Restoration

by Peter David

  “Me?” His eyebrows almost puckered in a curious question mark.

  She frowned even more. “Do not,” she warned him, “embarrass yourself, or me, by claiming anything otherwise. I pay attention to such things, Majister. As a matter of fact … I pay attention to everything. There is nothing that occurs in this town that escapes my notice.”

  “That’s very comforting to know, Maestress. Perhaps you’d like to sign on as my assistant, to aid me in keeping the peace.”

  “I do not consider that funny, Majister.”

  “That’s all right, Maestress. I didn’t consider it much of a joke.”

  She glowered at him, but he returned none of the enmity. He seemed quite bland, almost bored by her.

  “I hope you are not intending to cross me, Majister,” she said at last. “I hope you have not forgotten who truly cares about this town … who truly …”

  “Who truly holds the power? Is that what you were going to say? Going to impress me with how one withered woman can keep so many people in her sway?” He laughed when his words were rewarded with a slight, indignant purpling of her face. “Maestress … believe it or not … I’m not your enemy. Because, in a few months, I’m going to be leaving here, voluntarily. So, you see, struggling with you for the hearts and minds of the residents of this city is the last thing on my mind. My intention is to do my job to the best of my ability, keep people from hurting each other as much as I can, and—when my contract is up—move on. Now … is any of that in contradiction to your own hopes or desires for Narrin?”

  “No,” she said tersely, her normal color beginning to return.

  “Good. Then I certainly think we’ll be able to coexist with a minimum of effort, if that’s all the same to—”

  The door to the gaol house abruptly banged inward. The Majister looked up, his face carefully neutral.

  One at a time, three men entered. Each of them was half a head taller than the Majister, and although they had three different faces, they shared one expression: surly. Their very manner exuded confidence, as if they knew everything that was going to happen and were simply fulfilling their roles in the proceedings. Large plasers—crude and heavy, but no less deadly—hung from their hips. The Majister felt the weight of his own plaser on his hip, and drew some comfort from it.

  Two of them held back as the third stepped forward. He was apparently the oldest of the three, with a drooping mustache and shaggy hair. He looked the Majister up and down, and was clearly unimpressed by what he saw.

  “Morning,” said the Majister carefully. “Can I help you folks?”

  “You the Majister?” His voice was gravelly and distant, as if uninterested in the answer to the question.

  “Yes. And you would be?”

  “Hey, Temo.” It was Kusack who had spoken up from his cell. He seemed rather chipper. “How you doing?”

  “Better than you,” said the one who’d been addressed as Temo. “What the hell kind of fix you gotten yourself into, Kus’?”

  “Kusack is in gaol for murder,” Majister Fairax said neutrally.

  “Really.”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well … I’m his brother. And these two gentlemen here,” and he indicated the men standing on either side of him, “are also his brothers. And I think you should know … that we frown on murder. Kus’ … I thought you knew better than that. Hang your head in shame, Kus’.”

  Kusack promptly hung his head in shame.

  Temo swung his baleful glare back to the Majister. “There. You see? Clearly, he’s ashamed. Our family has certain standards, and it upsets us deeply—deeply—to see that our brother has violated them. Do you know what we’re going to do, Majister?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “We are going to bring him home and discipline him severely. That’s how our family operates, you see. We’re big believers in personal responsibility.”

  The Maestress stepped forward and said firmly, “And we are big believers in the law.”

  “Maestress, I can handle this. Perhaps you should leave,” the Majister said slowly. He did not like the way this seemed to be shaping up.

  “Perhaps she should,” agreed Temo. But then one of the brothers took a couple of steps to the right, squarely blocking the door. “Then again, perhaps she shouldn’t.”

  Something changed in the air; something electrical seemed to shift polarity. Calhoun was now up behind his cell door, his face absolutely inscrutable. “Majister,” he said softly, “perhaps you’d better—”

  “I’m not looking for advice from a beater of women, Calhoun,” the Majister told him curtly. He shifted his focus back to Temo and the other two. “Your dedication to family and your high ethics are duly noted,” he deadpanned. “However, my first duty is to the law and to the citizens of this city. The law says that your brother is going to have to wait for the Circuit Judiciary. And that’s what he’s going to do. Now, I suggest that you gentlemen accept that reality, turn around, and depart. If you want to discuss it further … then let the Maestress go on her way, and we can continue—”

  Temo gave no warning whatsoever. One moment his hand was hanging relaxed at his side, and the next, the plaser was in his hand.

  Even as he moved for his own weapon, the Majister knew that he was too slow and too late. Temo fired once, and once was all it took. The plaser bolt slammed Fairax squarely in the chest, knocking him off his feet and sending him smashing against the cell in which Calhoun was imprisoned. He hit it hard and then slid to the ground, a massive scorch mark across his chest. His head lolled to the right, and his hand slumped away from the butt of his plaser. He had never even managed to get it clear of the holster.

  The Maestress did not let out a shriek, as another might have done. Instead, regardless of her own safety, she pointed straight at Temo and snarled, “You … murderer!”

  Ignoring her, Temo said to one of his brothers, “Get him out,” and nodded toward Kusack. The brother strode forward, pulling his plaser as he went. The third continued to block the door.

