Caine's Law (22 page)

Packard. That was it. The kid riding the one-armed Smoke Hunter. Little fucking Packard, two weeks shy of his fifteenth birthday. Normal enough kid. Self-professed fanboy, mouthy and pushy and smart, figuring out how his pack could do something nobody else had ever quite accomplished.

Kill Caine.

The high point of his young life. His natural reaction. Just an extra boss battle. If you meet Caine in the road, kill him.

Because, y’know, children are the future.

This particular child had probably killed and eaten one of Lasser and Yttrall Pratt’s baby twins. If he didn’t, one or more of his friends did. Except for Turner, who no longer had a mouth. Or a face or a head at all.

Maybe the Khryllians were right. Maybe Earth really was where bad people go when they die. The True Hell. He could make the argument. How was the Smoke Hunt different from possession? How were Actors, doing violence, starting wars, crushing lives for the entertainment of their underworldly brethren, different from devils?

How was he different from a mythological hell-spawn, clawed up from Pandemonium to wreak suffering and death across the face of the world?

He remembered lying on the transfer platform in the Cavea, Kosall through his guts, Shanna with him, cradling his head, Berne’s corpse beneath him. He’d seen it on Ma’elKoth’s face. He’d spoken the words himself, in his Soliloquy, his Actor’s internal monologue.

 … he sees that his world, Overworld—that place of brutality and pain and sudden death—is the dreamed-of, sought-after paradise of this one, where now he’s trapped
.

I’ve brought him with me into Hell
.

He knew something about monsters. Berne had been a monster. Kollberg had been worse. But there are monsters and monsters. Some monsters can be haunted by faces of their dead.

Once again he found himself leaning against a wall, head down, only his locked-straight knees between him and collapse, and he pushed off the wall and lifted his head and bared his teeth to the fire-lit clouds. “You fuckers won’t break me. None of you. One at a time or all in a rush.”

He was talking mostly to himself because he was more than one of those fuckers himself and if he broke himself there was nobody to put him back together. He shook the knots out of his shoulders, cracked his neck and all his knuckles, and walked out of the alley.

Where the Pratt & Redhorn had once stood, there stood a building that looked exactly like the Pratt & Redhorn.

He stopped in the street, frowning, blinking, unable at first to comprehend … until he saw the woman sitting on the boardwalk in front of the door.

She was on the high side of middle age, body thick and as square as her jaw, hair clipped short around a hand-size swipe of burn scar where she should have had a right ear. She sat calmly, even stolidly, a thick walking stick across her knees, and she was staring at him with no expression at all.

“Holy shit.” He had to stop himself from running across the street and gathering her into his arms. “Holy
shit
, t’Passe! I’d kiss you, except you’d clock me for it. You are absolutely the last fucking thing I expected to find here. You saved the place.”

“Not alone,” she said tonelessly. “You are nigh upon the last thing I expected as well. I thought you were dead.”

“Lots of people do. Where are the Pratts? Where’s Kravmik?”

“Inside. It’s worth noting that also inside are several Khryllian firearms, of which at least two are aimed at you right now, by persons who know how to use them and who have no stake in your continued health. They have no idea who you are.”

He stopped. “Okay.”

“I don’t know who you are either.”

“T’Passe, for fuck’s sake—”

“Kravmik said Lord Tarkanen killed you and carried away your corpse.”

“He was fucking close to right.”

“You seem well.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Of course.”

He spread his hands. “Look, t’Passe, I don’t care. I came back here
thinking there’d be nothing left but cinders and burned corpses. There’s some equipment I thought—”

“Like this?” She lifted a hand, and out from the sleeve of her robe appeared the Automag.

“Well, yeah, actually. Those are hard to come by.”

“Yes.” She pointed it at him. “I prefer that you keep your distance.”

He raised his hands. “Shit, you can have it. I’m just glad the Pratts are safe.”

“Safe enough. Lasser took a fighting claw to the chest that punctured his lung, and Kravmik’s legs are broken. Yttral and the twins are fine. There are some others wounded, but no one you know. Nothing Tyrklld can’t fix.”

“You’ve seen Tyrklld? He’s functional?”

“Yes.” She seemed disinclined to elaborate.

“Look, I need him. Can you find him for me?”

