Outlier: Rebellion (30 page)

Then he trips.

Clang, loud and clumsy, the world falls apart. Sheets of metal bury Link in a sudden downpour, and he grunts angrily, trying to free himself from the silver avalanche. Another hand suddenly appears, lifting and tossing aside the heavy scraps, until Link finds himself embracing the helping hand of Dran, who lifts him from the mess and back to rights, his foot finding purchase.

Their eyes meet, and Dran almost seems to smile. Not a speck of surprise in his loose face. “Aye, Linker, thought I recognized you in the market way back there. What’s that you got in your hand?” asks Dran politely, not even caring to look at the splinter of metal Link holds. “Giving me a nose piercing with that?”

Link ignores the jab. “You
humiliated
me. You had all the fun at my expense and threw me to hounds. I could’ve died … or could’ve been imprisoned for life had I not, all for the likes of a prank.”

“First,” Dran points out, “you neither died nor got imprisoned. That’s both impressive and unsurprising, as you always struck me clever, ever since your first mission at that sanctuary … The Brae. You sure know how to decapitate a girl’s doll, don’t you? Second, it was not a
prank
, Linker-stinker. You came out of that toolshed a stronger, smarter, keener man.”

“I’ve listened enough,” Link barks back, but then he hears Dran’s words again, and it occurs to him: “Wait … How’d you know I was in the toolshed?”

“Oh, you think we truly abandoned you?” Dran grins, all his white teeth flaring. “Awwww, my boy! Had you lost your speed, we would’ve hacked off the heads of those clumsy guards. But you didn’t lose your speed, did you? Regrettably, we
did
slice one of the hounds in half.
Schoonk!
Poor animal hadn’t a chance, but that’s what he gets for being the slowest of the litter.”

“So what the—what the
fuck
was the point?” Link grips the splinter tighter, feeling it pinch horribly in his palms, but he ignores it. “Why’d you—Why’d you—?”

“Why’d we let you in from the start?” Dran circles him slow—Link follows with the tip of his weapon. “Our mission at The Brae was your first test. You cut a priest’s back, made a little girl cry, and stole away with a bag full of happy. But why did you cry for them?”

“I did not cry,” he spits back, his sharp point still following.

“Think those priests didn’t deserve the treatment we gave them? Think, just because they raise hands to some spiritual overlord, to Three Sister, to the King or the Marshal of Madness or whoever they feel like praying to this week, that they are … what’s the word …
innocent?
No man, woman, or child is innocent. Especially the ones who wear costumes.”

“And what the fuck do you wear,
black eyes?”

“So you finally see.” Dran grins, confusing Link for the worse. “I, most of all, am so far from innocent. But justice is not only for the innocent and blameless. Nor wrath. We are all a victim, all a murderer, all a thief and a brother and a liar. Even you. Just as guilty as a King. Even a priest. Even a child with pretty little eyes.”

“You wanted me dead.” Link’s hand is shaking. The weapon grows heavier by the second. “You were mad that I’d lost the gold to a girl, to a—”

“A girl?” He’s still circling.
Stop circling me. Stay still!
“So it is a
girl
now that stole your gold in the waterway? Not a boy thief? … So you’re a liar, now?”

“And a thief and a brother,” he retorts, “and a victim and a murderer, isn’t that right?”

Dran stops moving. “It was a
test
, Linker. All of it … and you passed.” He moves to pat him on the shoulder, but Link spins in reflex, aiming his weapon hard. The thing points at Dran’s nose, but he only smiles, unafraid, unmoved. “I never told you what my Legacy is. That’s clearly evidenced by the fact that you’re preparing to bring harm to me with that—sword, is it? You have no idea what I can do.”

“I don’t care what you can do, you Wrath fuck, you piece of fucking fuck.” Link’s hand trembles so terribly, he suspects his entire weapon has gone every shade of pink.

“If you knew my Legacy,” Dran warns him, though his voice reeks more of teasing than it does threat, “you’d think twice about swinging that swinger.”

Suddenly there’s a lady at Dran’s hip, some pretty punk thing with spiky hair and hot green lips. She leans in, gives Dran a thick, wet kiss on the lips, then turns to squint at Link with acid in her eyes. “Who’s this fool?”

