Blood Ties (34 page)

“Anxious to fly to your side and aid in the defense of my latest acquisition,” he said. “Unfortunately, I was unavoidably detained.”

“In a harsh environment?”

“Harsh and extremely challenging,” said Droogan as he slid off the horse and dusted himself off. One of the soldiers walked up and extended a hand. Droogan promptly gave him the reins, and the soldier took the horse off to be tended to. “Trust me, Captain, I would not have wished the conditions I lived under on my worst enemy.”

“Who knew,” said the captain, “that when my men and I were fighting for our lives, we, in fact, were getting the better end of the deal?”

The captain barely managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice when he said that, and the warlord almost noticed. He gave the captain a slightly bewildered look, then shook it off, as if it was something that he must have imagined and was just as easily tossed aside. “So . . . the city is secure, then?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“And the people ready?”

“Ready, warlord?”

He appeared surprised that the captain was looking politely confused. “To be sold into slavery, of course. After all”—and he started to laugh as if it were the most obvious thing in the world—“how else am I to generate money to buy the services of more troops and thus expand my army?”

“I thought you were wealthy, Warlord.”

“I am, but one doesn't stay wealthy by spending all one's money, does one?”

“So to save money, you would sell these people, then. These people? These would be the same people who fought bravely by our sides? Whose spilled blood mingled with that of my men? Whose healer tended to the wounds of my men? Whose holy man prayed for them to heal with as much fervor as he did for his own flock? Whose cooks prepared food for us? Whose women were”—and the edges of Thorpe's mouth twitched—“generous . . . in their appreciation of our efforts?”

It was at that point that the warlord, I think, got his first true glimmering that something was terribly wrong. “Captain, what are you—?”

Not allowing him to finish, the captain continued, “All of this while you were relaxing in the lap of comfort at the home of Reaver and declaring that our fates were of little concern to you because you could easily get more men?”

I have to think that if the warlord had had the presence of mind to think for perhaps even five seconds before speaking, things might have gone differently for him. Instead, he said the worst possible thing that he could have:

“How did you—?”

Immediately, he realized his error and tried to reverse course. “Why . . . why that's absurd,” he started to say. “How dare you—! I've never heard such insolence!”

I should note that “started to say” were the key words there. He got as far as “Why . . .” and the rest of it is, I blush to admit, mere guesswork on my part. Because after he said “Why . . .” the captain's fist lashed out and struck him full in the face. Blood gushed from it like a newly drilled fountain. He stood there for a moment, wavering, then he fell backwards and landed as heavily as a tree. He lay there staring upward, still trying to process what had just happened.

Thorpe stood over him, and said, “I don't mind if people think that I'm stupid, Warlord. I do mind it, however, when they treat me as if I'm stupid.” Then he called loudly, “Lord Mayor! I'd like you to meet our former employer. The one who so generously paid us nonexistent wages and treated us as if we were dirt upon his feet.”

Droogan looked up, blinking owlishly, as Russell strolled over and stared down at him with a lopsided grin. “Hi.” He waggled his fingers at him. “I've heard a great deal about you. Oh,” he said as if it were an afterthought, “have you met my deputy mayor?”

Droogan, who had managed to sit up by that point, turned and looked where Russell was pointing. He blanched. “You!” he said.

“Me,” I readily agreed.

“Wh-what did you do to my men!?”

“It's a strange thing, Warlord,” I said in so conversational a tone that you might have thought we were seated in a tavern tossing back drinks and discussing matters in the abstract. “When you've faced death as equals alongside people, it's not always easy to go back to treating them like they're—”

“Shite on your boots?” suggested Russell.

“I was going to say ‘commodities,' but your turn of phrase works, too, I suppose.”

“Captain Thorpe!” Russell called. Thorpe immediately strode forward and snapped off a most impressive salute. “Take the prisoner under arrest so that he can be tried for his crimes.”

“Yes, Lord Mayor.”

Thorpe bowed slightly, and there was a wicked smile on his face.

The warlord, now on his feet, made as if to go for a weapon.

Immediately, Thorpe, Baron, and Trevor all had their guns in their hands as if the things had flown into them. “Try it, please,” said Captain Thorpe. “I'm
begging
you.”

“Maybe I should at that,” Droogan said with a snarl. “A trial? Seriously? You expect me to believe—”

“I don't care what you believe,” Russell said with the calm of one who has all the cards in his hand. “All you're being told is how we do things in Blackholm. We don't treat people like . . . commodities. Everyone has rights. Everyone is treated fairly. That's how it works in a civilized society.”

The warlord's mouth twisted into a derisive sneer. Then he spread wide his hands, and said, “As you say, Lord Mayor. A civilized society.”

Thorpe promptly moved in and relieved the warlord of his weapons. Then he was led away and, as that happened, both citizens and soldiers—no, I take that back, the populace—slowly applauded.

I turned to Russell. “A trial, eh?”

“Yes.” He paused, then added, “Oh, he'll be found guilty, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And sentenced to die horribly.”

“As well he should be,” I said, wanting to sound diplomatic.

“But still, we should go through the motions, what with being a civilized society and all.”

