Blood Ties (3 page)

“What?” I felt as if I'd wandered into the middle of another conversation entirely.

“Too right! Wait'll I tell the lads!” he said. “Ben Finn nearly had it off with my wife!”

“What?”
Jennifer had finally found her voice, and there was nothing but incredulity in it. Truth be told, I couldn't exactly blame her. I wasn't sure how to react either. “You're . . . you're going to boast about this?”

“Shut up,” said Clixby. “You're lucky I don't hold you down and let him have his way with you, just to teach you a lesson.”

“Ty!”
Her voice went up an octave. She tried to say something more, but her mouth moved without any sounds emerging from it.

I didn't think he was serious. I sure hoped he wasn't. I cleared my throat, and said, “You're, ah . . . very broadminded, not holding this little misunderstanding against me.”

“Oh, under ordinary circumstances, I'd blow the other man's brains out. But you're different. You're Ben Finn.”

“So?”

“So if the great Ben Finn thinks my wife is attractive enough to have off, that just reflects well on me, right?”

There has rarely been an occasion when I didn't have some sort of glib response, but this was certainly one of those times. I supposed I should have been flattered, and I guess on some level I was. But the entire business seemed madness to me. I slid my feet into my boots, and, forcing a smile, said, “Look . . . you're welcome to tell anyone anything you want. I honestly don't care. But I don't exactly feel comfortable having it off with your wife, with or without your endorsement, and I sure as hell am not going to do it while pointing a gun at her head. So if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way. In fact, even if you don't excuse me, I'll be on my way.”

“Yes, yes, by all means,” said Clixby. He stepped aside and indicated that the way was clear. Even as I passed him, I watched him warily, concerned that he might still have a trick up his sleeve. That this whole business was just to put me off guard so he could try to ambush me at the last moment. Such, however, was not the case. He made no move toward his rifle, nor any other move really except to bow slightly and gesture for me to pass. That I did quickly, never taking my gaze from him. I needn't have worried. He was too busy adoring me.

“Finn!” came Jennifer's sharp voice from behind me. I turned.

She raised an eyebrow and mouthed,
Stay in touch.
Then she winked.

I hastened down the stairs, gathering my wits about me, and emerged into the street moments later. It was still early in the evening, the air crisp as I breathed it in deeply.

It felt stale in my lungs. I tried to figure out why and did so immediately.

I had become a popular, even a cult, figure. There was no outrage to my presence. I had always enjoyed being someone who lived on the outskirts of society; that was where I felt the most comfortable. People wanted and expected the least of you, and when you're dwelling on the outskirts, it becomes that much easier to depart. Instead, I had reached a point in my life where I was a damned status symbol.
My wife slept with Ben Finn! Drinks all around!
That just wasn't right.

“I've got to get out of this bloody town,” I said. “There's nothing here for me.”

Except . . . well . . . that wasn't strictly true. There was one thing.

But maybe I could take it with me.

THE BOWERSTONE RESISTANCE HAD
been formed as a protest against the onerous policies and dictatorial philosophies of the despotic King Logan, who preceded our current ruler. It had headquartered in the sewers of Bowerstone Industrial, and I know what you're thinking. Sewers? How repellent is that? Not so much as you might think, actually, for there were sections of the sewers that had long since been cleansed of, well, sewage, and they were actually quite habitable. More so than some actual inns I'd stayed in during my time. It wasn't where I would have chosen to reside, but then again, my preference and Page's didn't always exactly match up.

On the way down to the docks, where the best and most direct entrance to the sewers was situated, I passed the standard assortment of ruffians and disreputable types. They watched me warily, doubtlessly alert for any sign of my lowering my guard so that they might try to catch me unawares. There were many light fingers to be found in the area, not to mention those who didn't hesitate to use more aggressive means. One by one, though, as I passed every one of those villainous creatures, I saw the recognition in their eyes. Whatever might have been going through their minds, it immediately went away as, instead, they nodded in acknowledgment or even tossed off a stray salute. It annoyed the hell out of me, I have to say. I thrive on challenges, big and small, and it was becoming painfully evident to me that there were no longer any such to be found in Bowerstone. I was becoming too well-known a commodity. Worse: I was becoming respectable. Respectability and Ben Finn were not the most comfortable of mates, and I had no desire to embark on a long-term relationship with it.

I entered the sewers, and a blast of heat washed over me as it typically did. No doubt the warmth was being generated in the distance by one of Reaver's many factories, as he was using the sewers as a means of venting exhaust. It seemed a safe bet. If there was any discomfort anywhere in Bowerstone—in the whole of Albion, really—then five would get you ten that somehow, somewhere, Reaver had his fingers in it.

I didn't know all that much about Reaver's background although I'd heard that he used to ply the trade of piracy once upon a time. Since those early days, however, he had become quite possibly the most formidable businessman and entrepreneur in the history of Albion. There was nothing, no decision either for or against his interests, which he couldn't somehow manage to turn into a profit. You've heard the cliché about making lemonade out of lemons? Reaver could take a lemon and transform it into an entire lemonade factory, pollute the air and rivers while manufacturing it, then create an entire separate company that would be paid handsomely for cleaning up all the pollution that he'd produced in the first place.

I hadn't had all that much interaction with him and was thankful for it. Page, on the other hand, had wound up at cross-purposes with him on any number of occasions and despised him, his morals and principles or lack thereof, and the very air he breathed and no doubt managed to turn a profit from.

Then again, it wasn't as if Page readily warmed up to anyone, even someone on her side. The Bowerstone Resistance had arisen from her personal drive to better the city, and even if you willingly allied with her, she always seemed determined to test your dedication to her and the cause by challenging everything you said and everything you did. Nothing ever seemed good enough for her, and she was quite possibly the most aggravating and demanding woman I had ever known.

