped back in her chair.

  Gamine’s noodle dish arrived by the time Temujin had insinuated himself into the woman’s company. He’d introduced himself with some alias or other and struck up conversation. Small talk at first, no pressure at all, what Temujin had always called “baiting the hook.” One needed to first capture the marks’ attention before beginning to reel them in.

  Gamine decided, in that moment, that she’d had enough of the trickster art. That was it; no more. No grifts, no cons, no ruses. When she’d first set out on the Grand Trunk at Temujin’s side, it had seemed fun, a kind of game, but now she couldn’t help but be bored by it all. It was too easy in most instances but too dangerous in too many others. No, she’d have to find some other means of support, and if Temujin wanted to stick to the trickster trade, he’d be on his own.

  While Gamine ate, the woman had warmed to Temujin by inches. Despite herself, Gamine couldn’t help overhearing their conversation, taking careful note as Temujin had always taught her.

  “My name,” the woman said, her speech laced with a slight Briton accent, “is Marlowe Constance. Mistress Marlowe Constance.” As she spoke, she wrung her handbag in her fingers nervously. “I am originally from Earth, and have journeyed to your world only to come to the aid of my countryman and kinsman the Duke of London, who is currently incarcerated in the prisons of the hegemon of the Southern Fastness.”

  Gamine knew the Southern Fastness only from her studies and from the stories of travelers on the Grand Trunk. It was a sovereign state, a strange mélange of cultures that arose from those who came to Fire Star in the early centuries of colonization. The Southern Fastness was in effect a satellite of the Dragon Throne, though it did not have formal relations with any of the latter’s vassals, among them the island of Britain.

  “I am worried,” Mistress Marlowe went on, “that if the hegemon’s men should learn who the duke truly is, they will not release him for the relatively paltry bond they have initially set; or worse yet, they will not release him at all.”

  Temujin reached out and patted the woman’s hand tenderly. The gesture was carefully calculated to increase feelings of trust between the two, diminishing the physical space separating them and subtly leading the woman to draw nearer to him emotionally. Gamine had seen the maneuver countless times and had performed it herself almost as often.

  “I have some money,” Mistress Marlowe said, smiling slightly, “but not enough to post bail. I’m looking for assistance, and I fear I’ve come to the end of my rope. Once the duke is out of jail and free from the hegemon’s grasp, I know he will handsomely reward anyone who comes to his assistance.”

  Gamine could see that Temujin had adopted the pose of a wealthy merchant, slack jawed and simple. She also knew that from the brief glimpse he’d had of her string of coins, he knew exactly how much Mistress Marlowe was worth.

  “I would be happy to help,” Temujin said sweetly, “and I have sufficient funds to do so. However, it will take me a little time to put together the money. I’d planned on leaving the city—I came to visit my granddaughter, whom you see seated across the way—and return home to Penglai right away, and if I am to stay, I’ll need a few more coins to cover expenses.”

  The woman was overjoyed. She pulled her string of coins out of her handbag and handed it to Temujin without question.

  “Will this be enough?”

  Temujin smiled and held the coins briefly aloft, his gaze flicking to where Gamine sat. From her vantage point, Gamine could count easily fifty gold coins. “Yes,” he said, “I think this should be sufficient for my needs. I’ll send word by tachygraph to my family that they should send the money right away.”

  “Oh, thank you ever so much,” Mistress Marlowe said. “If you will meet me at this precise spot in two days’ time, at noon, we shall straightaway work to free my friend the duke, and secure your reward!”

  “Two days’ time, at noon,” Temujin repeated with a grin. “And I’ll have with me enough to repay your generous loan and secure the duke’s release.”

  Mistress Marlowe nodded and rose from the table, clutching her handbag. Flashing Gamine a slight smile, she hurried from the restaurant into the bright sunshine.

  Temujin paused a moment, in character, and when the woman had gone, danced over to Gamine’s table, the coins jingling in his fist.

  “Don’t you wish you had this to share?” Temujin rattled the string of coins, tilting his head to one side as though to better hear the sound. “And all I had to do for it was listen to a bit of prittle-prattle.”

  “You are a tiresome old man,” Gamine said, and turned her attention back to her noodles. Temujin just grinned, showing the gaps in his smile.

  Three days passed, in which Gamine saw the sights the city of Fuchuan had to offer and wondered about her future. Temujin rested in their rooms at the inn, so Gamine wandered the city streets alone, visiting vendors’ stalls, galleries, and museums, reveling in the newfound feeling of freedom that came with her decision to leave behind the art of the trickster. She was a regular person again, like all those around her. They were marks no longer, nor victims, just people going about their business. She liked not having to worry about how much that one might have in his purse, or how easily she might get another to buy into a flimsy tale. She was strictly a tourist, enjoying the city of lights.

