Rift in the Races (72 page)

“Thank ya, but no,” Ilbei said, with a wry grin. “A month ago, I might have taken ya up on that, but I’ve got my sights on a gal.”

Sergeant Haft laughed and waggled his cup in the air, moving it around to trace the space filled so full with Ilbei’s wide shoulders and round-bellied frame. Ale sloshed everywhere. “An old sot like you? What woman would have such a heap a’ fat and gristle as all that?”

“A right fine woman, that’s what. And ya just keep that last bit to yourself. On your word ya scabby old gaffer, or I’ll come back and stake ya ta a tree.”

“On my honor, not a word, sar. But I expect ta drink free at the weddin’ when it comes off.”

“Count on it, friend.”

They stood and gripped forearms tightly, the crow’s feet at the corners of Haft’s eyes lengthening seriously for a time. “Be careful, Spadebreaker. These is no folks fer ta trifle with light.”

“Agreed.” They parted with a hearty hug, and not much after, Ilbei was making his way toward Leekant through the rain, humming through his beard and thinking fondly of Kettle’s sharp tongue, full figure and famous culinary feats.

He rode through most of the night, stopped under a tree to sleep for a few hours and made it into town early the following day, just as commerce began to pick up.

Jasper was not fond of the huge draft horses with their tree-trunk heads and tree-stump hooves clomping heavily near him, twice as hairy and almost half as big as he. Ilbei spent a great deal of effort yanking at the donkey, who perpetually stretched the tether between them with each new display of stubbornness and fright. Ilbei realized straight away that he’d never get very far with skittish Jasper in tow, so he made his way directly to the stables adjacent to the Patient Peacock Inn.

“Still dragging that sack of bones around, eh, Ilbei?” jabbed the stable keeper as Ilbei led his animals in.

“Fertie, don’t ya start with me. I’ll skin ya right along with this broke-down beast a’watchin’.”

Fertie laughed as he took the mule by the bridle strap and the donkey by the rope. “You could probably shake most of the bones out of that thing with a good flap. I don’t expect there’s any gizzards in there at all.” He peered at the ribs sticking through the donkey’s shaggy hide and grimaced. “No place for em at all. No telling how it bears these packs. Looks half dead to me.”

“That ass will be around another hundred years after they bury you and yers,” Ilbei said with a wink. Then, serious, “See to ‘em kind, Fertie.”

“I always do.”

Ilbei went inside to break his fast and see if he could learn anything new.

“Ilbei Spadebreaker. I could have sworn someone said a mine fell in on you,” said Old Bucky Falfox, owner and barkeep of the Patient Peacock and candidate for mayor yet again this year. The glint in the innkeeper’s eyes gave the lie of the rumored report.

“Ya best hope one don’t,” said Ilbei. “I may only get here but once a year or so, but I expect I represent a right high share a’ the annual take.”

They laughed and exchanged pleasantries as Ilbei’s food was prepared. And it was only after he was properly fed that Ilbei asked about Orli and Tytamon.

“Now there’s a surprise,” said Bucky Falfox. “We’ve had a steady course of folks coming through here asking about that case, but you are the last I’d have figured would be part of it.”

“Well, I’m looking into it fer a friend.”

“What friend?”

“One a’ them Earth fellers, in particular. And Mistress Kettle from Calico has an interest as well.”

Bucky Falfox shook his balding head. “Yes, I expect she would.”

“So?”

“I’ll tell you what I told the others. I saw them in town; it’s been about six weeks ago now. That’s well before the orcs was said to have got them both. Nobody’s seen them since.”

“How do ya know that?”

“Because one of Lord Thoroughgood’s men told me as much not a week ago.”

“Lord Thoroughgood’s people was here?”

“They were. A caster and his man. Asking same as you.”

Ilbei scratched his beard, sending a rain of dust and a few bits of breakfast into his empty plate.

“What did ya tell ‘em?”

“Same as I just told you. Nothing since the orcs got them. Unless the diviners figure out resurrection magic, I don’t imagine anyone will be seeing them again.”

