by Peter David
“I heard. Is she all right?” he asked, and the concern in his voice was by no means manufactured.
Calhoun looked at him as if he were some sort of bacteria. “Are you saying you weren’t part of it?”
“Part of it? I was nowhere near! I wouldn’t be a party to such things,” he sniffed indignantly. “Ask anyone. I was nowhere near here when the … unpleasantness … occurred.”
“How convenient for you,” Calhoun said sarcastically. “How many people do you have covering for you?”
Tapinza squared his shoulders, facing off against Calhoun. “Look, Majister, I know that, if you’re so inclined, you can knock me flat. You did it before, you can very likely do it again. But before you do, let me tell you that—as much as you’re reluctant to believe it—I actually have feelings for Rheela. I care about her, and want what’s best for her. Despite our ‘differences,’ I want you to believe that if I had been here, I would have done everything within my power to prevent the awful situation yesterday from happening. They had no business attacking her that way when she was in town. And the burning of her farm …” He shook his head, his face a convincing portrait of concern. “Unconscionable. Was any of it saved?”
“Some.” Calhoun didn’t seem as if he was letting down his guard, or his anger, in the least.
“Is there any way I can help—?”
Calhoun studied him carefully, thoughtfully. “It needs to be rebuilt.”
“Naturally,” said Tapinza flatly. “I can provide her with whatever raw materials are needed to make the repairs. Manpower might be a bit more problematic. I have interests in a variety of—”
“Don’t worry about manpower. I’ve got that covered.”
Tapinza watched with interest as, without another word, Calhoun turned and headed for the saloon. Consumed with curiosity, Tapinza followed him. He didn’t have the slightest idea what Calhoun was going to do, but he suspected that whatever it was, it was going to be unpleasant for someone. For once, he had every reason to believe that he was not going to be the someone for whom it was to be unpleasant.
Calhoun strode into the saloon as if he owned the place. Tapinza did the same thing, although in his case it was warranted, since he really did own the place. But he was a silent partner with the Praestor, and preferred to remain that way. Tapinza took a seat at the edge of the bar and watched the Majister with interest. There had been much noise, chatter, hubbub, just before the Majister had entered. But as the first people noticed that he was there, and as word quickly spread, the loud voices dwindled to urgent whispers, and finally to silence. Tapinza had to admit that Calhoun’s sheer presence was nothing short of remarkable.
Calhoun had not moved so much as an inch, had not made the slightest threatening gesture. It seemed as if he was capable of fixing the entire crowd in the saloon with his stare. And quite a crowd it was. Breakfast was being served in the saloon, so it was fairly packed, as was usually the case. Tapinza saw that almost every prominent citizen—and most of the useless ones—was there.
Letting the silence hang for what seemed an unconscionably long time, Calhoun seemed in no hurry to move things along. Finally the Praestor stood, cleared his throat in an imperious harrumph manner, and said loudly, “Um … may we help you, Majister?”
Calhoun didn’t reply at first. Instead, he seemed to be sizing up the crowd. Finally, he pointed at one man. It might well have been utterly at random, but he did so with considerable authority, nonetheless.
The man he pointed to, as it so happened, was Hodgkis. Calling Hodgkis a man was like calling a drought a little dry spell. Hodgkis was the biggest, most physically intimidating man in town. Hodgkis kept mostly to himself. When he appeared at town meetings, he was generally silent. He didn’t try to intimidate anyone; he didn’t have to. Still, Hodgkis tended to be present at any major town-related activity and/or incident. Calhoun was positive that Hodgkis had been present when the assault began. Whether Hodgkis had actually thrown anything was irrelevant to Calhoun. The point was, he could have stopped it, or at least deterred it. As far as Calhoun was concerned, anyone who simply stood by and let the assault occur was as responsible as those who actively supported it. As for the torched farmhouse, why … he might have done it. Might not have. At that point, Calhoun didn’t know for sure and—what was more—he didn’t especially care.
He pointed at Hodgkis. “You,” he said.
