Dawnbreaker: Legends of the Duskwalker - Book 3 (39 page)

“Mm,” Foe said. “A fair attempt. You have the eye for detail. It is in the hand that you lack.” He placed a hand on top of Wren’s head. “Do not be discouraged. I have practiced for many decades and I too still have much to learn.

“Purpose,” Foe said a moment later. “This you will contemplate tonight, in the open.”

“Outside?” Wren asked.

“Yes, boy,” Foe replied.

Wren’s head still hadn’t cleared from all he’d been hit with throughout the day. This last shock hardly had the impact that it might have otherwise. The fear rose up, but it was muted.

“You may leave whenever you are ready,” Foe said, and then added, “It is not punishment.”

Wren nodded, though he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

“You may take your flowers to your room,” Foe said. Wren nodded, numbly took the blue vase from the workbench, followed Foe out of the flower room.

The rest of the day was thin with tension; Wren’s understanding of having to find a place to hide for the night overpowered by his desire to soak up every last bit of comfort he could find within the tower. He spent most of the afternoon sitting on his bed, looking at his little flower arrangement, thinking of his Mama, and of Three, and of his purpose, and of revenge. But time slipped by and towards the late afternoon, Wren asked Haiku to escort him downstairs to the front of the tower.

And so it was that as the sun sank towards the horizon, he found himself once more locked outside, alone and facing the night.

j
Charles picked
three drinks up off the bar and turned back towards his business table, in the back corner of the place. 4jack and Mr 850 were both hanging out there; 4jack, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table, was blabbing away about something or other while Mr 850 was looking down at the table, not even bothering to pretend he was listening. It’d probably been twelve or fourteen years since they’d seen each other. It’d only taken about three minutes for them to fall right back into old patterns. jCharles weaved his way around the tables, headed towards his friends.

“... which is what I had tried to tell them all in the first place, see?” 4jack was saying. He didn’t even pause to take a breath when jCharles set the drinks down on the table and took a seat. “I mean we’re talking something like ten kilos of exumite, and they took the whole heap in with ’em, even though I told them it was probably five times more than they needed.”

4jack’s shirt was completely unbuttoned, and hanging open. He was a little guy, five-foot-five, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds, but he was still as ripped as he’d been in his twenties. Which is probably why his shirt was completely unbuttoned. Plus, he’d always been proud of the tattoos that covered his torso, arms, and legs. They were all quotes from stories or poems, in different languages, and all manner of scripts and fonts. 4jack shared jCharles’s love for books, and he spoke something like twenty-seven languages.

“So you can bet I was standing far enough away when the whole thing went up,” he continued, “but of course that’s the only thing anyone remembers about the incident. Somehow, they say, somehow ol’ 4jack’s the only one don’t get crisped up, which is like, well yeah man, remember how I said exumite burns about a thousand times hotter and faster than anything you’re used to? Remember that time I told you how you were using five times more than you should’ve been?”

“Exumite only burns at 3,206 degrees Celsius,” Mr 850 said quietly. Not loudly enough to interrupt, really, but the fact that he’d spoken at all threw 4jack for a loop.

“What?” 4jack said.

“Exumite doesn’t burn hotter than 3,206 degrees,” repeated Mr 850. “Celsius.”

“OK?”

Mr 850 shrugged. He was still looking at the table. “You said a thousand times hotter. Even a methyl ethyl ketone cool flame runs about 265 degrees, so mathematically...”

4jack blinked at his old friend. “... Well... yeah, I was trying to make a point, Fifty, not a scientific assessment.”

Mr 850 shrugged again. jCharles took his opportunity.

“Man, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you guys again,” he said. Mr 850 glanced up at him, smiled his broad, genuine smile. Dark-skinned, dark-eyed, he’d always been a little pudgy and baby-faced. jCharles had never known anyone more sincere than Mr 850. Taken all together, it was hard not to feel like he was just a really big kid. Really big, and really,
really
smart.

4jack leaned forward, took his drink, tipped it forward towards jCharles and then downed half of it.

“I really appreciate you coming,” jCharles said.

“Yeah, well, it’s not every day a dead man calls you for help,” 4jack said. He flashed a quick smile.

“Heard that too, huh?” said jCharles.

“Common knowledge, buddy-o,” 4jack said. He drained the rest of his drink. “Easy enough to believe, for anyone who doesn’t really know you. You gonna give us the run down?”

“When Kyth gets here.”

“Any ETA on that?”

“Should’ve been the first one in,” jCharles said, and he shrugged. “Coming in from Halfway, though, and you know... Kyth runs on Kyth time.”

Just then, the front door of the Samurai McGann swung open, and a woman walked in. She stood at the front for a moment, scanning the crowd. Broad shouldered, golden skinned, red-eyed.

