Iron Jackal (12 page)

‘Now that looks like it would fetch a few ducats,’ he commented. ‘How old do you think it is?’

Ashua crowded close to have a look. She was dusty and filthy and the attractive new-sweat smell of her had been replaced by a stale odour now they were out of the sun. None of which stopped Frey being suddenly very conscious of her proximity.

I need a shower
, he thought to himself.
Very long and very cold.

‘Well, the Sammies have been around longer than anyone,’ said Ashua. ‘First civilisation, and all that. So if this counts as a
relic
to them . . .’ She shook her head slightly. ‘Doesn’t make sense. It could be thousands of years old, but it looks like it was made yesterday.’

‘Maybe they built things to last back then. What do you reckon the blades are made of?’

‘Dunno. Touch ’em and see.’

‘Hey, I opened it. Your turn.’

‘Frey,’ she said. He turned to meet her gaze. Then, very slowly, she puffed out her cheeks and began to cluck like a chicken again.

‘You,’ he said, ‘are a bad influence.’

She grinned at him. He put out his hand and laid it on the flat of the blade. It felt completely smooth, almost glasslike.

‘I think it’s some kind of ceramic,’ he said. ‘Weird. Never seen a blade like that, in Samarla or anywhere. Not even up in Yortland, and they make weapons out of any old shit up there. Seal bones and bear teeth and whatnot.’

‘Try it out,’ Ashua suggested.

‘What?’

‘Go on. Take it out, give it a swing.’ When Frey rolled his eyes at her, she cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t bother resisting. You know you’re going to do it anyway.’

‘I really shouldn’t,’ said Frey, as he gripped the handle and lifted it out. It was startlingly light.

‘Careful,’ said Ashua. ‘Don’t—’

Frey yelped as a sharp pain lanced through his hand, and he let go of the weapon. It crashed to the floor with a clatter.

‘—drop it,’ Ashua finished wearily.

‘It bloody
bit
me,’ said Frey. The palm of his right hand was aflame with the memory of the pain. A single bead of blood had gathered there. He showed it to her. ‘Look!’

‘Poor baby,’ she said. ‘Quite a wound.’

‘Oh, piss off.’

She crouched next to the blade, searching it for signs of chips or scratches. ‘You’d better not have damaged it.’

‘Put it back in the container,’ said Frey. ‘Damn thing’s a menace.’

‘You think I’m touching it now? No, thanks. You put it back.’

‘
I’m
not touching it!’

‘Well, we’ll leave it on the floor, then. Makes no odds to me. You shouldn’t have taken it out.’

Frey gritted his teeth in frustration. ‘You know, I could just kick you out the cargo door and leave you in the desert,’ he reminded her. ‘We’ve got the loot now.’

‘You won’t kick me off,’ she said, with infuriating confidence.

‘Why not?’

‘You’re not the type. You’re soft on women.’

‘I am not!’ he said indignantly.

‘Oh, you are,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’re a handsome guy under all that dirt. I bet you go through women like socks. That means you’re either a self-absorbed narcissist who needs female attention to groom his ego, or you’re a bitter closet misogynist who’s out to get revenge on women through some weird domination-and-conquest thing.’

Frey was rather pleased that she’d called him handsome. He made a show of considering the question, to disguise the fact that he didn’t understand some of the words. ‘I like the sound of the first one more,’ he ventured.

‘That’s what I reckoned.’

‘Where did you learn to talk like that? You sound like Crake sometimes.’

She shrugged, evading the question. ‘You gonna pick up that sword-thing, then?’

Frey didn’t much want to, but it was clear that she wasn’t going to help him out, and he couldn’t just leave it there as evidence of what he’d done. How would he explain it to the crew? Or to Trinica?

‘Fine!’ he snarled.
‘I’ll
do it.’ He bent down and gingerly lifted the weapon, gripping the blades with his thumbs and fingertips, careful not to touch the edges. He turned it over awkwardly and inspected it. It seemed unharmed. Well, if the buyer noticed any damage, he’d just say it was there already.