  With one quick screech of a plaser bolt, the door lock was blasted away. Kusack let out a whoop of triumph and shoved the door open. “Qinos!” he said joyfully, clapping the brother who’d just freed him on the shoulder. “Shadrak! And Temo …” His arms were open as he approached the brother who’d led them. “How can I thank you for—”

  Temo slapped him, hard. Kusack staggered, putting a hand to his face. “Wha—what did you—?”

  “Idiot. Letting yourself get dragged into gaol by this piece of …” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. Instead, somewhat annoyed, he kicked the unmoving body of the Majister. “What in hell were you thinking?”

  “I was drunk … he … he tricked me, snuck up on me … I was—”

  Temo slapped Kusack again, and then steadied himself. “You know what, Kus’? I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear anything about this entire misbegotten incident anymore.”

  “Well, you’re going to!” It was the Maestress who had spoken. “This will not end here! I swear, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done! You’re going to pay!”

  “Why haven’t we killed her?” growled Qinos.

  And that was when Calhoun spoke up. “Let me,” he said.

  Their attention swiveled to him. “Who is this?” Temo asked of Kusack. “For that matter … what is this?”

  “His name’s Calhoun.”

  “What’d the Majister call him? Oh, yes … beater of women.” Temo’s lips twitched upward. “Now, there was a ringing endorsement.”

  “He kept telling the Majister that he wasn’t in his right mind when he beat ’em,” Kusack offered.

  Calhoun gave him a contemptuous look. “And you told your brothers you were drunk when the Majister arrested you. We all make excuses.”

  “And why do you want to kill her?” asked Temo. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, and he nudged it back slightly on his forehead as he studied Calho
un.

  “She insulted me. She said I was ugly.”

  “You are.”

  “I’ll kill you next,” Calhoun told him.

  This prompted Temo to let out a bark-like laugh. “I like this one. Push the woman over toward him so he can kill her.” He reached to a scabbard that hung on the back of his belt and extracted a knife. While he did that, Shadrak grabbed the Maestress by the arms and pinned them back. This prompted her to let out an infuriated yelp. He started shoving her toward Calhoun as if she had no weight.

  But when Temo proferred the knife to Calhoun, he shook his head. “She’s not worth staining perfectly good steel for. Bare hands will do.”

  “I am impressed,” Temo said approvingly.

  “Let me out to do it.”

  This, however, prompted caution. “I think not,” he said slowly.

  Upon hearing that, Calhoun shrugged and moved to the back part of the cell. “Then forget it. I’ve no interest in having her corpse lying here and me stuck in this cell so that I can be immediately executed for her murder … and, who knows, perhaps they’ll try to stick the Majister’s death on me as well.”

  “Why should we let you out?” demanded Temo.

  “Why shouldn’t you?” Calhoun spread his hands. “I have no weapon. You’re three armed men. Four, if you give your brother a weapon. Look … never mind. If you’re that afraid of me …”

  “Who said we were afraid of you?” Temo demanded.

  Calhoun said nothing, but simply shrugged.

  Temo looked suspiciously toward the Majister’s plaser, but saw that it was securely in his holster. So Calhoun hadn’t removed it and hidden it on his person as some sort of ambush.

  “You’re monsters! All of you, monsters!” Maestress Cawfiel said in thundering moral outrage.

  This was more than enough for Temo. He aimed his plaser at the lock of the cell door that held Calhoun and fired once. The lock was instantly blown out, and the door swung open.

  Calhoun rose and walked slowly out of the cell. He cast an appreciative glance at the fried lock and nodded approvingly. “Very nice,” he said. “Very nice work.”

  “Shadrak,” said Temo briskly, “give him the shrieking little harridan and let’s be done with it.”

  “And once I’ve killed her, what then? You let me go on my way?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?” replied Temo. “As you yourself said … what do we have to be afraid of?”

  At that, Calhoun smiled. If Temo had been looking very closely, he would have seen that none of that smile was reflected in Calhoun’s eyes. But he wasn’t. Instead, he simply stood there as Shadrak brought the Maestress over to him. The Maestress began to struggle, and Shadrak had to increase the pressure on her wrists to hold her steady.

  “You’re gripping her all wrong,” Calhoun told him. “There’s a convenient way to immobilize someone. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He reached for Cawfiel’s right arm … and then went right past it and gripped Shadrak’s arm instead. The move was so quick, so subtle, that Shadrak didn’t even realize it was happening.

  And suddenly, just like that, Calhoun had spun Shadrak around, twisted his arm back and frozen him in place. Amazingly, he had done so with only one hand; with his free hand, he yanked Shadrak’s plaser out of his holster.

  Temo had never holstered his weapon, but it had all happened so fast that he’d been caught utterly flat-footed. His movement was instinctive, and he fired, but Shadrak was serving as a shield, and all he did was nail his brother in the chest. Shadrak let out a stunned shriek, and then his head slumped forward.