“Oh boy,” jCharles said. “Here comes trouble.”

The others followed his gaze. They all saw each other about the same time. The woman’s face lit up, and she made her way through the bar back to where they were seated. The three men all got to their feet to greet her.

“Heya, Ky–” 4jack said as she drew close, and she immediately clapped a rough hand over his mouth.

“Shhhh,” she said. “We don’t use that name so much anymore.”

4jack shrugged and nodded. The woman took her hand away, looked him up and down, and then picked him up in a crushing bear hug.

“Ah, 4jack,” she said. “One of these days I’m going to put you in my pocket and keep you for a pet.”

She put him back down on his feet, and held her arms out to jCharles. He stepped around the table and leaned in, gave her a one-armed hug.

“Good to see you again, K,” he said.

“Not as good as it is to see you,” she replied. “How’s your lady?”

“Which one?” jCharles said as he pulled away. He smiled at her. “Got a daughter now.”

“Breaking my heart,” she said. “Whatever happened to there only being one girl for you?”

jCharles didn’t take the bait. “What are we calling you these days, my dear?”

“Trouble,” she answered.

jCharles laughed. “It suits,” he said.

“I thought so.”

“So what’s with the tattoo?” 4jack asked. “Property of Kyth?”

“Got tired of leaving it implied,” said “Trouble”. Kyth. JCharles couldn’t think of her as anything other than her real name, even though Trouble was so perfectly appropriate. She smiled after she said it. She always did have a killer smile. “And more tired of people not respecting it.”

“Kind of high-profile for someone who doesn’t want her uh... identity known,” 4jack said.

“Not when everyone believes she’s someone else,” she responded.

“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” Mr 850 said. “
You’re
...” he made a little motion with his hand, and then he leaned forward and said very quietly. “Him?”

Kyth leaned in even closer, nodded as if bringing him in on a grand conspiracy. Winked at him.

“Oh,” Mr 850 said, and he leaned back, clearly not understanding and more than a little uncomfortable with her proximity.

“You must be Mr 850,” she said. “It’s a pleasure.” She stuck her hand out. He shook it timidly. “Twitch speaks very highly of you.”

Mr 850 nodded, still in a daze.

“You may have noticed that in certain lines of work,” she explained, “sometimes certain kinds of men find it difficult to respond to a woman in as professional a manner as they might to one of their own. This way makes it easier for them.”

“Kyth has something of a reputation,” 4jack said. Behind him a couple of patrons must have caught his use of the name, because they both looked over, then looked at each other, then tried to move to another table without making it obvious.

“I’ve heard,” Mr 850 said, entranced by her. jCharles got the impression that maybe his friend was rapidly developing a crush. jCharles waved his companions to take a seat at his table.

“Drink?” he asked Kyth.

“Sure, thanks,” she replied, and she picked his up from the table and took a long pull while she watched him over the top of the glass, smiling with her eyes. jCharles slid back into his seat.

They spent the next half hour or so catching up. But after the small talk wound down, jCharles took the three of them up to the apartment. He’d told them each enough to get them to agree to come to Greenstone, but he hadn’t tried to explain everything. Now, in the quiet of his front room, he laid out everything he knew, and everything he feared. They all sat, listening intently, as he told them about Morningside, the Weir, Asher, and what Edda had found when she’d crossed the Strand. Kyth and 4jack interjected occasional questions, but Mr 850 just sat there and soaked in his words. By the time he reached the end of it, his friends had all fallen quiet, and looked troubled.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know,” he said as he closed. “And I’m not asking for any of you to stay here to fight. I don’t expect that of any of you. But I just can’t figure this one out on my own. I need you to help me find a way.”

The other three sat in silence for a span, processing.

“Well,” Mr 850 said, finally. “I guess we better get to work.”

That seemed to kick the others into go mode.

“What’s the division of labor?” Kyth asked.

jCharles pointed at 4jack. “Personnel,” he said, and then pointed to Mr 850, “groundwork.” Finally he looked at Kyth. “Firepower.”

“Who’s running logistics?” 4jack asked.

“On me I guess,” jCharles answered.

“Oh, well,” Kyth said, and she smiled at him. “Then obviously we’re doomed.”

“
You’re
doomed,” 4jack answered. “I’ll come out all right, be sure of that.”

“I’ve got a lot help these days,” jCharles said. “The puzzle’s just too big for me to see it all.”

“Yeah, buddy-o, no sweat,” 4jack said. “We’ll get it figured out.”

“I’ve got you set up at a couple of places around town,” jCharles said. “Figured the least I could do is make sure you had a good bed to sleep on. How long do you think you’ll need to get a feel for things?”