Hodgkis seemed to take a moment to focus on the fact that Calhoun was addressing him, even though he was standing only a few feet away and pointing right at him. “Me?”
“You,” Calhoun told him, “are going to help rebuild her house.”
Hodgkis stared at him as if Calhoun had announced that he was about to start flapping his arms for the purpose of achieving flight. “Really,” he said skeptically. He stepped off the barstool he’d been perched on and looked down at Calhoun, who was at least a head shorter than he. “Really,” he said again, which might very well have required a full tenth of his existing vocabulary.
“Yes. Really.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’ll hurt you.”
It was hard to believe that it could become quieter than the dead silence that already existed, but that was indeed what happened. Hodgkis looked at Calhoun with dead eyes. “Takes a lot for an armed man to threaten an unarmed one.”
“Put your hands up.”
Hodgkis stared blankly.
“Put. Your. Hands. Up.”
Hodgkis did as he was told. At that moment, every person in the bar figured that Calhoun was about to shoot down Hodgkis. It was hard to believe that he would do something as boneheaded as that. Just up and murder a man, with all these witnesses around. Then again, Calhoun was a hard one to get a read off. One never knew what to expect from him.
Without a word, Calhoun unbuckled the belt that held plasers hanging from either side. “Keep them raised,” he said. Everyone watched in utter astonishment as Calhoun strapped the belt around Hodgkis’ waist. Hodgkis stared in mute shock at the weapons that now adorned him.
As if recapping what had just been said, Calhoun told him, “You are going to help rebuild her house, or I am going to hurt you.”
Hodgkis didn’t even hesitate. With both hands, he went for the guns.
Calhoun snagged both arms at the wrists and stopped them dead, bare inches from the holsters. For a long moment they simply stood there, the trembling of Hodgkis’ arms the only outward indication that there was some sort of strained fight going on. Calhoun, for his part, didn’t seem to be putting any effort into maintaining his grip. His mouth was set in a grim smile, and his eyes looked very far away, as if he was drawing something from far away into himself. Hodgkis grunted, and then switched tactics, apparently hoping to catch Calhoun off guard. Instead he tried to whip his arms up and around and lunge at Calhoun.
No chance.
Instead, Calhoun twisted around, shoving his hip against Hodgkis, thrust with one leg and lifted the bigger man into the air. He held him there for probably a moment longer than he had to, Hodgkis kicking and flailing about, helpless as any mewling infant. Calhoun still didn’t exhibit any exertion, which meant to Tapinza that either Calhoun was incredibly strong or incredibly controlled, or some of both.
Calhoun, never having loosened his grip on Hodgkis’ wrists, slammed him down onto a nearby table, scattering the men who’d been sitting at it, sending drinks flying. The table crashed to the floor under Hodgkis’ weight and the impact of his body. Hodgkis lay there, stunned, apparently still not believing that he had been so easily manhandled.
Reaching down to the belt buckle, Calhoun undid it and removed the holsters from around Hodgkis’ waist. He did not bother to buckle the weapons on again, instead holding them almost casually in one hand. “You,” he said to Hodgkis, “are going to help rebuild her house.”
Hodgkis managed a nod. At that moment, it was about all he could do in the way of movement.
Calhoun then looked around
at the others standing nearby. He picked half a dozen men, seemingly at random, and to each of them he said the same thing: “You are going to help rebuild her house.” Each of them nodded in turn, not offering the slightest objection.
At that moment, Maestress Cawfiel barreled into the tavern. Apparently, word somehow had gotten to her about what was going on, because she looked daggers at Calhoun, and said in a voice that was grave and portentous, “Majister … are you threatening these people?” she demanded.
“No,” he said quietly.
She pointed a quivering finger at Hodgkis, who was only then getting up off the floor, brushing himself off and looking somewhat chagrined over the whole business. “Did you say you would hurt him unless he ‘offered’ his services in rebuilding Rheela’s home?”
“Yes,” he said, with exactly the same tone as he had used a moment earlier.
“So you lied!” she said, with something akin to triumph.