‘Try not to fumble it this time,’ Ashua said.

Frey tensed for a moment, wondering if it was too late to change his mind about kicking her off. He took a breath and decided to be a bigger man than that.

‘We never opened the case, right?’ he said.

‘
You
never opened it,’ she corrected.

He put the blade back in its cradle and closed the case. It became a simple black slab again, with no sign of a seam.

‘Sooner we’re out of this damn country, the better,’ he muttered. He stamped off towards the cockpit, flexing his sore hand.

Eight

The Silent Tide – Trinica’s Suggestion – The Toast of the Barflies – A Confession

F
rey just couldn’t get comfortable. He shifted his weight in the chair, but that didn’t seem right either. He didn’t know where to put his elbows. He was too hot in the jacket he wore. He plucked at the cuffs and looked about, feeling hunted.

The restaurant was exquisite, with walls and columns of pink marble. Gold chandeliers and sconces spread islands of soft light over the tables. Polished cutlery and glass glittered around small but artfully crafted centrepieces. Dakkadian waiters glided silently past, carrying dishes.

The diners were mostly expat Vards, but there were a smattering of Samarlans among them. Sammies had their own restaurants and clubs, where foreigners weren’t allowed, but this restriction didn’t apply in reverse. Here, in the Free Trade Zone, the races mixed and mingled in a way they couldn’t do anywhere else. Frey had heard on the grapevine that this was the place to go if you were a rich Vard in Shasiith. So that was where he’d gone, even though he was anything but rich.

Frey had one of the best tables. He was sitting right up against the balustrade, on a veranda that extended out over the banks of the river below. The city lights shone from the far bank, multiplied in the slow-moving black water. It was night, and still blood-warm, but a faint and merciful breeze stirred the air.

He was glad he’d insisted on this table when he made the reservation. It meant that he wasn’t surrounded. He’d been to society functions before, always unwillingly, and he always hated them. Cultured folk made him deeply uneasy. They had a way of making him feel like an intruder. No matter how well he disguised himself as one of them, they sensed him: an uneducated orphan, without manners or finesse, trying to clamber above his allotted station. One wrong move and they might fall on him like wolves and tear him limb from limb.

He sipped from a glass of water and dearly wished it was something stronger. He fidgeted in his seat and adjusted his clothes. He’d borrowed them from Crake, who was roughly the same size. They were too light against his skin and didn’t seem to hang right. He felt unprotected and vulnerable, and despite all Crake’s assurances he thought he looked a little stupid.

He picked up the menu and scanned it for the tenth time, to give himself something to do. It was written in both Samarlan and Vardic, not that it made the meals any more comprehensible. He cast his eye over the wine list. His sphincter tightened involuntarily at the prices. How could a few glugs of booze possibly be worth that much?

Don’t think about it, Darian. You’re in their world now.

Damn, he was nervous.

Then he saw her, as she was led out onto the veranda by a waiter. He raised his hand in tentative greeting, wearing an expression so eager it was almost comical. The waiting was at an end: the tortured awkwardness of the lonely diner was over. He’d wondered whether she’d come at all, or how long he’d be able to stand it if she was late. But now Trinica was here, and everything was alright.

He’d witnessed her transformations before, but they were so rare that they never failed to overwhelm him. Most of the time she looked like she belonged in a straitjacket, but sometimes, just sometimes, she changed for him.

She’d stripped away her white make-up, her red lipstick, her black contact lenses. She’d styled her chopped and tattered hair until, somehow, it flattered her. She’d put on a dark blue dress that clung to her narrow hips. She’d become the woman he’d known before, the woman he’d loved and discarded when he was still just an idiot boy who wasn’t ready for marriage or children or any of that.