Ilbei nodded. “Fair enough.” He took a long draught of ale. “All right, Bucky. Anythin’ else I ought ta know?”

“Stay out of Church Quarter for a while.”

“I ain’t much for prayin’ anyway. Least not prayin’ what requires coins to get it through.” He finished the ale and wiped the foam from his mustache with his sleeve. “But just as curiosity, why not?”

“Seems some G-class adept let one get away. Pissed off Anvilwrath himself they say, and they’ve got lightning forking through the streets still, eight days after the fact.”

“Eight days?”

“Yep. Get anywhere near there and you’ll catch god’s fire still ripping through.”

“Fer eight days? Never heard a’ such a thing. Not unless they was a Six, like comes along now and again.”

“Only a Two from what I heard. I imagine the gods will be as angry as they please for as long as they please, and without any respect for letters around the ring.”

Ilbei nodded. “You’re right about that. Damn magicians. Things been getting more and more complicated ever since they figured out them fancy words. Even a broke old miner like me knows some things is best left unearthed.”

An hour later found Ilbei in Blanks Quarter. He knew the town well enough and had frequented enough of the less-upright businesses over the years to, if not be on a first-name basis with many of the clerks, at least be recognized. His disheveled appearance prevented him from drawing too much notice from those who did not know him, and the one cutpurse that got too close backed off when Ilbei’s iron gaze nearly nailed him to a wall. The promise of danger in that stare was real, and any denizen of the street knew what it looked like when it shone. This thief quickly assessed it and silently slipped away before Ilbei’s hand had even moved toward his pickaxe.

Gevender’s Thrift Emporium was the fourth stop on Ilbei’s list, and potentially the most important given what Sergeant Haft had said about Black Sander and his dealings whenever he came to town. Ilbei had never had much cause to shop there as he knew it to be one of those places that fronted for much larger merchandise, the heaps of garbage and worthlessness that piled up in its front room were meant to discourage shoppers far more than to entice interest. If a man wanted to buy a stolen coach or even a merchant ship, this was the place. But magic items were certainly not off the list, and Ilbei was convinced that the yellow stone had to be something of that sort.

“Greetings, ma’am,” said Ilbei as he squeezed through the narrow space between the piled clutter of goods. His projecting belly knocked a few items loose and onto the floor, which caused the thick limbed woman behind the counter to shake her red curls and point at him. “You better pick those up,” she snarled. “I don’t get paid to clean this place.”

“I can see that,” Ilbei said, picking up the items and throwing them up and over the top of the pile.

The woman scowled, but Ilbei’s casual treatment of the merchandise made her visibly relax.

“What do you want?”

“I’m lookin’ fer a rock,” he said. “A certain kinda rock that I can’t find no matter where I dig.” He turned, so she could see his well-worn miner’s pick and get the general sense of his physical aspect. “I heard a rumor that ya might have dug one up.”

She looked him up and down, rolling her thickly painted crimson lips together speculatively. She might have seen him in town before.

“Why do you want it?”

“I have a buyer fer it.”

“Who?”

“If’n I told ya that, I expect by week’s end I wouldn’t have a buyer no more.”

She laughed. “You’re right about that.” The smile died on her thickly painted lips almost immediately. “So what kind of rock you looking for? We might have lots of them.”

“Well, this one is particular. It’s a yellow thing. Not too big. Not a gemstone. Just a rock. Not all that spectacular ta see as I been told.”

“Why do you want a rock that’s not all that spectacular to see?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, honestly. “But they told me if’n I found one, they’d pay me handsome. But I been diggin’ all my life and never seen nothing like what they said. A couple a’ soldier friends told me they found one outside a’ the dead wizard’s fort. I was kinda hoping fer a spot a’ luck.”

“How handsome?”

“Who, my soldier friends?”

“No, idiot, how handsome are they going to pay you?”

“They didn’t specify, ta be honest, ma’am. But they live real comfortable, let’s just say that.”

“Are they wizards?”

“I don’t expect that matters much to ya. I’ll be paying fer it myself.”

“It matters to me.”