“No. I threatened a person. Singular. The rest agreed to the restoration without threats.”
“And are you going to insist on my aiding in this ‘project’?” she said with unveiled disgust.
“I have enough volunteers.” He glanced at the ‘volunteers’ and they, knowing what was good for them, nodded in unison.
But the Maestress wasn’t backing down. “And if I have you removed as Majister?”
“The house will still be rebuilt, because it’s the right thing to do. Majister, or not, it’s of no relevance to me. I’m just passing through.”
“I will stop you from forcing our citizens to aid that woman!” Cawfiel told him angrily. “Or are you going to threaten me, also?”
Calhoun shrugged. “Do you want me to?”
“Is this some sort of game to you?” Her voice sounded like a screech.
“No. No, this is very real. Rheela almost died, that was real. Somebody, or bodies, was responsible for that. That was real. I expect that the town will unite in silence on the subject. I could arrest the town. Or I can force reparations to be made. Or I can just start killing people,” he added as an afterthought. “Would that please you?”
“Try that, and you’ll have to start with me!” the Maestress said defiantly.
“All right,” Calhoun replied, calm as could be, and his hand speared toward her throat.
The Maestress let out the most soul-shattering shriek of alarm that anyone had ever heard. It wasn’t dignified or imperious or any of the things that people had come to associate with her. Instead it was the pure, unbridled terror of an ancient and withered woman who abruptly realized, at the last moment, that she had gone too far.
Calhoun’s hand stopped short about a centimeter from her throat. She gasped, flinching, expecting that air was about to be cut off, her throat crushed, and not quite believing it when she found that such was not the case. Instead Calhoun snapped his fingers in irritation, as if he’d just remembered something.
“Oh, that’s right,” he said, scolding himself. “I already killed my quota of little old ladies this year. Sorry.” He took a step back and doffed his hat to her. “Maybe next year.”
And there was a guffaw.
From Hodgkis.
It was purely spontaneous, for Hodgkis certainly had no reason to be the least enamored of Calhoun or anything he said or did. But nevertheless, Hodgkis let out a snorting laugh. Whether it was because of what Calhoun had said, or the look on Cawfiel’s face, it was impossible to tell. Laugh, though, he did. This, in turn, touched off a chain reaction, as others snorted or giggled in amusement as well. Never had anyone acted in such a flip, offhanded manner with the Maestress, at least not in Tapinza’s recollection.
The Maestress was clearly shocked at the response. Calhoun’s face was a neutral deadpan, but she scowled at everyone around her. Out of habit, they tried to wipe the amusement off their faces, but only with partial success. Her body trembling with raw indignation, the Maestress turned on her heel and strode out of the bar with as much dignity as she could muster. More guffaws and snickers accompanied her departure, and although it was impossible to tell whether or not she heard, Tapinza had the distinct impression that she did.
Tapinza had never seen her more livid.
“Where were you?!” howled the Maestress. She was stalking his elaborately furnished living room. “You saw what he did to me there! You saw!”
“Calm down, Maestress,” Tapinza started to say.
But she steamrolled right over him, shouting, “Don’t you tell me to calm down!” before he’d even gotten the words out. “That man humiliated me in front of the town! And no one shouted him down! No one stood up to him!”
“One man did, and Calhoun beat him up without any effort.”
“Is that all that men respect? Someone who can beat them up?”
“No, but it comes fairly high on the list.”
She whirled on him, like a small, angry dynamo. “I am a Maestress. You are a Maester. We have both come by our titles honestly, with hard work and dedication to a vision of what this city can and should be. Calhoun is obviously becoming a threat to that! His threat extends from that presented by Rheela! I knew that no good would come from her, I warned them all! I warned you! You and your foolish interest in her. You said that you would be able to control her! That she would come around to your way of thinking!”
“And you said that Calhoun would be more easy to control once he became Majister, because he would fall under the auspices of the council!” retorted Tapinza. “I warned you, did I not? I told you that you were underestimating him and overestimating yourselves. I know the kind of man Calhoun is. I’ve dealt with his kind before. Tough, resolute, impossible to control …”
“That hasn’t stopped you from your own failed efforts.”