How he wished he could go back and talk some sense into that boy now. To tell him what he’d be giving up. What ruin he’d bring on both of them, and how he might never be able to make it right again. Maybe then that boy would’ve thought twice about running out on her on their wedding day.

But, he had to admit, it would probably have made no difference. He wouldn’t have listened. And they’d still be where they were tonight, two people on opposite sides of a broken and shattered wasteland, trying to pick a path through the rubble to reach one another.

He got up as she approached and pulled her chair out for her. It made him feel absurd, but Crake had told him to do it, so he did. Trinica must have thought the gesture strange, coming from him, but to her credit she gave no sign, and seated herself as if it happened to her every day. He sat back down, mildly embarrassed but relieved that no disaster had occurred.

She looked over the balustrade at the view. ‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘When you coerced me into a private rendezvous, I didn’t expect such a lovely venue.’

‘
Coerced
is a bit strong,’ said Frey. He couldn’t keep a grin off his face. ‘I’d say
gently encouraged
.’

‘I hope that my presence here means the relic will be delivered to me as promised? And there’ll be no more talk of running off to fence it yourself?’

‘I’ll bring it over to the
Delirium Trigger
when I get back,’ he said. ‘As long as you’re nice.’

‘Darian,’ she said chidingly. ‘I’m
always
nice.’

‘Oh, I almost forgot. I have a present for you.’ He produced a book from beneath the table and passed it to her. She looked down at it and then back up at him with something like amazement in her eyes.

‘Hope it’s something good,’ he said. ‘I can’t even read the title. Just thought, y’know . . . you have a lot of those sort of books in your cabin, so I nicked it off the train.’

‘It’s called
The Silent Tide
,’ she said. She stroked the cover lightly. ‘It’s beautiful edition. Thank you.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s a classic romance.’

‘Do they get it together at the end?’

‘No. They die. It’s a tragedy.’

‘Oh.’ He wasn’t sure if that made it a good gift or a bad one. But she seemed delighted, so he reckoned he’d done well.

The waiter, who had been hovering at a polite distance, approached and asked them if they would like some wine.

Frey bumbled. He’d been so busy gaping in horror at the wine prices that he hadn’t actually thought to pick one. He blanked for a moment then said: ‘I think the lady should choose?’ He looked at Trinica. ‘I’m sure you know your wine. Pick any one you like.’

‘
Any
one?’ she said, in a tone that he didn’t like. ‘My, my.’

She laid her hand on the wine menu, drawing it towards her. She regarded him for a long moment, a faint smile playing at the edge of her lips. Then she handed the menu to the waiter without opening it, and said something to him in rapid Samarlan. The waiter took the menu, gave a little bow of acknowledgment, and left.

Frey watched her, mesmerised. When he was in the mood, he found her full of little wonders. The effortless way she dealt with the world made him melt in admiration.

She caught his look. ‘Darian,’ she said, almost as a warning. But he couldn’t help himself, he had to stare at her, and after a moment she looked away and blushed. Actually blushed. The sight shocked him. He hadn’t seen her blush in more than a decade.

They fell into their old, easy rhythms of conversation. Each time they met, it took them less and less time to relax with one another. The wine came, and they talked. Frey tried to keep the conversation light. He was keen that words shouldn’t get in the way. All he wanted was to enjoy this time with her, this being together, and he wanted her to feel that too.

Trinica ordered his dinner for him, because he didn’t recognise anything on the menu as food. When it came, it was delicious – she knew his tastes – but he was still none the wiser as to what it actually was. She picked at her dish, eating slowly with tiny, precise bites. Frey usually wolfed his meals down, but tonight he made sure to pace himself according to Crake’s instructions, and he talked with such enthusiasm that she finished before he did.

‘How was it?’ he asked, when the waiter had cleared away their plates and left dessert menus behind.

‘Wonderful,’ she said, with an earnestness that warmed him. Her eyes shone. It was as if she’d gradually been coming alive throughout the meal, as if every bite restored her more and more.