  Calhoun lashed out with his right leg and knocked the Maestress flat to the floor. For a heartbeat, she thought it was an attack, and then she realized: he was shoving her to the floor to get her out of harm’s way. He swung the plaser around and, from behind his shield, fired. The first blast hit Qinos in the arm, and he staggered back, clutching at the wound and howling. The second barely missed the fast-moving Temo, and blew his hat clean off his head.

  “Go! Go!” screamed Temo, and he and Qinos backed up. Kusack started to follow, and Calhoun fired again. This blast nailed Kusack in the leg, and he went down, clutching at his upper thigh.

  Temo ducked under another blast, fired again, but couldn’t get past the dead mass of meat that had been his brother. He snagged Qinos by the wrist, and they charged out the door.

  “Come back!” Kusack shouted pitifully, lying on the floor and clutching at his injured leg.

  “Shut up,” Calhoun said sharply. Still wielding Shadrak’s body in front of him, he went to the door and looked out. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw—namely, the two brothers bolting across the dirt streets of Narrin, trying to put as much distance between him and themselves as possible. He turned back to Kusack and, gesturing with the plaser, said, “Get back in your cell.”

  “I can’t walk—!”

  “Neither can he,” Calhoun said tightly, indicating the Majister’s corpse. “And unless you want to follow his example, you’ll get in the cell now. Now.”

  Realizing that Calhoun wasn’t exactly in the mood for discussion, Kusack dragged himself across the floor. As he hauled himself into the cell, Calhoun allowed Shadrak’s body to slide to the floor. Then he looked down at the Maestress, who was still on the floor and looking up at him in wonderment.

  “Get up,” he said tersely, but made no effort to help her. The Maestress did so, dusting herself off and watching him cautiously. “There’s no lock on the cell door anymore,” he continued. “I’ll wait here and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. You go get help.”

  “How do I—?” Then she caught the question before she completed it. Obviously, she had no reason to think that he was going to do anything other than what he had said he was going to. He could have killed her. He could have walked out after he’d shot Shadrak. Instead, he was standing there and telling her to bring someone else. It seemed extremely unlikely that he was going anywhere.

  She had no idea why he was doing it. But she knew one thing beyond a doubt, one thing that was the only appropriate thing to say or do, given the circumstances.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He nodded slightly. “You’re welcome,” he replied. And then he sat on the edge of the desk. The last thing she saw of him as she ran for help was him immobile, seemingly almost bored … and perhaps just a bit sad … but, ultimately, comfortable in the sea of violence that surrounded him.

  It was at that moment that she knew; he was her man.

  MAJISTER FAIRAX

  MAJISTER FAIRAX HAD BEEN in charge of enforcing the law in the city of Narrin for three years, nine months, and one day. The Majister was looking forward with great eagerness to the moment the current year of his contract expired, for four years was as much as he had committed to, and he had not developed a great deal of fondness for the residents therein. For the most part, he found them provincial, quick to anger, quick to judge, and slow to extend compassion. On the other hand, they were valuable guides, for all he had to do was embrace the opposite of their attitudes, and he was reasonably sure that he would wind up a decent enough fellow.

  The only one in the area that he found particularly tolerable was that woman … Rheela. The one who had a little place by the outskirts. Rheela … the rainmaker. She was an odd one, she and her boy, there was no denying that, and on some level he could understand why a number of the townspeople didn’t trust her. On the other hand, she had never done anything to harm anyone. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. She had been helpful to the point of craziness, bringing rain cascading down in torrents for the benefit of the people. She had given them freely of this amazing ability she possessed, and in return they had given her suspicion and scowls.

  “Why do you do it?” he had once asked her. It had been during a holiday festival, and the town had been alive with celebration. Half the population was already drunk, and the other half was well on its way, so obviously no one was giving th
e young woman any trouble about her presence. It was one of the few times that he’d been able to hold a conversation with her without people giving them dirty looks.

  “Do what?” she had replied. She was keeping a wary eye on her son, who was gallivanting around with the other celebrants.

  The Majister had scratched his grizzled chin and looked her up and down. Were he a younger man, he might very well have made some serious endeavors in her direction. But he was old enough, wary enough, to know just how ridiculous a man of his age would look if he was courting such a fine young woman. At least, ridiculous in his own mind, and that was all that mattered. “Stay around these parts,” he had asked. “There’s been very little done in the way of making you feel at home. If you packed up and left tomorrow, these folks wouldn’t be the least bit sorry to see you gone. And I know I’m not hurting your feelings when I say that, because I sure ain’t telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  “That’s as may be, Majister,” she had replied, indeed, not sounding the least bit put out. “But they would miss the water I bring to them. So, in that way, they’d miss me.”

  “Meaning to them, you’re a means to an end. They’re using you.”

  “Everyone uses everyone, Majister,” she said with a shrug. “That’s the way of the world. Sometimes the use is for individual benefit, sometimes for the benefit of many. Ultimately, though, what makes one happy is what matters.”

  “And staying here where people don’t like you makes you happy.”

  “Whether they like me or not doesn’t matter.”

  “Then what does?”

  “Whether I like them,” she said with a laugh.

  “And you do?”

  “I think they have …” She thought for a moment. “Potential.”

  “Potential.” He shook his head, looking distinctly unimpressed by the notion. “I don’t know that I agree with you.”