  In Red Flower District, on a crowded street, Gamine felt a rough hand grab her arm. Annoyed, she looked up into a pair of eyes, one of which drooped comically. It was a man dressed in finery, gold rings on his fingers.

  “I thought it was you!” the man snarled.

  It took Gamine a moment to place the face, as distinctive as it was.

  “Oh no,” she breathed. It was the man from whom she’d conned two dozen bronze coins, nearly a full year ago, when she and Temujin had first set out on the Grand Trunk.

  “Oh, yes, damn your
hide,” the man said, his tone vicious. “You promised me a fivefold return on your loan, but imagine my surprise when I found that the name you wrote on your ‘receipt’ proved as false as your promises. Clever, clever girl.” His face was twisted in a hateful sneer. “Well, we’ll see how clever you are now.”

  A city guardsman was crossing the street a hundred yards away, his hand on the pommel of his saber.

  “Guardsman!” the droop-eyed man yelled. “Help! Quickly!”

  The city guardsman turned at the cry, and walked over, in that officious, stately manner that Gamine was sure only police could carry off. From a nearby corner, another two guardsmen turned to see what was happening.

  “What seems to be at issue?” the first guardsman said, his eyes narrowed.

  “This girl is a thief,” the droop-eyed man said, pointing to Gamine with his free hand, his other still holding tight to her arm.

  While the droop-eyed man’s attention was momentarily on the guardsman, Gamine saw a slender thread of opportunity and seized it.

  Grabbing the pinky finger of the hand that gripped her arm, she bent it nearly all the way back. The droop-eyed man howled in pain and released his hold on Gamine, tears welling in his eyes.

  Gamine turned and ran away into the crowd. The first guardsman and the two lingering at the corner didn’t delay, but took to their heels, chasing after her, hands on their sabers and ready for action. The droop-eyed man followed just a moment behind, shouting obscenities.

  Gamine reached the inn, unsure whether she’d lost her pursuers or not. She’d last seen them a few blocks back but had ducked down a side alley and doubled back. The trick might have worked, but if it hadn’t, they wouldn’t be too far behind.

  “Old man, we’ve got to go!” she shouted, bursting into Temujin’s room.

  The room was a chaotic, crowded mess. Temujin was pinned against the wall by a pair of enormous men with pale skin and light brown hair, while two other pale-skinned men stood just a few feet away. Standing in the middle of the room, a wicked stiletto knife in one hand and Temujin’s money purse in the other, was the Briton woman they had encountered in the restaurant three days before, Mistress Marlowe Constance. But gone was the wide-eyed expression of the foreign traveler. Her eyes were hard and narrowed, and when she spoke, it was without a trace of an accent.

  “Ah, I was waiting for you to show,” she said with a sneer. “No sudden moves, kid. I wouldn’t want my friends here to hurt you unnecessarily.”

  Gamine looked from the woman to Temujin. She could tell that he was mostly unharmed, though a reddening on his left cheek, already shading into a bruise, suggested some recent violence.

  “Gamine, you remember our friend Constance?” Temujin said, trying for a convivial tone and failing.

  “Quiet, Temujin,” the woman barked. That she used his real name, and not the alias that he’d provided at the restaurant, suggested these people knew more about who he and Gamine were than she’d have liked.

  “Who are you?” Gamine asked, trying to act casual while working out the best possible route out of the room and away from the woman and her four large friends. She didn’t want to run out on Temujin, but it was his fault he was in this mess, whatever it was. And Gamine didn’t want to linger too long, for fear that the guardsmen might be following close behind.

  “We’re with the Diggers, kid, if you must know,” the woman said venomously, “but more importantly, we’re the people your pal here owes a fair pile of coin.”

  Gamine had heard of the Diggers, even back in Fanchuan. They were one of the most notorious of the Parley gangs. Named after an ancient Briton form of governance, the Parleys were originally instituted by Britons who’d been brought to work on the atmosphere mines centuries before. Surrounded by Han who were not always as kind to foreign subjects as they might have been, the Parley gangs had banded together for self-protection. In later generations, though, imperial reforms meant better living and working conditions for non-Han on Fire Star and back on Earth; the gangs found themselves with less to protect themselves against and eventually turned their attention to more illicit goals. A significant percentage of all crime and vice in the city of Fuchuan involved the Parley gangs, and much of that was due to the Diggers.

  “Now,” the woman said, “we wasted a full day tracking you two down, when the ‘wealthy merchant’ here missed our appointed meeting yesterday. When he didn’t show, it didn’t take long to figure that we’d been had. And, considering that the coins we’d given him were just seeds for a long con, we were more than a little annoyed by the discovery.”

