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Ironshield

Page 37

by Edward Nile


  Someone gave the man a drink and laid him onto a bamboo mat while those who'd won the bet collected their due.

  "Is he going to be okay?" Aldren leaned over to ask Mayla.

  She turned to him in the process of accepting a stack of coins, a handrolled cigarette hanging from her mouth. "Eh." She shrugged, pocketing her winnings.

  Aldren looked over to Muscles. Whatever he was drinking, it wasn't the rice wine the rest of the sweaty, half-naked farmers were getting their fill of. The mug a black-toothed farm girl helped lift to his lips emitted a pungent steam. Some sort of antidote?

  Lang had covered the basket once more, and barked out what Aldren was certain he could translate into some variation of "who's next?"

  Mayla leaned to her farm girl. Aldren took the opportunity to peak around her for a look at the other woman's teeth, and saw they were a healthy white. He also caught an eyeful of her right breast from underneath the open neck of her loose white blouse.

  The woman caught Aldren’s eye and giggled. Mayla cast him a sideways glance and a mischievous smirk as she stroked the other woman’s back.

  Lang repeated his challenge.

  Mayla kissed her new friend then, locking lips and gripping her by the hair. Breaking free, she stepped forward, answering Lang’s call with something in Xangese that made several of the men laugh.

  “Mayla?” Aldren walked in step with her as she approached the basket. “What are you doing?”

  “Having some fun. Thought that was what we were here for.”

  At some point, the people watching realized she was serious. Several farmers put out their hands, heads shaking as they tried to dissuade her. Aldren saw many pairs of eyes flicker toward Genlu, still smoking in his corner.

  Lang spoke up, shouting out in a sharp, commanding tone.

  Still looking worried, the farmers moved out of Mayla’s way.

  “This is insane,” Aldren whispered.

  “I guess that’s why I’m doing it.” Mayla rolled up her sleeves. “After all, I’m just a paranoid bitch, right?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Mayla leaned over the basket and spoke to Lang, too quiet for Aldren to hear. Not that he’d understand, anyway.

  Lang’s eyebrows shot up. It was his turn to glance in the direction of their appointed guide. Whatever Mayla wanted, Aldren was sure Lang would refuse.

  But the man turned back to her and nodded, even flashing her a toothy smirk.

  Someone nudged Aldren in the ribs, and he found himself handing a wine-soaked man a fistful of Arkenian marks, throwing his lot into the pool.

  Lang started to drum his hands on the basket once more. The countdown began, but Aldren didn’t join in. Watching Lang preparing to pull the lid free of the basket, Aldren wondered whether he’d just bet for, or against Mayla.

  She didn’t put her arms at the ready the way Muscles had. Instead Mayla sat on her knees, perfectly still, as Duli lifted a fresh rat from a small perforated box by his feet and held it above the hungry reptilian mass.

  What’s going through that head of yours? Aldren wondered. What does this have to do with the search?

  Genlu was watching, leaning for a better look. His expression was neutral, but Aldren couldn’t miss the feverish excitement in the man’s eyes.

  He knew there was no love lost between the Xangese official and the Quarish woman, but to think Genlu would be so eager for her to die…

  This country really is insane.

  Another shouted countdown. The rat dropped, and everything went silent.

  Aldren flinched, not wanting to look.

  People gasped in unison, the anticipatory hush giving way to shock.

  The rat squirmed in Mayla's left hand. She held a viper in her right, thumb pressed against the back of its head, forcing it to remain open-mouthed as its sinuous body thrashed from side to side.

  A cheer began, but cut short into startled shouts when Mayla stood, wound her right arm back, and hurled the snake across the room. Straight toward Genlu.

  Their escort leapt back with a strangled cry. The viper landed at his feet, hissing and snapping.

  While the venomous serpent slithered toward him, Genlu's hand darted behind his back and came around holding a pistol. Three deafening shots filled the hut, causing the partying farmers to shrink back. In a widening pool of its own splattered blood, what remained of the viper flopped to a limp heap. Genlu half-raised his gun toward Mayla, his eyes burning with hate.