Dran smiles, gives his girl a little lick on the cheek and says, “This young man’s name is Link. He was just showing me his moves, weren’t you?”

Link says nothing in return. The girl reaches around his weapon like it were nothing but a fly in her face and extends a hand. The girl’s tiny face is pierced through the nose, and her eyebrows are shaven off, painted lines taking their place. Her eyes are sharp and her mouth, tiny as a nostril. “I’m Mercy.”

Link still says nothing, still makes no movement. The point hovers at Dran’s smiling face.

The one called Mercy frowns. “A serious one, this is. No smiles at all.” She squints at Dran. “You absolutely
sure
this kid wasn’t about to duel you to the death?” Dran laughs, which burns Link in the belly, burns him something cold and hot at once.
Kid, she called me. Kid …

“Here.” Dran pulls a black band off his arm that Link, until now, hadn’t realized he was wearing. He flings it to the ground at Link’s feet. “Keep it. Memento, if you never see the likes of me again. Otherwise—and I do say this with every heavy and every light in my heart—once of Wrath, always of Wrath. Many of us will be attending the Weapon Show tomorrow. Nine blocks that way,” he says, moving the tip of Link’s weapon ever so slightly to indicate. “Yes, thereabouts. The smithing district, just before the Crossing. The only thing of Wrath we wear are these bands, and you have mine now. We won’t go in black gear. Tomorrow night, we celebrate weaponry as citizens. We celebrate strength and wisdom of slummers. We take notes, share genius …”

Dran interrupts himself to pull his girl into him. His tongue out like a snake, it slithers into her green lips. She moans humorlessly. Link’s eyes play a game between the two of them. Dran seems to forget he’s in the middle of a conversation, his hand tracing the back of his girl and coming to rest on her butt. “Mmm, yep, that’s about right.” He grins, shining teeth again in Link’s direction. “And in no sooner than a week’s time, this beautiful lady’s gonna be mine forever.”

The girl Mercy, she lifts a hand and wiggles the fingers. A fat, dull band of metal rests on one of them, no shimmer in it at all. “It’s a big thing,” she complains.

Dran cups himself down below, gives a squeeze. “But aren’t you so a fan of
big
things
.” He nips her ear, turns an eye back to Link.
“Wife
… The word sits well, and someday you’ll sit with it too, Linker. Remember. Tomorrow, Weapon Show.
Make it fly.
”

With a pat and a squeeze of his girl, the two of them go away. Only now does Link lower his weapon. He lets it fall to the ground, the ugly, useless thing it is. When he crouches to take up the black band he so fought to earn, it feels lighter in his palm than he expected.

He wonders if all long-sought-after rewards feel as empty.

His hand’s red from wrist to nail. He didn’t realize he was gripping the long metal splinter so tight, he’s made a bleed of his whole hand.

00
32
Halvesand

He encounters a beautiful puddle in the road from last night’s rain. He stomps through it to wreck its mirror-perfect peace.

Halvesand can’t help his sour mood. Grute is the last person he would share missions and tasks and duties of protection with.
As effective as patrolling with a monkey.
Not to mention the fact that his brother Aleks is off in the city somewhere with Ennebal—the
real
person with which Halves would like spending time.

And then there’s the blackout. Ever since the bolt of light struck the ward from the sky and they were thrown into darkness, he’s felt at any moment someone could slip from a shadow and shank him … or steal his glow gun, or worse. Then Grute might make some dumb sound or dumber move, throwing them both into danger—that’s
really
what he fears. He does not trust Grute.

But even the excitement of paranoia wore off hours ago. Now he’s just bored. Grute doesn’t even make good company.

“Got a lead,” says Grute suddenly.

Halves is confused, pokes at the gadget in his ear. “I didn’t hear anything about a lead.”

“Follow.” Not a question, an order.

Halves follows, covering Grute’s back as they approach some back alley club.
Lady Luck
, it’s called by the dimly-glowing sign. With a little shove, the door gives, and Grute moves in. Set out on platforms and encased in giant glass boxes, women are dancing sensuously, one in each. Candles burn all around, thickening the already too-thick air of this grimy hole. “I’m armed,” says Grute with no sense of kindness for people. “We go where we like.”

