Caine's Law (20 page)

“Terrific.”

“It’s a nice shot on that bowman back there, hey? Pretty shiny, you gotta say.”

Fist didn’t answer. He moved toward a position among the rocks that might not get him killed.

“And hey, human lady—? Excuse my no-fucking-manners little brother. Orbek Black Knife: Taykarget.”

She nodded gravely. “The horse-witch.”

“Pleeztameetcha donwannahaveta eetcha.”

“Likewise.”

Fist worked his way around the outcroppings to take in the fire zone. The guy who’d crept Orbek would have most likely been another bowman like Tanner, flushing Orbek by accident while working his way up here to
stand lookout. Now the ogrillo—who was gifted with any weapon, but especially with firearms—was up here with the SPAR, with clear shots for a long damn way down each of the three washes that were the only way in or out. The place was the sort of trap even a smart guy can fall into, if he doesn’t know he might need to worry about such things as selective-projectile assault rifles.

But Orbek had a dragon by the tail; if he bailed, he couldn’t hold them in the wash, and they could swamp him in seconds. Kneecapping instead of killing meant they’d have nonwalking wounded to look after, which would slow them down. It’d also make them kind of motivated to inflict harm of their own. “Christ, what a sandpaper clusterfuck this turned out to be,” he said. “The grenades?”

“They got thaumaturges. Thaumaturges got Shields. Gotta knock ’em down somehow,” Orbek said. “How come other guys always got thaumaturges?”

“For spare toilet paper. How the fuck should I know?”

“How come
we
never got thaumaturges?”

“Because I can’t stand being around them. Shut up.”

“Since when you can’t? You
marry
one—”

“Did you not hear me say shut up?”

“And you’re ass-pals with Emperor Deliann, who’s just about—”

“Orbek.”

“Sorry. Yah yah. Sorry.”

Jonathan Fist rubbed his eyes again, then rubbed his forehead, then scratched all the sand out of his hair and finally he just said, “Screw this anyway.”

He moved away from Orbek’s last firing point. “Danny!” he shouted. “Danny Macallister! You down there?”

A distant voice echoed off the rocks.
“Who the fuck is Tammie Mick Lassiter?”

“Danny, it’s Hari Michaelson! Come on, man. Talk to me.”

There followed a span of silence, which was finally broken by a different voice, deeper, and a lot closer. “No shit?”

Jonathan Fist nodded to himself. “You got Liam with you? Lee, hey, Hari Michaelson. Sing out.”

A third voice, closer still. “Yeah, sorry, woulda said something already but I had to unswallow my tongue. Fuck me upside-down and sideways, Hari fucking
Michaelson
! Can somebody come wipe shit outa the seat of my pants? You’re supposed to be dead!”

“I’ve heard that,” he said. “Danny, Lee, we need to talk.”

The horse-witch said softly, “You know these men.”

“Not personally,” Fist said, low. “By reputation. They know me the same way.”

Danny’s deep voice echoed up the hill. “What do we call you?”

“Jonathan Fist. You’re going by Red Bannon, right? And Lee, you’re this Good-Time Charlie I’ve heard about?”

“That’s what the girls call me.”

“Only ones who don’t know you,” the horse-witch muttered.

He decided not to ask how she knew. “Listen, Bannon, Charlie, there’s no reason to go bringing our other handles into this, huh?”

“Depends. What is ‘this’?”

“It’s a situation that’s gonna go better for all of us if we keep who we used to be out of it.”

“Sounds fair. So. You wanted to talk? We’re talking. What can we do for you?”

“It’s more like what I can do for you, Red. But maybe you don’t want what I can do shouted all the way to the fucking coast, you know what I mean?”

Orbek leaned close behind Jonathan Fist’s shoulder. “Aktiri, hey?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s these other names of theirs, hey? Ones I maybe hear before?”

“Fucking be
quiet
.” Fist turned to the ogrillo. His face was bleak, and he looked a decade or two older than he had earlier in the afternoon. “Good-Time Charlie? That’s Morgan Blackwood.”

Orbek’s yellow eyes bulged, and a thin choking noise came from his throat. “Grh? So the other—he must be—”

“Keep it
down
.”