He stared her straight in the face, made a show of deciding whether or not he should tell her any “truth” regarding his “clients’” identity. The fight upon his brow seemed to suggest he decided he could trust her well enough.

“Not that it makes much difference, but yes, he is.” He made a show of looking angry with himself for giving up the gender of his buyer. “Look, either ya have it or ya don’t.”

“How much you willing to pay for it?”

“Seven gold.” He said it without hesitation.

“Hah, even if I did still have it, I wouldn’t have sold it to you for that.”

“So ya don’t have it?”

“Not anymore, and I got a damn share more for it than seven gold. You better go back and tell your master to sharpen his lance. You couldn’t prick a chicken with a stick that dull.”

“How much did it go fer? In case ya get another one?”

“None of your business how much. Now, if you don’t have anything else you need, get out.”

“Listen here, ma’am, I’m just trying to make a living here, same as you.”

“Get out.”

“One last thing, then. Just, I’m wondering if’n I’m the only one my client set to finding this. Has anyone else been in here trying ta find one? In particular, ya know, anyone a’ them Earth folks? A woman maybe?”

Her eyes narrowed then, and she glared at him for a time as if reconsidering him. Finally she spoke again. “If someone did, I damn sure wouldn’t tell you. Now get out before I sic the dogs on you.”

Ilbei looked around but didn’t see any dogs. Still, he wouldn’t put it past a place like this to have some or, worse, some brutes designated as dogs. There wasn’t much room to swing a pickaxe in here. He tipped his hat and backed his way out of the mess, not bothering to throw back any of the items he knocked down as he withdrew.

Orli had been here. He knew it now sure as he knew the rain was falling from the sky. He was going to have to look up some old friends in town and see what he could dig up about that pawnshop and about Black Sander too. If he could somehow link Black Sander to the faked crime scene at Daggerspine pass, he could begin to figure out the true nature of the crime.

He sure didn’t like the possibilities that began shaping themselves in his head, and a growing tightness started to form in his chest. If she’d fallen in with these people or crossed them, either one, that naïve Earth kid was in a world of trouble. Two worlds’ worth.

He glanced back over his shoulder with a shudder as he walked away, just to see if anyone had followed him out of the shop. No one had, at least not directly, but he did see a slender figure in black leather slipping in through the front door. He recognized the figure immediately, and it made him shudder even more than if he had been followed. It was Shadesbreath, the Queen’s attack dog.

Chapter 55

T
he fleet approached the Hostile world ready to bring it to an end. The ships were divided into battle groups, spaced perfectly for their mutual defense, and moving into position around the planet in perfect unison. The computer simulations they had run before leaving what the magicians had called “Mana’s Edge” showed that the planned attack had such a high likelihood of destroying all life on the planet that it required thirty-seven places after the decimal point to get to the digit upon which they’d simply rounded it up and called it a hundred percent probability. If executed properly, there wouldn’t be a single seed left to germinate on the planet ever again, and that only would have mattered had there been any chance that sunlight might soon filter through the dust cloud they were about to make. Which it would not. The Hostile world they now officially called Goldilocks was about to become a radioactive wasteland on a scale never even calculated before.

The Hostiles had sensed the danger shortly after the ships had entered the system, but the newly devised strategy of using the gravity drives as weapons worked perfectly. Swatting flies was far more difficult than destroying Hostiles now. Oh, how far they had come in such a short, short time. The tables were turned now, without question.

Still, despite the staggering losses, and perhaps sensing the imminent danger, the Hostiles kept coming anyway, more and more of them the closer the fleet got to the planet. By the time the battle groups were moving into positions above Goldilocks, Hostile orbs were flying up like waves of angry wasps. Huge groups of them came, some of the orbs very large, many times larger than the ships themselves, but it didn’t matter. There was no more worry about manual reactions, no more gut-hunches, reflexes or luck. The gravity defenses worked perfectly, and the computers did all the work. The space around the Hostile planet soon became streaked with the glowing orange ichors that served the orbs as guts, loops and arcs of it, long lines that stretched like cursive upon the night, sentences of death written in glowing lava, an old-world neon sign announcing the end of the Hostiles for all of time.