“Yes.” She tilted the pistol and righted it again. “The question is, will I?”

She was welcome to her Cainist crap this time. Shit, maybe every time. He was still astonished to be standing before an intact Pratt & Redhorn. “Wow. I mean, seriously. Wow and thank you, t’Passe. Really. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Her tone remained neutral. “Why are you thanking me?”

“You called out your Cainist cavalry and rode to the fucking rescue.” He still couldn’t believe it. “I mean, shit, how’d you even
know
?”

“Ah, I see the misunderstanding.” Her expression softened, coming as close to a smile as he’d ever seen on her face. “Our defense of this establishment had nothing to do with your stay here. Lasser Pratt is a friend.”

“You have friends?”

“He and Yttrall—and Kravmik, for that matter—are fellow Disciples.”

“Right, right. Sure. I’d forgotten.”

“In the two hours since you learned it?”

He waved this off. “I’m just glad they’ll be okay.”

“We gratefully accept the protection of the Order of Khryl, but we don’t rely on it. The Pratt and Redhorn is our local emergency rally point. This city being what it is, emergencies are usually Smoke Hunts. Here we call roll, organize retrieval of the missing, bind our wounds, and stand to defend ourselves.”

“Here?”

“It’s sturdier than it looks. It housed the parish vigilry for decades, until the current Riverdock facility was built. And—” She shrugged. “—it’s the best pub on the Battleground.”

He nodded. “Okay if I sit?”

“Over there.” She kept the Automag centered on his chest. “Then perhaps you can tell me who you are.”

He lowered himself to the boardwalk a few feet away. “Jonathan Fist.”

“Ah. And you are somehow distinct from, say, Dominic Shade?”

“It’s complicated.”

“To be sure. I am, ah, reliably informed that—ah, Dominic Shade, or his body, or yours—was taken by Artan soldiers, presumably to Arta—as you say, your Earth.”

“You have a source inside BlackStone?”

“More than one. You seem surprised.”

“The Eyes of God haven’t managed to even pry open a window there.”

“Eyes of God. Please.” She snorted. “We’re the Monasteries. We’ve been in this business five hundred years. Not all our instruments are blunt as yourself.”

“Would any of your not-so-blunt types have details on their internal security?”

“It’s possible. Such matters can be discussed after I become confident of your identity and intentions. Now: your escape.”

He sighed. “I didn’t escape. Haven’t. Probably won’t. That’s kind of what I’m doing here: arranging my escape. Sort of. And a couple other things.”

She sat very still, moving only her eyes. They flitted back and forth as though she was reading text inside her head.

Finally: “An Intervention.”

“You would have found out pretty soon anyway.”

“How, ah, how long ago is this night, for you?”

“There’s no meaningful answer for that.”

“Are you actively serving the Intervening Power?”

“One of them. More or less. But also not really. Look, once we get through this, I’ll answer your questions. Any questions. Hell, t’Passe, you can interview me for your fucking book.”

“Just not tonight.”

“Yeah.” He found himself smiling at her. “I’m grateful. Really. I owe you one. I owe you a dozen.”

“I didn’t do any of it for you.”

“I owe you anyway.”

“For what?”

“For reminding me that sometimes I’m wrong. That sometimes people
are better than I expect. That sometimes shit comes out better than I even hope.”

“Flattery.”

“Why would I waste the breath to flatter you?”

“Cogent.” She nodded thoughtfully. “And persuasive.”

“You and I,” he said, “will never get along. You aggravate the crap out of me, and my fucking existence is a constant embarrassment to you and your whole outlook on life. So, yeah, we can’t stand each other. But you should know that I am your friend.”

She blinked, blinked again, and then closed her eyes with a tiny shake of her head as though doubting he’d still be there when she opened them again.

“I mean it,” he said. “I have profound respect for your intellect, your integrity, and your capability. And even more for your courage. If you need me, ever, the Eyes of God can find me, and the Monasteries usually know where I am. If I am alive, I will help when you call. I know you won’t abuse the privilege.”

Meaning she understood all too well how cataclysmic his help can be, and so wouldn’t ask unless all alternatives were worse. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just don’t expect me to be nice to you.”

“I lack the imagination.”

“See? Aggravate the crap out of me. Listen, I told the Pratts to get out of town.”