“I’m shooting at Lazarus fuck me
Dane
?” Orbek’s eyes rolled white. “Born lucky, I must be. Holy shit.”

“Now you might understand why you better settle the fuck down while you still have a down to fucking settle.”

“But—but Lazarus Dane, holy shit. Lazz Dane can take off the whole top of this top! Bottom too, and everything between, hey? Why’s he wait?”

“The rifle,” Fist said, grim and low. “He doesn’t want to damage the rifle. Or the grenades. Or any other Artan gear that might be up here. He didn’t know suchlike crap exists on this world. Now he does.”

Orbek thought about it. He sagged against the rocks. “Shit.”

“He can do a lot of shit just with magick, but quietly putting a shatterslug into somebody’s skull at two thousand meters isn’t one of them.”

“Yah …” Orbek echoed Fist’s sigh. “Still, helluva shot on that bowman, though, hey?”

“Ask me again after we live through this.”

“Hey, Michaelson, if you’re just looking to walk out of here, we can dicker,” Bannon called out. “Must be a nice rifle.”

“It’s a work of fucking art. Forget it. I’ve got something better.”

“I could be interested in better, I guess.”

“Crossed paths with your bowman Hack Tanner a span or two back.”

“His momma’ll be sorry to hear that.”

“He’s alive.”

“Really?”

“So far.”

“Well, that’s the most you can say for any of us, I guess,” Bannon said. “If it doesn’t seem too cold-ass to ask, why didn’t you kill him?”

“I didn’t have to.”

“Don’t recall hearing about that stopping you before.”

“Maybe I decided to start acting like a grown-up.”

“Well, shit down the back of my neck. Everybody gets old, I guess. Even you.”

“Guys like us don’t get old,” Fist said. “We get slow, then we get dead. And I’m already slow.”

“And aren’t you just a bushel of sunbeams.”

“Your guy Tanner, he peeled the slim on you and your Count Fartface or whateverthefuck, and I’m thinking, Well, this Red Bannon we got here sounds game enough, but somebody pooched the pitch. I’m thinking, I might know who Red Bannon used to be, and I might know who his pal Charlie used to be, and if this Bannon and this Charlie know who
I
used to be, we could all aim higher than working as some assclown’s fucking
cowboys
.”

“Well, you know, yippee-tie home on the range and shit,” Bannon called back. “The payout on this job sparkles all year long.”

“So? It’s still a fucking
job
. Come on, Danny—sure, there’s money to be made doing other people’s shit work. I’m thinking a smart bastard like you might want to be the guy who pays some
other
shithead to do
your
shit work. Am I wrong?”

Somebody else called out, “You ain’t listening to this asshole, are you? I don’t think the Count is gonna like finding out—”

The growing shadows in the dry wash were blasted away by a streak of green fire and a detonation that rang among the rocks for what seemed a very long time. There followed a silence that rang even longer.

“Anybody else?” Red Bannon said quietly.

Another long silence.

“Really,” Bannon said. “Anyone else want to tell me how the Count’ll feel when he
finds out
?”

A longer silence.

“Michaelson?”

“Fist,” he said. “Still here.”

Bannon switched from Westerling to English. “What’s the proposal? You looking for work?”

Fist did the same. “Yeah, no offense, Danny, your corporate disciplinary policy is a little fucking harsh.”

Bannon laughed. “The deal?”

“You probably heard about me and the Studio and shit, right?”

“Something like it. I hear after your wife took the drop, you blew up half of Ankhana. And made ’em line up to kiss your ass for it.”

“Something like that. I don’t think any of us is going home. Ever.”

“It’s been three years. I’m inclined to agree.”

“There’s none of us getting younger, Danny. Guys our age, we should be looking for someplace to retire.”

Silence.

Then: “I’m listening.”

“So, this Count Fartface, I hear he’s got a pretty nice spread. Villages, handful of towns, nice capital. Big enough that he doesn’t need any more land, he’s just stirring shit up because he’s an asshole.”

“Yeah, but who isn’t?”

“Well, there’s assholes and assholes. There’s assholes like him,” said Jonathan Fist, “and then there’s assholes like, y’know, us.”

“Us.” Bannon sounded thoughtful. “Well.”

