by R. L. King
Faran had given him a key that would get him in the back door (though notably he hadn’t trusted him yet with one to the shop itself). Despite the man’s comment earlier about “going out and getting drunk,” he had said Stone’s time after work was his own. With his tip coins jingling in his pocket, he headed out.
At night, the city looked far more forbidding than it had during the day. Many of the streetlights either didn’t work or flickered intermittently, and most of even the small number of vehicles Stone had seen were nowhere in evidence. The majority of the shops were closed this late, and the people he saw on the streets now—both men and women, he noticed—had a watchful quality to them, as if they half-expected someone to jump them. It wasn’t obvious, but years of studying auras had given Stone a sort of sixth sense about it even without magical assistance.
Still, no one bothered him; in fact, no one even acknowledged him beyond quick grunts when they passed each other on the sidewalks. He wondered if there was anything to the apprehension he saw—was someone about to jump them? Were there dangers here beyond the appearance of the Talented, or the freakish scavengers poking around the edge of town? He’d certainly seen no sign of two-headed wolves or any other unnatural animals on his delivery rounds—was that because they didn’t venture this far into civilized areas, or because they only came out at night? He glanced around nervously, but saw nothing.
Stop it. Just keep your wits about you and pay attention. Nothing’s going to attack you.
He chose the disreputable bar as his first stop, partly because in his shabby, ill-fitting clothes, he’d probably fit in better there than in the more upscale versions. He wasn’t sure whether it was his best choice, since the impeccably put-together Harrison didn’t seem the type who would frequent such a place, but it couldn’t be helped. As it was, he’d have to rely on charm and persuasion to get answers, since bribes were out of the question with his current financial situation.
As he approached the bar he could tell right away that, unlike the people on the streets near the butcher shop, this place’s clientele had no issues with coming out at night. Even from a block away he heard the faint strains of music from inside, and as he paused to watch a moment, the doors opened several times and small groups of people headed in or out. Popular place, apparently.
Feigning a confidence he didn’t entirely feel—he’d been in plenty of unfamiliar, disreputable bars in his time, but never with so little money and no magic—Stone strode across the street and opened the door.
Inside, the music got a lot louder, hitting him like a wall as the heavy door closed behind him. He stepped aside and looked around quickly to get impressions, pleased to see that the place didn’t look so different from a dive bar on Earth: dark décor, tables and booths, and faded, old-fashioned-looking posters hanging on the walls. On the right side, the bar itself was lined with customers—mostly men, a few women, all wearing work clothes. Between the music and the loud chatter of the customers, Stone could barely hear himself think.
He walked in farther and selected a small table near the wall, where he could keep an eye on anyone approaching him. It was hard to see far due to the haze of smoke hanging in the air, but beyond the seating area he spotted what looked like a pair of shabby pool tables with more people clustered around them. Even from where he sat he could tell the layout was different enough that they probably weren’t playing billiards.
For a while, he did nothing but lean back in his chair and surreptitiously watch the people at the nearby tables. They ignored him, but that was fine. All he was trying to determine was how much the drinks cost, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself trying to order something if he didn’t have enough money. He’d already learned the basics of this world’s number system during his deliveries and recognized their equivalent of one through ten; to his relief, it looked like the silver-colored coins he’d been given as tips would buy him at least a few drinks—or some for him and some for whoever he plied for information.
A waitress came by shortly and paused at his table. “Can I get you something?”
He nodded toward the man at the next table, who was drinking what looked like a pint of ale. “I’ll try one of what he’s having.”
“Right away.” She hurried off and returned a few minutes later with a tall glass full of reddish-gold liquid. “That’ll be twenty-five cents.”
Again marveling at the way his translation spell handled monetary sums, he handed over one of the silver coins and she gave him a few smaller ones in change. “You’re new around here,” she said, looking him up and down. “Haven’t seen you before.”
He took an experimental sip. It didn’t taste like anything he’d ever tried before, but it still fell neatly into the “beer” category, spicy and full-bodied. “This is good,” he said. “Thank you.” He handed her one of the smaller coins as a tip and smiled. “You’re right—I’m new in town. I wonder if you might be able to answer a question for me.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the room, but nobody appeared to need her at the moment. “I can try,” she said with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“I’m looking for someone. A friend who was supposed to meet me in town, but I can’t find him. I wondered if perhaps you might have heard of him.” He watched her closely. “His name is—” he paused, catching himself before he revealed Harrison’s full name and possibly his affiliation with the Talented. “—Trevor.” He gave a brief description.
Either she was a much better actress than Stone would give her credit for, or she didn’t know anything. Her expression went blank and she shook her head. “Sorry, friend. Never heard of him. Odd name—does he live here in town? What does he do for a living?”
“See, that’s the thing—I don’t know. I don’t think he lives here, but we were going to meet here and…continue our travels…but I was delayed and missed our meeting.”