  She grabbed a cup of wine from a surprised man near her and downed it in one gulp. "Sorry," she said, tossing the cup to the ground. "Snakes frighten me."

  The woman seemed anything but frightened, even with an armed man contemplating her murder across the room.

  Aldren couldn't keep his eyes from the gun. He'd been searched for weapons at the embassy when he arrived in Xang. They hadn't found his knives, and he hadn't brought a gun, which he thought was just as good when Genlu explained that non-military personel weren't allowed to carry firearms.

  So, why did Genlu have a pistol?

  "Maybe you shouldn't play stupid games, then." Genlu’s tone was even. He tucked the pistol away in his belt and strode out of the hut. People were quick to clear a path.

  Savior above, Aldren thought, watching Mayla pet the rat, which was now on her shoulder and seemed to be burrowing into her hair. She collected her winnings as though nothing untoward had happened. Just who have I fallen in with?

  The snakes and rats were removed from the hut, and those who didn't retire for the night drank in subdued silence. No one felt like gambling anymore.

  *

  Samuel Mutton stared into the glass case, at the uniform which had clothed his other life. The uniform and mask of Striker Crimson.

  The Battle of Graytop Hills was never far from Samuel’s thoughts. Every time he’d interviewed James Edstein, the rage he felt remembering the young commander’s coup threatened to boil over. That blatant breach of the War Codes which had left good Southern men with no chance to defend themselves.

  After seeing the last of his honor guard, young Nicholas, dead outside the Ironshield’s cell, that anger had ignited further. Try as he might, Samuel couldn’t be certain his decision to carry out Salkirk’s damned plan hadn’t been anything more than an excuse to take revenge.

  There’d been a thrill, a ravenous surge of adrenaline in that moment when he planted the muzzle of Redstripe’s cannon in Ironshield’s cockpit. No hesitation, no waiting for his enemy to raise the white flag. Samuel hadn’t given Edstein the chance to surrender, hadn’t wanted him to. And that left him feeling ashamed. Guilt, dishonor, they haunted him up until the moment he and his men searched the ruined Warsuit for Edstein’s remains, only to find no one inside.

  After betraying all honored agreements, after endangering civilians and killing an innocent young soldier, and above all, after having forced Samuel’s hand into a move that would weigh on his soul and his career forever after, James Edstein had simply vanished. Heinrich Edstein’s son had cast his family’s name in disrepute, then simply traipsed off to live his life.

  No more. Samuel slid his saber free, nostrils flared. His reflection was layered over the red mask, giving him a demonic visage. I may not be able to control much, but one thing is certain. The Ironshield won’t escape justice again.

  The sound of shattering glass brought Leanne rushing from the next room. "Sam? What on earth was th..." she trailed off.

  Samuel shrugged into the blood-red leather of the Striker Crimson uniform and began fastening the bronze buttons.

  "You should have burned that awful thing," said Samuel's wife, crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

  "Surprised you didn't get around to it yourself, Dear," Samuel replied as he tugged the straps on the coat's built-in armguards. "Suppose even your backstabbing has its limits."

  "You're going after him," she said. "You're going after Edstein."

  Samuel fastened his sword belt, then bent to pick u
p his mask from among the broken shards of the case. In the same slash of his blade that broke the glass, he'd managed to score a diagonal gash across the face of the burnished leather.

  "Are you going to kill him?"

  "Would you try to stop me if I said yes?" Samuel turned the mask over in his hands, then set it atop the mantlepiece. He looked to his wife, watched her bite her lip in hesitation.

  "No," she said at last. "No, I've learned my lesson about forcing your hand. Things only get worse when I push you."

  She didn't say it, but Samuel knew his wife was thinking about Edstein's escape, and about Quarrystone.