Halves realizes his partner’s in a verbal quarrel with one of the tenders. Already. “I don’t care who either of you are,” the tender snaps. “You’re in my place of business, and unless it’s a dance you want, you got no business here.”

Patrons take notice, turning face. Other tenders and men are rallying around.
We’re outnumbered and Grute is being an idiot.
Yet fear is the last thing in his eyes; he’s drunk with a title and the power he believes it gives him.

“I’ve got a lead to pursue, by order of Taylon the Bonebender. Don’t you know him?” Grute lifts his chin, smirks down on the man. “Not a boy you wanna piss off, I’ve been told, unless you got yourself a sick desire to be
bent
.”

Halves cuts in. “Grute …”

The tender reaches for his belt, and quicker than a flame Grute cuts at the tender’s leg, cuts another man’s arm, and slices a glass of brew in half. The tender screams like nothing human and drops to his knees, then to his face, still screaming into the floor. The patrons have all stood up, alarmed. Several flee out another entrance, sunlight spilling in and kicking all the candlelight in the room sideways for one ugly moment.

Grute stands over the wailing man. “I’ll need to question that lady.” He indicates with a nod. “And that one,” to another glass box. “And … not the one with the thing on her nose. No. Pity I don’t remember my lead’s name. Hey,” he nudges the still-wailing tender with a boot. “You can provide me a room in which I may conduct my inquisitions. Your private office, perhaps.”

Halves shakes all over, from his chest to the tip of his nose to his knees. He’s already drawn his neon, already another hand ready to pull steel if needed.
What the hell, Grute? What the hell?
He fights an urge to flee, fights a worse urge to abandon his partner, to run for his life.
Obert would understand … Obert would understand …

Two answers.

But Halves does not flee. Twenty minutes later, the three chosen women—the three prettiest, by coincidence, surely—have been thoroughly picked over by Grute, who seems to regard them less as leads and more as desserts. “Hey, guard the door,” he commands Halves, then takes a lady into the private office.

There are no leads. Nothing drew Grute to
Lady Luck
but his own horniness and the power of a uniform. Halves glares at the wall opposite him, so angry it makes his teeth ring. What can he do but wait? A man watches Halves from the shadowy bar, his stare as sharp as the blade he’s surely dreaming to put through the both of them, regardless of Halves’ involvement in this.
I could kill Grute. For each of these women, I’d kill Grute over and over.
Yet here Halves stands, doing nothing at all about the injustice at his back except fuming. He hears soft moaning through the door.

He’s heard enough.

When a lady leaves the office, Halves tries convincing himself that nothing happened, but notices her shirt is buttoned one-off. Another’s hair is disheveled when she leaves, her eyes dead and sickly. The last one hugs herself, shivering, eye makeup running.

No, nothing happening here at all.

An hour later, Grute’s apparently had his fill. “Leads proved most unhelpful.” Then on the way out, Grute hands one of the tenders a gold coin. “I’m no businessman,” he tells him, “but I know a fine selection of lady when I see it. You ought to offer massages: in with a stiff shoulder, out with a stiff something else.”

Back on the streets, Halves can’t talk. If he dared to, he’s afraid the conversation would end with a weapon in his partner’s face.
I don’t trust my hands right now,
he realizes, noticing they’ve turned to fists, knuckles white.

“I didn’t fuck them,” Grute volunteers three blocks later. “You’re thinking it. But I didn’t fuck them. Oh, and it wasn’t real gold I paid with. Do I look like a man with gold in his pants? My Legacy’s adapting little things to suit a purpose. I can make any scrap of shit look like gold, no slummer’s gonna notice. Too blinded by the shiny to notice. Too stupid. My dad was that sort of stupid. Piece of gold got his neck slit when I was just eight. Only smart thing he ever taught me … there’s a reason the Lifted use such a soft metal as gold for their currency—it’s a thing that isn’t even loyal to its own shape, so soft a bite can change it.”

Halves doesn’t respond, dreaming how different patrol would be with Ennebal at his side, how true it’d be. Just that one day when he, Aleks, and Ennebal took to the streets during a practice patrol. Ennebal … He can still picture her by the candlelight, stirring his heart and—other things. He wonders what she’d look like dancing half-naked in a glass box … then is immediately struck sick by the thought, ashamed.