“Got it. Well, I can ask around if you want, but not now. I have to get back to work.”
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you. I’d appreciate it, if you would. I expect I’ll be in and out of here fairly frequently.”
The waitress headed back into the crowd, and Stone sat sipping his drink and doing his best to watch the crowd without being obvious about it. He got the impression this was definitely a ‘mind your own business’ sort of place.
During the next hour of watching and nursing his ale to avoid having to buy another, he made several useful discoveries—though none of them got him any closer to finding Harrison. For one, this place was clearly the place to go if you had illicit activities on your mind. He noticed one or more of the three scantily-dressed women who drank and chattered together at one of the back tables getting up several times and disappearing into the back with different men; once he spotted two furtive men exchanging a paper-wrapped parcel for an envelope and then quickly departing in different directions; and all around him, people sat tilted back in their chairs, smoking something that probably wasn’t tobacco. Stone had smelled a similar aroma a couple times on his deliveries, wafting down from upper windows. Given the constant state of stress most of these people seemed to live under, it didn’t surprise him at all that some turned to drugs to make their days and nights more bearable.
Unfortunately, this was getting him nowhere. He finished his drink and got up, giving a rueful smile and a head-shake to one of the ladies at the back table, who’d been giving him the eye for the last twenty minutes, and left the bar. Clearly, if he was going to find Harrison, he’d have to ask more questions—or try another location.
He tried not to get discouraged by thinking about how many ways things could go wrong. He still wasn’t certain he’d even traveled to the correct dimension, but even if he had, this world could be as large as—or even larger than—his own. He could have landed thousands of miles from Harrison’s location—the equivalent of dropping down in London while his quarry was in Los Angeles. If that were true, the technology level here meant it was unlikely he’d e
ver find Harrison.
He’d have to get bolder, and more creative.
As he left the bar, something flashed in the corner of his eye. He turned quickly and thought he spotted a pair of glowing eyes watching him from a dark alley. Even though they disappeared instantly, and he wasn’t sure he’d even seen them, his heartbeat increased. He sped up his stride and glanced back over his shoulder several times on his way back to the butcher shop.
10
Stone grew increasingly frustrated over the following week as his careful inquiries continued to provide no useful information.
Every day was the same: get up at dawn (that was hard enough, as back home he routinely stayed up late and slept well into the morning), make his deliveries, and clean up the shop when he returned. He figured out how to use the alarm clock so he didn’t oversleep again, and Faran seemed satisfied with his work, so that was something, at least. That, and the butcher trusted him with more wide-reaching deliveries, allowing him to see more of the town and add to his mental map.
The town, he discovered, had clearly been much larger in the past. Several times as he pedaled the old bike through the streets on his way to his destinations, he drew near areas that appeared abandoned or occupied only by squatters. In those areas, the buildings looked like they’d weathered a long-ago bombing and never been rebuilt. The electricity was spotty or nonexistent, nobody seemed to be maintaining the streets or the structures, and the few people he saw were dressed even more shabbily than he was. Though he didn’t venture far into these blighted areas, he could see that the further out they stretched, the worse they fared.
He wondered if the ruins had anything to do with the war. He still hadn’t asked anyone about it, and during his evening wanderings—split between the dive bar, the local pub, and another working-class bar he found closer to the center of town—no one ever mentioned it. He wasn’t sure if that was because everyone knew about it and accepted it—people didn’t sit around regularly talking about Vietnam or Iraq, after all—or because they were afraid to bring it up. Either way, Jena’s reaction at the hospital told him he’d best be careful about raising the subject himself.
One good thing later that week was that Faran paid him. “Good job,” the butcher said gruffly one evening, handing him an envelope after he’d returned from his delivery rounds. “I decided not to dock you the buck for bein’ late that first day. Shop’s closed tomorrow, so no deliveries. Go get yerself some decent clothes so you look respectable. There’s a shop on Green Street that’s cheap.” He paused. “Oh—one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I got word from a couple customers that you been askin’ around about some guy you’re lookin’ for.”
“Yes. Is that a problem?” He’d briefly questioned two or three of the shopkeepers on his regular delivery route a couple days ago, the ones he’d developed a good relationship with as indicated by his tips. Of course they’d known nothing, but hadn’t seemed suspicious and promised to keep their ears open.
“You shouldn’t be gettin’ chummy with the customers. Just make your deliveries and get out.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who’s this guy you’re lookin’ for, anyway?”
“A—friend. I was supposed to meet him when I arrived in town, but I got attacked before I could find him.”
“He live here?”
“I don’t think so. We were going to do some traveling.” That was the cover story he’d been using—best to stay consistent, in case anybody compared notes.
“Yeah, whatever.” Faran waved him off. “Not my problem what you do on your own time, as long as it don’t reflect on me. Go on—and don’t get yourself drunk and show up late for work tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Stone murmured.
