by Jon Hollins
I unfolded the paper, slid it over. Scrawled in ink across its yellow was a leering mask of an opera actor upon a headful of wild hair, tastefully framed in a black box with a very large sum written beneath it and the words DEATH WARRANT above it.
“Son of a bitch!” Ralp’s eyebrows rose, along with his voice. “You’re looking for that son of a bitch?”
I held a finger to my lips, glanced out the corner of my eye. The youths hadn’t seemed to notice that particular outburst, their eyes still on their bottle.
“He has a name,” I said. “Daiga the Phantom. What do you know about him?”
When you’re in my line of work, you start to read faces pretty well. You can tell who the liars are just by looking at them. And I could tell by the wrinkles around Ralp’s eyes and mouth that he was used to smiling big and wide. Which meant he had to have told a few lies in his day, probably most of them to himself.
That didn’t make him good at it.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve heard the name, but nothing else.”
“Nothing else?”
“I know whatever they’re offering for his death can’t be worth him coming for me.” Ralp looked at me, pointedly.
I looked back. And I, just as pointedly, pulled my cloak aside to reveal the hilt of the sword at my hip.
“He has something I want,” I replied.
“Hope you find someone else who can give it to you.” He searched for something to busy his hands, eventually settling on one of the many dirty glasses and began to polish it. “I don’t know anything of mages, let alone Vagrants like that …man. They’re funny stories you tell around the bar. I haven’t had enough customers for that in a long time.” He sniffed. “Truth is, madame, I don’t know that I’d even notice if someone like that showed up around here.”
“Birdshit.” I leaned in even closer, hissed through my teeth. “I’ve been here three days and the most exciting thing I saw was an old man accusing his ox of lechery.”
“He has a condition—”
“And before I came in here, I glanced around back and saw your shipment.” I narrowed my eyes. “Lot of crates of wine for a man with no customers. Where are you sending them?”
Ralp stared at the bar. “I don’t know. But if you don’t get out, I’ll call the peacekeepers and—”
“Ralp,” I said, frowning, “I’m going to be sad if you make me hurt you over lies this pathetic.”
“I said I don’t know,” he muttered. “Someone else picks them up.”
“Who? What’s Daiga using them for?”
“I don’t know any of that, either. I try to know as little as fucking possible about that freak or any other freak like him.” All pretenses gone, there was real fear in his eyes. “I don’t make it my business to know anything about no mage, Vagrant or otherwise. It’s not healthy.”
“But you’ll take his metal all the same, I see.”
“I took your metal, too. The rest of the Scar might be flush with gold, but Rin’s Sump is dry as six-day birdshit. If a Vagrant gives me money for not asking questions, I’m all too fucking happy to do it.”
“Yeah?”
I pulled the other side of my cloak back, revealing another hilt of a very different weapon. Carved wood, black and shiny as sin, not so much as a splinter out of place. Polished brass glimmered like it just wanted me to take it out and show it off.
At my hip, I could feel the gun burning, begging to be unleashed.
“As it turns out, asking questions makes me unhappy, too, Ralp. What do you suppose we do about that?”
Sweat appeared on Ralp’s brow. He licked his lips, looked wild-eyed at my piece before he looked right back into the ugliest grin I could manage.
Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t feel particularly great about doing something as pedestrian as flashing a gun. It feels so terribly dramatic, and not in the good way. But you must believe me: I was expecting this to go smoothly. I hadn’t prepared anything cleverer at the time. And, if I’m honest, this particular gun makes one hell of a statement.
I certainly wasn’t going to feel bad about this.
By Jon Hollins
THE DRAGON LORDS
Fool’s Gold
False Idols
Bad Faith
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