  “The Iberian Prisoner con,” Temujin said, unable to keep the hint of admiration from his voice. “You played your part perfectly, my dear, the damsel looking only to help her powerful friend.”

  “Wasted on you,” the woman snapped. “Now look, we’re not unreasonable people”—Gamine couldn’t help but doubt that—“but we wasted three days because of you two, days in which we might have rolled that seed money into some serious coin, if we’d found an honest sucker to catch on the hook. But now I’ve got to report this to my boss as a loss of profit, and he hates to hear the words loss and profit in the same sentence. So you two need to come up with some serious coin in the next few minutes here, or we’re going to be taking it out of your hide. If I can’t bring my boss the money, I can at least bring him the scalps of the two jokers who loused it up for us.”

  Gamine didn’t see that she had any choice. If she was to escape, she might have to run off and leave Temujin behind. She had a clear path to the doorway, with the woman and her four pale-skinned friends all farther inside the room. The only other way out was a wide window on the far side of the room, but to reach it Gamine would have to make it past the woman and her friends, which didn’t seem likely. So she’d have to run for it and hope for the best.

  As the woman finished her lengthy and colorful threat against their lives, Gamine slowly inched backward. Everyone was so intent on listening that they didn’t notice that Gamine was now almost all of the way out of the room. She was about to turn and run for her very life, when she heard a shout coming from farther down the hall.

  “There she is!”

  Gamine looked over and froze.

  Six guardsmen, tall and broad shouldered, were barreling toward her, hands on the sheathed sabers at their sides.

  “Stop!” one of them yelled.

  Gamine saw her chance and took it.

  “Temujin!” she shouted, rushing back into the room and heading straight for the window. “Follow me!”

  The woman and her four friends looked at Gamine as though she were insane. Any one of them was only a few steps away from reaching her, and she couldn’t possibly hope to reach the window without being stopped.

  “What’s this?” came an officious voice from the doorway, followed by the rattling of sabers.

  Gamine didn’t pause to look back but raced for the window.

  “It’s Thompson Mary and her boys!” one of the guardsmen shouted.

  “Guys, whip the dung out of these pigs,” the woman ordered.

  Gamine reached the window and threw back the sash. Temujin was at her side by the time she’d climbed up on the windowsill.

  “Our friends appear to be a bit distracted by the hurly-burly,” Temujin said by way of explanation as he followed Gamine out onto the ledge. The room behind him had exploded into a violent melee as gang members and guardsmen plowed into one another, all shouts and fists, sabers and knives. Everyone had, for the moment, forgotten about them.

  “Let’s go.” Gamine dropped to the street below. Without waiting for Temujin, she pounded away down the back street as quickly as her feet would carry her.

  That night, the lights of Fuchuan only a dim glow on the western horizon, Gamine and Temujin sat huddled together in the darkness. They had nothing with them: no coin, no provisions, no fire kit. They could not return to the city, not with both the authorities and a Parley gang out for their blood. T
o the south and east was nothing but sand and rock, interrupted on rare occasion by military outposts and refueling stations. The Grand Trunk lay far to the west. To the north, beyond the steep walls of the Tianfei Valley, stretched the northern plains, wide prairies dotted with little hamlets and agrarian villages, rice plantations, and atmosphere mines.

  “It occurs to me,” Temujin said, his few teeth chattering in the cold, “that it might be time to take a little vacation from the trickster life. Maybe see what life is like for the masses who sweat and toil for a living . . . not that I plan to sweat and toil, mind, but I’m sure we can come to some sort of accommodation.”

  “You are a tiresome old man,” Gamine said, shivering. She huddled closer to Temujin to conserve their warmth, and looked at the dark sky overhead, the twin moons moving gradually across the backdrop of stars. Then she sighed. “North? Well, I don’t see that it could be any worse.”

  They had been walking for days on end, and Gamine was hungry, thirsty, and tired.

  There was nothing as far as the eye could see in any direction but rocks and hardscrabble dirt, rising and falling endlessly, like frozen waves, with the unbroken sky stretching above. They subsisted off what they could catch with their meager skills, and drank from shallow pools after the all-too-infrequent rains.

  They didn’t talk. There wasn’t much to say.

  Most of Gamine’s thoughts were concerned with putting one foot before the other, making slow progress toward the north, where Temujin insisted that somewhere, just beyond the next ridge, or the one after that, they would find sanctuary and salvation.

  So far they had found only rock, and dirt, and sky.

  Gamine didn’t think she’d ever been so hungry or so tired.

  Late the night before, as they had tried to catch a few moments’ rest beneath the stars—curled up shivering on the cold, hard ground—Gamine had realized something. She’d never put it into words before, but at that moment—her hands and feet numb with cold, her teeth chattering in her head, her stomach knotted with hunger—Gamine realized that she wanted to live.