  "Edstein was the one who pushed things. I gave him the chance to save himself and end the war peacefully. Had he agreed, none of this would have happened."

  "No, my love." Leanne uncrossed her arms and stepped closer, placing a slender hand against Samuel's chest. "It's a shame we all share, a burden we all must carry." Her glistening hazel eyes stared into his. In the firelight, her auburn hair was as crimson as Samuel's coat. "But whatever you do now, however you decide to handle this, that is on you. There's always a choice, Sam."

  "You're right about that." He took her hand and kissed it. "And James Edstein made his." Samuel stepped past her and headed for the door.

  "You're on the same side, you and him," Leanne said to his back. "The both of you just need to realize it."

  Chapter 26

  Darian Gaul had started out enjoying these nightly strolls along the Talenport dockyard.

  As well as his employer paid him, his duties didn't leave a lot of time to cavort around the city and spend his earnings. Especially not these past months, when the senator's plans were in full swing.

  Sometimes he missed the good old days, working for men of less reputable stature. No pretenses, no need to stand prim in a fancy suit and watch his boss play politics.

  But the Xang War had happened, and the Civil War after that. What was worse, Darian found he had a taste for it, that he had certain talents powerful men considered more useful than the mere breaking of a few bones. After the wars, well, the kind of money Elliot Salkirk offered was hard to turn down.

  "Try your luck, fella?" rasped a man in filthy rags standing behind a barrel with three overturned cups.

  "Piss off," Darian grunted. That same stinking bugger had been standing by the alley for the past week.

  Savior's swinging dick, think he stinks worse than the fish.

  Much as Darian liked the chance to be out on his own, the repetitiveness of this little routine Salkirk had him following wore on his nerves. The least the man could do was set up Darian's rendezvous point at a half decent pub.

  The Salty Bitch hardly qualified as a pub, let alone decent. Darian's mouth twisted at the sight of its swinging sight, a pitbull covered in seaweed, foaming at the mouth. Darian would drink ale because he had to do something while he waited, but he'd learned his lesson about the food since nearly shitting his guts out a few weeks back.

  Guess he's spoiled me after all. Salkirk had a way of acclimatizing one to the finer things in life. Even the whores around here weren't good enough anymore, and Darian had never been picky about his whores.

  He stepped into the Bitch, his nostrils assaulted by the reek of stale beer and unwashed men in the too-warm interior. The Bitch wasn't a well-maintained spot. This close to port, it didn't have to be. From what Darian had seen of the place every night, the establishment never lacked clientele.

  He elbowed his way past men ordering their drinks at the bar, heading for his table. Darian found it occupied by a gray-bearded sailor reeking of fish and wine, a pox-faced working girl straddling him.

  Darian tapped the man on the shoulder. "You're at my table," he said.

  The sailor pulled his face from between the whore's breasts. "Don't see your fuckin' name on it, pal."

  "My apologies." Darian yanked the whore away by the hair, hurling her to the sawdust-covered floor. The sailor was rising from his chair when Darian grabbed him by the back of his scruffy head and slammed his face into the table, shattering the man's glass.

  Darian pulled him up, ignoring the pained moans bubbling through the blood that poured from his mouth and shattered nose, its cartilage revealed by a gash at the bridge.

  "Well would you look at that," Darian said, gesturing at the mess of blood and broken glass on the table's rough surface. "Looks like I wrote my name here after all."

  The sailor spat out a tooth. “Son of a—"

  Darian hurled him out of the chair, sending him crashing into the whore who’d just managed to get to her feet. Both fell in a tangle of limbs.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Darian said in response to their furious glares. He pulled his coat aside, flashing a holstered pistol.

  Once they’d skulked off, Darian sat in his freshly vacated seat. The disturbance had earned a number of looks, but other than that the activity and noise within the Bitch continued unfettered.