“I know.”

“You can’t protect them. I’d tell you to get out of town if you would. Since you won’t, keep your fucking head down.”

“How far down?”

“Purthin Khlaylock was behind the Smoke Hunt. So is Markham Tarkanen. I don’t know who else on the Khryllian side, but there have to be others.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“My sources speculate that the whole of the Lords Legendary are involved, and possibly the Champion herself.”

“She’s not in it.”

“How can you be sure?”

He looked at her. Just looked. After a moment she looked away and sighed.

“The Monasteries have no official interest in how the Knights of Khryl maintains order among its slaves and civilians.”

“The Monasteries should fucking reconsider. The Smoke Hunt isn’t thaumaturgy. It’s theurgy. Always has been.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Then—”

“Fucking right, then. It’s not riot control, it’s a fucking crusade.”

“Impossible.”

“Just like it’s impossible I’m here talking to you.”

She let her eyes slip closed, and lifted a hand to massage her forehead. “I noted the verb tense you used in referring to the Justiciar.”

“Yeah. And before you ask, it was me.”

She coughed. She tried to say something but instead coughed again.

“Take your time.”

She said, “You’ll forgive me for restating, but I need to confirm you’re telling me you intervened in a
holy war
by
assassinating
the head of the most powerful
militant religious order in the history of Home
?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said, a little stung. “It was a fair fight. More than fair. He was fully armed and armored and at the height of his strength. I was naked, shackled, and had just woken up from a skull fracture.”

“You caught him with a sucker punch.”

“You say it your way, I’ll say it mine.”

“It’s an overt act of war—!”

“In more ways than one.”

“You have committed the Monasteries to
open war
with the Order of
Khryl
!”

“You mentioned that already.”

“Do you have any
idea
how
catastrophic
this is?”

“Relax. You think I’d start a war without knowing how to end it?”

“Of
course
you would! You’ve done it at least three times I
know
of!”

Oh, sure, bring up the truth. “T’Passe, seriously. Take it easy. I’ve never seen you like this. You’re almost, well, hysterical.”

“Hysterical?
Hysterical?
” She finally registered the shrill edge to her tone. She sagged, then set the pistol on the boardwalk and rubbed her eyes with both hands.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I apologize. I have, ah, invested considerable … personal energy … in my position here; open war will be … unfortunate. For me. Personally.”

“Personally? So like, what, you’re banging a Khryllian?”

She only sighed.

He stared. Good thing he was already sitting down. “Um … you do know that was a joke, right?”

“Not for me.” Again she sighed, then twisted to call softly toward the Pratt & Redhorn’s front door. “Somebody tell the fat man I need him out here.”

He frowned. The fat man? Was he dreaming
Casablanca
again?

His bemusement lasted only a second or two, at which point the doorway disgorged the bloodstained steel and dockhand’s amble of Tyrkilld, Knight Aeddhar, who was very likely the only man alive who could amble nonchalantly while clanking like a steam boiler. “And here I am as ever, old girl, aleap at m’lady’s faintest whim. Shall I dismember yon dire ill-favored apparition forthwith, or might I first occupy a board or two beside my fondest dream of paradise, that being the hope of brushing ’gainst the hem of m’lady’s cloak?”

“Oh, my sweet suffering pigfucking god.”

Tyrkilld managed an unstable sketch of a bow. “And up your Monass-dick, fuck you very much.”

Fist could only shake his head. “You’re still drunk.”

“No honest man would deny it. But come the morrow I’ll be sober, and you’ll still be an assassassbite.”

“It’s the morrow already,” t’Passe said sternly.

“Ah, fairly struck. If I might beseat myself to tend the wound—?”

“Christ, you’re like a couple of teenagers.”

He looked from him to her and back again, and some rusted-shut part of his brain kicked open. He felt like he should either cry or kill somebody. “
That’s
how you knew me. You didn’t know me when I kicked your ass at the customs lockup, but by the time I saw you in the Spire, you did—along with some half-assed story I didn’t pay attention to. And you,” he said to t’Pass, “sure, you were expecting me ever since you arrived in Purthin’s Ford. Sure you were. Son of a
bitch
. It’s a good thing I don’t have to make a living by figuring shit out.”