Caine's Law (27 page)

Neither were the Smoke Hunters.

Later she came to him, all in white as he’d seen her on the street: cape and tunic and skirted pants of bleached linen, gloves, cowl shrouding her hair and a semi-sheer veil softening the harsh planes of her face. She carried his clothing, laundered, still damp, folded; she laid them on the plain plank table outside the cell. On the floor beside it she set his freshly buffed suede boots.

He watched her silently. She didn’t seem inclined to pass any of them through the bars. She wanted to do this with his dick hanging out? He didn’t mind. He’d never been what anybody’d call shy.

She showed not an inch of skin from hair to toenail. He sucked on the inside of his cheek. Pretty clear which of them had something to hide.

She also carried a flat-folded wrap of smooth brown leather like a cook’s cutlery-bundle; she drew the table across the splinter-scuffed floor and unfolded the leather on top beside his clothes, opening it like a map, smoothing it out with abstracted care, as though it were the setting cloth
for a table she was dressing while her mind was on the far side of the world.

The soft brown leather did indeed hold knives. And not just knives. She lifted his Automag and weighed it in her hand.

After a moment, she said distantly, “I have seen only one other firearm of this design.”

His Automag was a big brother to Orbek’s. “Is that what this is about? What you’re holding me on? A goddamn weapons charge?”

She didn’t seem to hear him. “Nor have I seen a pistol that will knock down an ogrillo.”

He sighed. “The rounds are tristacks. Sequenced bullets, three per shot.” He flicked a hint of backhand. “Knocking things down is what they’re designed for.”

“And of these bullets, only splinters remain.”

“They’re called shatterslugs.”

She nodded. “No overpenetration.”

“Full kinetic transfer. What you might call maximum thump.”

“Yes.” She held it admiringly in the striped shaft of sunlight through the outer bars. “And against armor?”

“Dunno.”

Her veiled eyes searched his. “Do you not?”

“I guess Orbek’s did well enough.” He shrugged and looked away. “Depends on the armor, probably.”

“No doubt.” She turned her gaze back to the gun. “Impressive.”

“Like it? It’s yours.”

“Yes.” She laid it back among his knives on the spread of leather. “As are all of these now. An astonishing array of prohibited weapons.”

That didn’t require an answer, so he simply sat.

She lowered her head as though the veil were not enough to hide her eyes. She picked up the telescoping baton. “And this,” she said distantly. “Lovely. Perhaps not even illegal.” She pressed the release stud and the baton snapped to its full length. “Effective against small bones, or thin. Fingers and wrist. Collarbone. Even the temple. To a cervical vertebra, perhaps a killing blow.”

“You didn’t come here to talk about my gear.”

“Yes.” She put the baton back onto the leather. She looked down for a moment, and her hands became fists, and her breath hitched. She turned farther away, and stepped to the bars of the window. “I find myself in a difficult position. As Khryl’s Own Fist, my first duty is to His Law.”

“And here I was hoping we could get through the day without another lecture on your fucking duty.”

The shadow of her face shifted with the slow ripple of her veil. “I myself Invested you with Khryl’s Authority.”

“Um, yeah. About that—”

“I am sworn to defend the Battleground and its people with my hand, my heart, and my sacred honor.”

“We need to talk about you and Orbek. About Khryl’s Justice.”

“Have you crushed the Black Knife insurrection? Have you secured Orbek’s submission?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then there is nothing to be said.”

“I’m not going to make a lot of progress on either as long as my naked ass is locked in this cell.”

“We both know you’ll walk out of here seconds after I depart for the Ring of Justice. Setting men to guard you would result only in needless bloodshed.”

“Likely be some anyway.”

“And I will be helpless to prevent it, as I was last night. As I was this morning. As it seems I will always be.”

“Except it’s about to get worse.”

“Peace. I did not come here to listen to you expound upon the obvious.”

“Then why the fuck
did
you come here?”

“After … Weaver’s Square … I sought my uncle’s counsel,” she said softly. “I could not find him. Eventually I … persuaded … Lord Tarkanen to reveal my uncle’s fate.”

“Uh …”

“Are you the man?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Are you?”

He sighed. “Yes. Close enough, anyway.”