Determined not to waste a free day, he set off before Faran could find something else for him to do. He was on foot this time, since the bike was only for deliveries, but by now his endurance had returned to the point where walking around all day wasn’t an issue.
He had four chunky bronze-colored coins in his pay envelope and the tips he’d received for his deliveries, so his first stop was the clothing shop Faran had recommended. It was two blocks away on a busy street, and by the time he reached it a good number of people were out walking along, chatting and looking in shop windows. He pushed open the door and headed inside.
Half an hour later he emerged with two parcels containing three shirts, another pair of trousers, and a few sets of boxers and socks. All of them were simple and cheaply made, but at least they fit him better than the ones he had, and he could afford them. He’d spent most of his weekly pay on them, glad he’d collected enough tips to supplement it. He didn’t bother asking the shop’s proprietor about Harrison—he couldn’t imagine the elegant mage frequenting a shabby, cut-rate clothing store.
After returning to the shop to change into one of the new outfits and drop the rest in his room, he set off again. His plan today was to try identifying places where people might know Harrison—perhaps a bookstore, more upscale bars, or even a gambling establishment if he could find one. He realized as he walked, feeling much better in clothes that actually fit him, that he knew next to nothing about the man. Aside from his being a mage, wealthy, and connected somehow to the Obsidian in Las Vegas—all things Stone had learned by observation—Harrison had revealed little about himself. He was clearly an extremely private person; it wasn’t as if Stone could simply look him up in the phone book.
He stopped for a moment, amused by the thought. He’d seen a few public telephones on his wanderings. What if he could look Harrison up in the phone book? Wouldn’t it be perversely funny if he’d spent all this time asking people when all he’d needed to do was check this dimension’s equivalent of the White Pages? Only two problems with that, however: although he’d seen public phones, he hadn’t seen any phone books, and he didn’t know what Harrison’s name looked like in the world’s angular script. Ah, well.
After two more hours of walking, his discouragement grew. He hadn’t spotted anything that resembled a bookstore, or even a newsstand. Did people not read here? Despite Faran’s annoyance that Stone couldn’t, it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. Sure, he’d seen plenty of written communication: his own work papers, signs and posters, and writing in shop windows, for example. But it occurred to him that he’d seen no books, no magazines aside from the periodicals in Byra’s office at the hospital, and only a few newspapers. Odd. He wondered if the Talented read, or if they somehow developed their powers organically. There was, after all, no guarantee that people learned magic here the same way they did on Earth.
Stone’s stomach rumbled, and he realized it was past lunchtime. He should probably go back to the shop, where presumably he could get lunch from Runa as part of his weekly board, but he estimated he was at least two miles away. He still had enough money to buy something, and he’d doubtless pick up more tips when he went back to work tomorrow.
He sniffed the air. Something smelled good, like spicy, roasting meat. A quick look around revealed a medium-sized eatery with a red-painted façade, clearly the source of the enticing aromas. As he watched, several people entered and others left, many of the latter carrying grease-stained paper bags. Anyplace that popular had to be good, Stone decided, and headed for it.
Inside, the warm shop smelled even better, the roast meat mingling with spicy vegetables and a hint of fish. It included only three tiny tables, all of them occupied, with the rest of the floor space taken up by a line of people waiting to order. The customers chatted amiably as they waited, and Stone noticed they appeared to come from all walks of life, from a few well-dressed businesspeople to parents clutching children’s hands to several clad in simple work clothes like his own. He took his place in line and smiled at the middle-aged man who’d turned toward him. “Popular place, this.”
“Oh, yes.” The man returned his smile. “I come here at least once every week—their fish sandwiches are delicious. The wait is worth it.�
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“Good to know.” Stone studied the board above the counter. For the first time, he consciously noticed that the items listed included hand-drawn images to indicate what they were, along with the usual angular writing. There were sections with a fish, one of the fat cow-like creatures on Faran’s butcher-shop window, and something that looked like a long-legged chicken. Below them, another section included two types of drink containers: a mug with steam coming out of it, and a tall cup or glass. Perhaps he’d been more correct than he thought about the general population’s ability to read—or lack of it. “Which one do you recommend?” The line moved forward a bit, and Stone followed.
“Oh, you can’t go wrong with any of them. The tarlfish is especially good.”
Apparently the translation spell couldn’t come up with anything to substitute for tarlfish, so it rendered it as is. “I’ll try that, then. Thank you. I—”
A sudden hush fell over the restaurant’s interior. It started behind Stone, which was why he hadn’t noticed it initially, but quickly rippled forward as the other people in line all turned around to face the door.
For a moment, Stone had the wild fear that they were all looking at him—had he done something wrong?—but it quickly became clear that wasn’t the case. Every person in the place was looking at something behind him, their eyes wide with carefully controlled fright.
Slowly, Stone turned too, and a bolt of ice shot up his spine.