Naturally, I adored her.

Not that I would have admitted that, though. She would likely have taken it as a sign of weakness.

I made my way through the sewers. The first time I had come through there, I had become hopelessly lost. I have many fine qualities, but my sense of direction betrays me from time to time, and I might have wandered around aimlessly for days if Page herself hadn't shown up to guide me. She had just seemed to emerge from the shadows as if they were her second home, looked me up and down, and said, “So you're the great Ben Finn. You're shorter than I expected.”

“I'm taller when I stand on my charisma,” I had said, which had actually prompted a laugh from her. She had a lovely laugh and, in my opinion, didn't use it enough. Page also typically dressed in such a way that her extremely muscular arms (and, on occasion, her flat and well-defined belly) were very much on display. It was like the woman was one big walking sinew. She was very dark skinned, with her lengthy hair held back—restrained, really—by some sort of kerchief or perhaps even a turban. I'm sure it has a name, but I'm a warrior, not a haberdasher. “How did you know me?” I had then gone on to ask.

“You're part of my collection,” she had explained to me. This was naturally an odd thing to say, and when she had gestured for me to follow, I had done so. She led me to her inner sanctum and there displayed an impressive assortment of wanted posters that she had collected during her sojourns around Albion. My smiling face was among them, which should not have come as much of a surprise. Although there were parts of Albion where my services were very much welcome, there were others where the only interest people had in me was collecting a bounty on my head. A number of people who were working with her in the Resistance movement were likewise models for wanted posters. She kept the posters in a drawer, like a file of résumés. Her own wanted poster, on the other hand, she had proudly framed and hung on the wall, like a portrait. It wasn't especially flattering to her; she was much lovelier in person, as the poster had her nose too large and her eyes too small. Perhaps she figured that it was the thought that counted.

I admit it: I found her instantly fascinating. But I also knew just as instantly that making any sort of serious overture toward her would be ill-advised. I knew her type. She was utterly focused on her cause, and for someone like her, people were weighed and judged by one and only one measure: how they fit in to her accomplishing her goals. Anything else simply didn't factor in.

Now, though, the cause was over, was it not? King Logan had been thrown out. A new ruler was in his place. What need was there for a Resistance?

Perhaps Page's time could be occupied with something more fulfilling.

I made my way through the sewers with a confidence that I could not have imagined upon my initial arrival months ago. The heat was starting to dissipate, for which I was extremely grateful. A cross breeze was doubtless helping in that regard. Previously, there had been sentries along the way, but there were none remaining. That was just a further indicator that the need for the Bowerstone Resistance had come and gone. Unfortunately, that begged the question of why in the world Page was still rooting around down there. Didn't she realize that the fight was over, and she had won?

I entered the main area, and, sure enough, there was Page, just as if nothing had changed. Except things had indeed changed, starting with the fact that she was the only one in the chamber. She was leaning forward, resting her knuckles on the table and staring fixedly at a map of Bowerstone. Several places were marked with colored pins, and she barely afforded me a glance when I came in. “What kept you?” she said.

“What kept me? Was I expected?” I glanced around. “Was there a meeting that I missed? Or am I simply very early for the next one?”

“A bit of both, I suppose.” She studied me. “So how was she?”

“Who?”

“That little biscuit you met up with at the Cock in the Crown. How was her crown? For that matter, how was your—?”

“All right, that's quite enough,” I cut her off. “How did you know about that?”

“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Finn. It's what I do.”

“Spying on me”—and I walked toward her slowly, one eyebrow raised—“is what you do?”

“Not on you. Not only on you. On everyone.”

“Oh, well, that makes it okay, then,” I said.

The sarcasm in my voice went right past her. “Yes. It does. I'm trying to watch out for the citizens of Bowerstone. Someone has to, and it might as well be me.” She stared at me and tilted her head. “What's wrong, Finn? You look like you have something on your mind.”

“Well, I do, actually.” I was standing near one of the chairs, and I pulled it out and dropped down into it, putting my feet up on the table. She frowned. She hated when I put my feet up on the table. I didn't care. “Page . . . what are you still doing down here?”

She looked as if she didn't understand the question. “Where else would I be?”

“The castle, for one thing.” Her face remained inscrutable, so I continued, “I heard that our noble leader offered you a position of authority. Your own office, people to answer to you. A sort of people's guardian within the halls of power, watching out for the affairs and concerns of the population of Bowerstone. I'd have thought you'd leap at such an opportunity.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I'm pretty sure it is since I just said it.”

Page shook her head. “I guess that shows how little you know me, Finn.”

“I guess it does. So why not take a few minutes and explain it to me?”

“You'd think I shouldn't have to,” she said, which was a frankly annoyingly female thing for her to do. I mean, that's the way of women, isn't it? They say you don't understand, then when you ask them to explain it to you, they turn around and say that you should have grasped the whole thing in the first place and, if you haven't, then there's no point in trying to explain it because clearly you're not going to get it anyway. Is it any wonder that I've attempted to limit the duration of my relationships to assignations and one-night stands?

“Yes, I guess I would think that.” I didn't offer anything beyond that, curious to see how long she would let it lie there that way.

Not long, as it turned out.

She rolled her eyes and began to pace. “I just don't fully trust our new leader, that's all.”

“Why? On what grounds?”

“Because of decisions that were made. You were there. Decisions that were made that served Reaver's interests and lined the royal coffers with money. Decisions that went against principles and also broke promises and alliances. Of what use is a ruler whose word can't be trusted?”