“Here’s the thing: for two hundred miles around there’s maybe only a handful of guys who know who I used to be. I could be the only guy down here who knows who you two used to be. Knowing what we know, I’m thinking that between us, we can persuade Fartface to settle his Count ass right down. Without hesitation, reservation, or fucking conversation.”

“Do you practice that shit?” Charlie drawled, also in English. “Or are you just naturally verbalicious?”

“Screw the horses. Leave them. We don’t need them, and without them Fartface won’t be invading anybody this year, and maybe never,” Fist said. “We don’t work for the Studio anymore, Danny. We don’t have to start a fucking war just to earn a living.”

Silence.

“Red, he’s got a point.” This from Charlie. “If the war goes bad, all of a sudden the whole place is on fire and everybody’s dead and it won’t be such a nice spot for us to live.”

“Risky. Real damn risky.”

“Think about it, Danny. Instead of starting a war, we can end one before it starts. And retire as landed gentry.”

“Not likely,” Bannon said, grim. “Not while the Count’s alive.”

“Danny, Danny, Danny, come
on
, man.” Fist grunted an ugly laugh. “Who are you talking to?”

Silence.

“You know, Red, that’s another good point.”

“Yeah,” Bannon said slowly. “It surely is.”

Fist laid one hard hand across Orbek’s harder shoulder. He kept his voice down. “Take the supplies and the weapons,” he said in Westerling. “Leave the extra clips for the Automag and a couple boxes of tristacks. Take the gold. Get those poor bastard grooms remounted and rekitted and kick them back toward Harrakha.”

“Like you say, little brother.”

“After that, stay with the witch-herd. I figure maybe a tenday, maybe two. Between now and when I get back, kill anybody who comes after the horses. Or the horse-witch. You okay with this?”

The ogrillo’s fleshy brows drew together. “If you don’t come back?”

“Worry about that when it doesn’t happen.”

He nodded. “Like you say.”

“Die fighting, Orbek.”

“Die fighting, little brother.” He picked his way back down through the rocks toward the cache of gear. Full dark was coming on.

Fist turned to the horse-witch. “Look out for him, will you?”

“That’s not what I do.”

“Not as the horse-witch,” he said. “As a friend.”

“Then of course.” She looked solemn. “This is dangerous for you.”

He shrugged. “Everything’s dangerous.”

“I prefer you alive.”

“Thanks. Me too.”

“You place your life between dangerous men and horses, and you don’t like horses. Between dangerous men and me, and you don’t know me. Do you know why you’re doing this?”

His lips drew into a thin flat line. “What does
why
have to do with anything?”

“I hope you know. That’s all.”

He was silent for a long time. He’d been right about this ending in tears. About that, he was always right. It always was tears and he knew it and he was old enough to know better but her hair smelled of sunshine and grass and wildflowers and finally the knots in his heart twisted so tight he could barely breathe.

“Is it all right …” He coughed, and swallowed, and took a deep breath. “May I touch you?”

“Of course.”

He reached out with his left hand and she came to him seriously, solemnly, staring full on, her eyes of fawn and white into his of midnight. Instead of pulling her to him, he let his hand slide up her neck to the corner of her jaw, where the bone was a little crooked, like an old break badly healed. He slid his hand along her cheek to touch a small, almost invisible scar that tugged at her lower lip, and reached with his other hand to her ice eye, and to the pale thread of scar that snaked up from her eyebrow. He pulled her closer. His fingers found the back of her jerkin’s loose collar, and there on her back he felt what he had known would be there: skin with the texture of silk layered over irregularly knotted cords.

Whip scars.

“Price of admission,” she said. “Not just any girl can be horse-witch.”

“Must have hurt.”

“Some more than others. Some still do. But you know about scars. You especially.”

“It’s that obvious?”

“That’s why you’re welcome here. You always have been. You always will be,” she said. “Come and go as you please. You’re paid in full.”

“I guess I knew that, too.” He gave her as much of a kiss as the knots in his heart would allow: one chaste brush of his lips on her forehead. “I guess that’s one reason why I’m doing this.”

She gave him a smile like dawn breaking over mountains. “I still like you.”

“Funny thing,” Jonathan Fist said. “That’s the other reason.”