“Why?”

“Look, ‘why’ isn’t gonna tell you anything you need to know.”

“Tell me.”

She wanted it straight? He could do that. “It was the job.”

“The job? Our deal? In pursuit of the outcome with which I tasked you?”

“Yeah.”

“And your weapon … the Hand of Light? The Authority of Khryl with which I myself Invested you?”

“It was all I had.”

She nodded solemnly, and left her head down. “A harsh judgment upon my uncle’s life. I had believed better of him.”

“Well, hey, I mean—he was an asshole, sure, but I think he was trying to do the best he could with the job he’d been given. If that means anything.”

“It doesn’t. This will stain his Legend until the end of time.” Her voice went even softer. “As Khryl has decreed, His Will has been done. You were only His vessel, as am I.”

“I wouldn’t go
that
far—”

“You have gone too far already. But my uncle’s dishonor is not what has brought me to you now. I only … I wish you might …”

She finally moved: a slow twisting half collapse that she caught against the table’s edge. She held herself there, shapeless silhouette haloed by the sun. One hand came up along the front of her gown, and it trembled as it slipped within her veil.

“I want you to tell me—” Her breathing hitched. “I only want to know … need to know …”

“Yeah?”

She lifted her head, and her hand came from her face, and with it came her veil. Her vivid eyes were smeared with red, and tears tracked the curves of her cheeks.

“Why didn’t you
shoot
me?”

It was his turn to go still. Silence yawned between them.

Her hand slid behind her head to massage the back of her neck, and she returned to the window.

He watched her. Only watched. Without blinking. Without breathing. Without even thought.

“That was your intention, wasn’t it? To shoot me dead.” She spoke to the clear sparkling sunlight between the bars. “That was why you came to Weaver’s Square this morning. Why you carry this formidable pistol. Why you aimed it at my face.”

“I was …” He shook his head as though he were only now awakening. “… kinda foggy. The blast—well, you know. When I woke up I didn’t know what the hell was going on.”

“This is no answer.” She turned back toward the cell and leaned on the edge of the table. Wood groaned in her grip. There was a shimmer to her stillness: a suggestion of trembling ruthlessly suppressed. “Speak truth.”

“What truth do you have in mind?”

“Any you might offer.”

His shrug apologized for useless honesty. “I was planning to.”

“Yes.”

“It was the best idea I had. The only idea. Assumption Day …” He met her scraped-raw gaze. “Shit that happened on Assumption Day shouldn’t have. Including you.”

“And yet—” The plank at the table’s edge tore free with a short harsh squeal. She lifted the splintered wood as though she didn’t understand what she was seeing, then let it fall at her feet. “And yet—”

“Yeah.”

“You saved my life.” Her flat tone softened into faded melancholy. “You saved my life.”

Well, sort of. Maybe. A twitch of his shoulder. “Seemed only polite.”

She lowered her head so the edge of her cowl shaded her reddened eyes. “Please—” she said softly, “I have asked you an honest question. I wish to know why you handed me your weapon, instead of using it. Please respect my desire for an honest answer.”

There was no reason why he should. Not a goddamn one.

She waited.

Finally he sighed. “Maybe you remind me of somebody.”

“Ah.”

Motionless in white: a pillar of salt.

“And was this person … special to you?”

“Yeah. I guess she was.” He found himself staring at his battle-scarred hands. “Not as special as she should have been.”

An infinitesimal lift of her head. “She’s dead, then.”

“A long time ago.”

“Did you kill her?”

“Fuck off.”

“I only wish to—”

“Let me translate, huh?
Fuck off
is Artan for
I’m not gonna talk about that
.”

The trace of a nod, a drift of her chin to a lower angle, and he felt like an asshole. But he was used to that.

She stared through the window bars. For a time there was only the breeze and the slow beat of the drummer, the creak of cartwheels and the distant clap of hooves on flagstones.

After a while, she said, “This woman, of whom you say I remind you—was this by any chance Marade Sunflash? Marade, Knight Tarthell of Kavlin’s Leap?”

“Um—” He squinted at her, surprised, even more wary. “Yeah, actually.”