  “A rag,” Darian called to a passing serving girl. “And a shot of rum, if you please.” Ale wouldn’t do, not tonight. For all Darian knew, he’d just blown this meeting place. Good, he thought while a nervous busboy cleaned the bloody debris from his table. Maybe they’ll let me pick the next Goddamn bar.

  His rum arrived, and Darian downed it before the serving girl finished turning away. He grabbed her by the arm, growling “Another.”

  “Y-yes mister.”

  The thick-necked bouncer scowled Darian’s way from beside the bar. Judging from the tattoos which seemed to travel all the way from his arms to his jawline, all failing to hide his dense cords of taut muscle, the man was no stranger to a brawl himself.

  Guess a quiet drink’s out of the question, thought Darian, watching the man push off from the bar to stride in his direction.

  “Mr. Rax!”

  Darian perked up at the sound of his alias. A pale man with slicked-back dark hair walked his way, a smile plastered on his face.

  “It’s alright.” Mr. Parish – or whatever his name really was- intercepted the bouncer, slipping a fistful of paper marks into his beefy, inked hand. The muscle-bound brute looked down at the money, then at the well-dressed newcomer who’d given it to him. Visibly confused and not a little disappointed, he stalked off back to the bar.

  “Thought we were supposed to be inconspicuous.” Darian picked at his own plain wool coat for emphasis, giving Parish’s attire a pointed look. The man was wearing a silk suit, here of all places!

  “Not that it would matter at this point, Mr. Rax, seeing as our meeting place is to be relocated after tonight.” Parish flicked aside a bit of tooth the busboy had missed and sat across from Darian, placing his leather briefcase on the floor between them.

  “Oh, piss off with that old trope.” Darian grabbed the case and tucked it under his arm. “And for the record, none of that was my fault. You folk are the ones who picked this dump in the first place.”

  “Your violent proclivities have nothing to do with the change in venue, I assure you.”

  That gave Darian pause. “Really? Then why? Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

  “Your employer will understand when he receives the package,” Parish said. “In due time, he will be notified of the next meeting location. Of that, even I am not aware. We can’t be too careful, especially now.”

  “Y’mean…” Darian looked over his shoulder before leaning forward to whisper. “It’s happening soon, isn’t it?” The briefcase seemed to grow heavier.

  Mr. Parish stood. “Get the case to your employer, Mr. Rax,” he said, stepping aside as Darian’s next drink arrived. “The quicker, the better.”

  Darian waited several minutes after the man left. He even ordered another drink. No reason to look more suspicious than he already did. The briefcase felt alive in his hands, like an explosive device that could detonate at any moment. Except a bomb would be less devastating. He looked around, imagining malicious intent behind every errant glance, the drunkards and whores turned t
o assassins and spies in his mind’s eye.

  Alright, he decided. Time to get this done.

  Dockmen yelled as they loaded a freight ship. A group of the usual urchins ran by, chasing another boy who clutched something to his chest. One of the young thieves cast Darian a calculating look, seemed to think better of it, and continued the chase.

  “Looks like you’re having a lucky night.” It was the damned cups man again. Only, this time he’d come out from around his barrel and approached Darian, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Listen, bum, I don’t feel like getting scammed by your fucking two-bit tricks. Not tonight, not ever- Agh!” Darian fell, scraping his hands on the pavement, the briefcase sliding away from him. Something had hit him across the back of the knees, hard. The fuck… he reached for the briefcase. A shiny black shoe stepped on it. Darian looked up. The shoe belonged to none other than the bedraggled cups man, who looked down on him with an intelligent gleam in his eyes as incongruous to his looks as the footwear.

  One of the urchins, the one who’d looked Darian’s way before, accepted a roll of marks from the cups man’s dirty hand.

  Darian started to rise, until something sharp pricked the side of his neck. One of the other boys, the one who’d been running, shuffled back holding an empty syringe.

  “Little… fucker…” Darian’s vision blurred in and out of focus. Before he lost conciousness, he caught sight of the bum, who yanked off his false beard. Darian recognized the face underneath.

 

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