“Couple of days, maybe,” Kyth said.

And almost simultaneously, Mr 850 said, “Thirty-eight hours.”

jCharles smiled to himself.

“All right. You guys should have free run of the town, except for one area. I’ll mark it off for you. It’s the Bonefolder’s prime territory. If her people see you sniffing around there, we might have some friction, and I’d rather not have to deal with that right now. Anything you need, you let me know, and if you can’t find me, Nimble can handle it. Any questions?”

jCharles looked around at his friends. The troubled expressions they’d been wearing a few minutes ago had all melted away; already they were in problem-solving mode. They didn’t have any questions.

“Try to keep it low-profile, huh?” jCharles said. “I’ve already got a lot of eyes on me.”

“Why are you looking at me?” Kyth said, her hands raised in a show of innocence.

“You have something of a reputation,” Mr 850 said. And he smiled sheepishly and looked at his feet, partly embarrassed that he’d said it, and clearly pleased with himself that he had.

“Better watch that one,” Kyth said to jCharles. “I might take him home with me.”

4jack stood up and buttoned his shirt. Off jCharles’s look, he said, “You said low-profile. Hard to blend in with the locals when I’m walking around looking like a god.”

jCharles chuckled and shook his head. “I think you’re right, Kyth,” he said.

“Of course I am,” she said. “About what?”

“We’re doomed,” he answered. The others rose to their feet, said their goodbyes. jCharles directed them to the accommodations he’d had prepared for them, each in a different section of town. After he saw them out, he returned to his front room. He poured himself a drink, sat down in his chair, switched out the light. It felt strange to sit there in the dark; jCharles was a hustler by nature. But he’d done all he knew to do for now, and there wasn’t any point in burning himself out with activity for activity’s sake. There’d be plenty to do when his friends got everything sorted out. For now, his job was to wait.

And there was nothing jCharles hated quite as much as waiting.

“
C
an’t be done
,” Mr 850 said, thirty-seven hours and forty-two minutes later.

They’d all reconvened in the apartment.

“That seems... pretty pessimistic,” jCharles said.

Mr 850 shrugged. “Sorry, Twitch. I hate to see you lose. You know I do. But if you try to hold the wall, that’s the only outcome.”

jCharles looked around at the other two. They didn’t offer any argument with Mr 850’s assessment. That wasn’t what he’d expected, and it certainly wasn’t encouraging.

“Maybe that’s why you were having such a hard time figuring it out on your own,” Mr 850 added, an awkward attempt to give jCharles something positive to cling to.

“So that’s it?” jCharles said. “Can’t be done? We’re going to lose the city, no matter what?”

“It’s just too spread out,” Mr 850 said. “Layout’s all wrong. If I’m the bad guy, I’m leading a vanguard force against the front gate. Once you’re committed, I bring in my larger body to hit from the other side. Two other sides if I’ve got the numbers for it. Assuming your estimates are right, you just don’t have the people to cover all the angles of attack.”

“Even if it’s the entire city on the wall?” jCharles asked. Wildly optimistic, he knew.

“They’re hard enough folks,” 4jack interjected. “Got some real pipe hitters in this town. They’ll put up a good fight. It’s the organization that’s the problem. Loyalties are too small. When the trouble comes, it’s going to be every man for himself.”

“If what you say about the Weir is true,” Mr 850 said, “if they really are being controlled by one mind, then it’s inevitable, Twitch. I’m sorry. Even a small disciplined force can decimate a much larger, poorly-coordinated one. And it sounds like they’ve got the numbers.”

“But Greenstone is these people’s home,” he said, grasping for anything.

“It’s not a question of will,” 4jack said. “I meant it when I said they’ll put up a good fight. But Fifty’s right. Any kind of serious, organized attack is going to run right through them.”

jCharles sat back in his chair, crushed. Not because any of this came as a surprise; it was because it confirmed what he’d feared was true. In all the greatest epics, all his favorite stories, the good guys always faced impossible odds, and yet they always found a way to overcome. It
felt
like that was how things were supposed to be in real life, too.

“So what if we don’t save the city?” Kyth said. jCharles looked over at her.

“I’m not running away,” he said.

“That’s not what I said,” she replied. “You asked us to figure out how to protect the city. The answer is, it can’t be done. Let’s spend our time figuring out what we
can
do. So, tell me, if we’re not worried about saving the city itself, what should we be saving?”

“The people,” Mr 850 answered. Kyth winked at him and nodded.

“The people,” she repeated. “Look at it that way, and what options open out to us?”

“I’m not sure how it’s any different,” 4jack said. “Call it what you want, but it’s the same thing either way.”