“True,” he admitted. “It just goes to show that people don’t necessarily learn from experience. Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t change things for the future.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him suspiciously. “What are you saying? What do you mean?”
“I am saying, Maestress,” he said coolly, “that you needn’t worry. I am attending to it.”
“How?” There was genuine interest in her eyes now, a hint of excitement. Clearly she was intrigued, even delighted by the notion that Calhoun was going to be ‘attended to’ in some way.
“Ah, Maestress … that would be telling.”
She smiled at that, a broad, toothy smile. Then she laughed with what she undoubtedly figured was a girlish tone. It was a somewhat disturbing noise to hear, issuing from that far-from-girlish throat.
And then, to Tapinza’s shock and distaste, she got up on her toes and kissed him. Her lips were papery and rasped across his, and when she shoved her tongue into his mouth, it was like leather. As he pushed away from her, he managed to rein himself in just sufficiently so that his reaction didn’t come across as the pure revulsion that it was.
She took a step back and looked at him, and for just a second he saw a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “Once,” she said slowly, “men would have killed for even that taste. Believe it or not. But I knew my life’s destiny, even then. And I restrained myself. And I denied myself. And where did it get me? Where?” The sudden outpouring of self-loathing fury stunned him and then, just as quickly as it had surfaced, the storm passed, and the Maestress was the same untouchable, unknowable, self-depriving and withered creature that she had always been.
“Get … Calhoun,” she rasped.
“Yes, Maestress,” he said, bowing, and knowing that if the alternatives were making an attempt on the life of a man who could break his neck like a twig, or feeling the Maestress’ tasteless tongue being shoved down his throat, he’d submit his neck to Calhoun and tell him to twist away.
The Maestress turned on her heel and bustled out of Tapinza’s home, which certainly wasn’t soon enough to suit Tapinza. Even as he drew a sleeve across his mouth to try and eliminate the foul taste from his lips, he heard a snickering chortle f
rom behind him. “Who would have thought the old creature had that much juice in her?” came the contemptuous voice.
He turned and saw Temo and Qinos emerging from the adjoining room. They had arrived only moments before the Maestress, and taken refuge in there at Tapinza’s insistence. And he truly had had to be insistent, because their inclination was simply to pull out their weapons and blast the old woman to bits, instead of hiding out so that she could come and go as she pleased.
Tapinza took two quick strides toward them and swung his hand around. It connected with Temo’s jaw, knocking him off his feet. Temo stared up at him in mute astonishment, and then his face clouded as obvious thoughts of murder flittered across his mind. Qinos just looked from one to the other with surprise.
“Shut up,” Tapinza said furiously. “You’re lucky you’re still alive. You’re lucky I’m letting you live.”
“You’re letting us live?” Temo slowly got to his feet, a look of quiet fury on his face. “You listen to me, ‘Maester.’ Just because you employ us doesn’t mean—”
“Whatever you think it means or doesn’t mean is of absolutely no consequence to me,” shot back Tapinza. He stood there for a moment, studying them, his eyes glittering, and his gaze traveled to the plaser in Temo’s holster. Very softly, he said, “You want to pull that thing and shoot at me? Is that it? Go ahead, Temo. Be my guest.”
If he’d had any illusion that Temo would bluff or in some other way hesitate to utilize deadly force, he was quickly disillusioned, as Temo, in one quick motion, pulled the plaser from his holster and squeezed the trigger at point-blank range.
Nothing happened.
Temo stared stupidly at the plaser, then swung it up and fired again as if a repeat would somehow have better luck. Still the weapon did nothing except sit in his hand like a large, useless piece of metal. Qinos did not even bother to draw his own weapon, but simply stared at Temo’s lack of success. Qinos was a bit more reluctant to pull his gun these days anyway, since the arm in which he’d been shot continued to remain sore. Any sudden movement was agonizing for him, so he preferred to let Temo do the work … and, for that matter, the thinking whenever possible.