“I have to think your father would have approved of that. And of you.”

“You know,” he said, “you really are welcome to stay here if you wish. I know you consider the title of deputy mayor strictly honorary, but I'd be pleased if you wished to keep it permanently.”

“Thank you . . . but I think I'd best be moving on. Page and I—”

“Page and you?” He regarded me strangely as if I had said something utterly perplexing.

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Well, because she left this morning, that's why. I saw her leave. Wished her well.”

“She
left
?”

I was utterly flummoxed. Admittedly, Page and I hadn't seen much of each other in the past few days. There had been a great deal involved in putting Blackholm back together. The meetings that had melded the two groups—citizens and soldiers—into a single people resolved to protect their mutual home—had been held with a certain degree of trepidation at first. That was understandable. But they had come to an accord fairly quickly. I think, when all is said and done, people generally would prefer to get along with each other than to be enemies. It's less aggravation.

Then there had been the work on rebuilding, on finding quarters, burying the dead, so on and so on.

So the fact was that Page and I really hadn't had much opportunity to discuss future plans. For that matter, there was no reason to think that there were going to be any future plans. Page was who she was, and I was who I was.

But still, the notion that she would just up and leave without saying anything at all . . .

Without another word to Russell, I hastened back to where she had been quartered. Sure enough, there was no sign of her. She'd set out walking, of course. No animals for her. That meant that, if I were of a mind to, I could overtake her on Clash easily enough, presuming I knew where she was going. The logical assumption was that she was returning to Bowerstone, but I couldn't simply make that assumption. Besides, what interest did I have in returning to Bowerstone? None.

I returned to my quarters to give myself a chance to think, and there, sitting on my bunk, was a piece of paper folded widthwise. My name had been written on the outside in a cursive scrawl I recognized immediately as Page's.

I went to reach for it, then jumped several feet in the air as a sharp voice said from directly above me, “What do you think it says?”

“Damnation!”
I clutched at my chest and glared up at the gnome, perched in the rafters. “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

“You survive everything you've been through, and
that's
what's going to finish you?” The gnome chortled over that and dropped to the floor.

“I hadn't seen you all week. I thought maybe you'd left. Or been killed. I should have known I couldn't be that lucky.” Shaking my head at him in annoyance, I sat on the edge of the bed. I didn't open the note, though. Instead, I said, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you tell my brother about the plan? Because you were hoping to make sure it didn't work? Or because you were hoping that there was still enough of William in there that he'd do exactly what he did?”

The gnome simply stared at me. “It doesn't matter what I say. You'll believe what you want to believe. So are you going to read the stupid note or not?”

I flipped it open. Each line was written with perfect precision, just the way she typically did. My handwriting tended to wander all over a letter like a drunken blind man, but Page wrote as if she had a ruler underneath each line:

The “enclosed” was the signet ring that my brother had worn. Obviously, it had survived the explosion. It was darkened and singed but intact.

Slowly, I slid it onto the corresponding finger on my opposite hand. Then I read the note twice more, and a cold fury started to build in me. “That bitch!” I said.

“Such language!” the gnome chided me.

“Where does she get off, trying to tell me to stay out of Bowerstone? I can go to Bowerstone if I want to! It's a free country, at least until the Pages of the world get their hooks in it! I can travel to whatever city I like! And I'm not to come near her? What's she going to do if I do come near her? Shoot me?”

“She might.”

“And where does she get off saying that I'd be of no help to her in bringing down Reaver? I have skills. I know people.” I was hurriedly packing my gear even as I spoke. “This is so typical for her. Trying to run everything herself and push me aside. Well, I'll show her. I'll show her who she can order out of Bowerstone. I'll show her just how ‘little' help I can be.” I held up the note and waved it at the gnome. “I was going to just toss this, but I have a better idea! I am going to make her eat these words! Literally ! When the two of us bring down Reaver, I am going to hold this up in front of her and read them out loud to the entire rebellion that we've assembled, and say, ‘Eat these if you have a shred of honor!'
That's
what I'm going to do!” I shoved the note into my bag. “Just see if I don't!”

“Whatever you say,” said the gnome.

I headed for the door, had my hand on the knob, then stopped.

The gnome sounded disappointed. “What? Aren't you going? You had such a nice head of steam.”

Slowly, I lowered my hand and stared at the gnome. “You little bastard,” I said. “You told her what to write.”

“What?”
The gnome looked aghast.

“You
did
.” I dropped my sack and moved toward him. “You told her what to write!”

“I have no idea what you're talking ab—”

“It's the same approach you used to get her to come with me! Telling her not to so that she would! The exact same! Admit it!”

“Of course I did!” said the gnome. “She wanted you to come with her, she wasn't sure how to get you to do it, and I told her that I knew just what she should write because I know how women like you think.”

I stood there, frozen, pointing my finger at him as if I were in the midst of some great pronouncement.

And then I started to laugh.

I laughed, and I kept laughing. The gnome didn't laugh, but he did sit there with a pleased smirk upon his face, and, when I finally managed to pull myself together, I gestured helplessly and said between gasps of breath, “Fine. You win. I'm a woman.”