“I had hoped it was.” Again she leaned her cowled forehead against the window’s bars. “Knight Tarthell was betimes a guest at my uncle’s manor. I admired her extravagantly. Her Legend is well regarded within the Order; in her day, she was considered a fair prospect for Champion herself.”

He felt smaller. “I remember.”

“She would bring gifts to me from exotic lands, and of course tales of her adventures reached mythic proportion among children my age—though we were forbidden to have any direct knowledge of them. For reasons I’m sure you can imagine.”

He could. For a couple years he’d been one of those reasons.

“When I was finally old enough to be permitted access, her Legend of Breaking the Black Knives made, ah … riveting reading. As you can perhaps imagine as well.”

He coughed as though something had caught in his throat. Better than trying to answer.

“It was Knight Tarthell herself who encouraged me to train for Khryl’s Own.”

He faked a swallow. “She was like that. She had a—way about her, I guess. A way of making you believe you could do anything. Just from that smile of hers.”

“Hence her epithet. Not only for her reknowned beauty, but for her nature. There was no one warmer, or kinder, or who enjoyed more a joke, yet her wrath was legendary; like the sun, she could kiss or she could burn. A magnificent woman, and a very great Knight.”

“Yeah.”

“So you must guess how flattered I am to bring her to mind.” She turned away from the window and came to the bars of the cell door. Her eyes were raw as bloody eggs. “Do you find me so very like her, then?”

Ohhh, crap
. He knew enough about women to understand that this conversation had instantaneously transmogrified into a slippery slope above a lake of burning shit. “Uh, well … yeah, I mean—”

“And how would that be? Do you find me so warm? So kind?” Her tone sharpened. “Am I humorous? Or is it my lovely
features
that draw her to mind?”

Inside his head the turd-smoke thickened. “Look, I just—”

“I do not bear an epithet, did you know that? Other than those cast at my retreating back, when they think I cannot hear. Hatchetjaw. Gloomcrow. Steelcunt. Do you know that I no longer wear my helm?”

“I’ve heard—”

“I have not put it on since the day I overheard a pair of citizens sniggering
together. ‘It’s true, Knights are supposed to wear full armor into battle, but one look at
her
face, you can see the helmet’s not so much a rule as it is a guideline,’ and the other replied, ‘If she were as smart as she is strong, she’d leave it off in battle and wear it to bed.’ ”

Jesus, what gets me into this crap?
He glanced through the ceiling.
I blame you
.

He looked back at her and decided to hit the lake of burning shit face-first. “Y’know, for a girl raised by people as relentlessly, ruthlessly polite as you Khryllians, you should have better manners.”

She jerked as though he’d slapped her.

“When you ask a guy a question, isn’t it simple courtesy to shut up long enough for him to answer?”

She stood at the bars, her raw eyes staring unapologetic challenge. Whatever answer he gave her had better be good.

He discovered he did have a good answer. Better than good, it was useful: he could use it to work her. The best part?

It was even true.

“It’s because you’re so unhappy.”

Her raw challenge faded to quizzical melancholy. “Oh,” she said softly, but then her brows drew together and her chin came up and he knew what she was about to ask.

“I don’t know,” he said. “She never told me.”

“But—she seemed so …”

He took a long, slow, deep breath. “All I know is that she had … issues. Emotional problems. Deep ones. The kind nobody can really do much about. Being Marade—the Marade you knew, the
parfit gentil
Knight of Reknown, mirthful, valorous, surpassingly puissant and all that crap—that was her answer to her problems. That’s how she survived whatever was eating her from the inside. I think that’s why she was so good at it. It was the only answer she had.”

She looked down at her hands. “And how, then, did you know all this?”

“I didn’t. Well, I did sort of, but I pretty much didn’t care.” Not as long as he could use it to get between her legs. He shrugged, not much liking the feel of this particular scar. “I was just a kid. I had problems of my own.”

Her hands tightened on the bars. Iron groaned. “So this insight came to you … too late.”

“They mostly do.”

“In her pain,” she murmured, bowing her head until her cowl veiled her eyes once more, “she could only create herself anew.”

She seemed to find sad satisfaction from this, as though it was the answer to the last puzzle she’d ever solve. “The sole escape from her pain was … to be someone else. Someone who would never feel … feel such …”