Blood Ties (22 page)

He didn't offer any sort of answer.

“I bet I know what it is,” I said at length.

“Oh, do ya?” he sneered.

“You think you're better than humans.”

“I don't think it. I know it.”

“You hate humans for killing so many of your kind, and you want us all dead. But at the same time, if you started killing us yourselves, then you'd be no better than the humans you despise for all the slaughter. So you cheer for our demise, and you urge me to kill others of my kind, but you want to keep your hands clean yourself.”

“You,” he said with thick disdain, “know nothing.”

“See, whereas I think I know more than you want to admit I do. But I'm not inclined to argue with you, especially when you did me such a service. Consider this, though. Every time our spy is interested in bedding a woman, he's going to have to worry that sooner or later she's going to ask him what the ‘g' carved on his ass stands for. He's going to have some uncomfortable moments ahead of him.”

“Especially when he sits down,” said the gnome.

We laughed. Together. It was certainly the first time that had happened, and when the gnome realized it, he quickly shut his mouth and, for the first time that I could recall, actually appeared mortified. He settled for scowling at me once more before leaping upward, sinking his fingers into the trunk of the nearest tree and scurrying up into the protective cover of the branches.

“Thank you,” I said, “for watching out for me.”

He didn't respond immediately. But as I climbed back through the window of my room, I could have sworn that, very faintly, a reluctant “You're welcome” was muttered back to me.

I COULD HAVE MADE A SERIOUS SPLASH
upon returning to Bowerstone. Looked up old friends, reconnected with the members of the Bowerstone Resistance with whom I had fought side by side during the “great unpleasantness” as some people dryly referred to it. I did not do so, though, for two reasons.

The first was that this was hardly a social call. I had been tasked with the impossible job of choosing between my principles and my brother's life, to say nothing of facing the notion of killing a woman who was—if not exactly a friend—at the very least a colleague.

The second was that by then I had a healthy dose of paranoia because I knew that Reaver had spies watching me, and I had no idea whom to trust. For all that I could be sure, Reaver might even have had paid spies within the Resistance itself. Why not? Being a freedom fighter wasn't exactly what you would call a high-paying vocation. I could easily see him seducing certain members of the Resistance, grunts and such, to keep Reaver apprised of everything that Page was up to. Plus it wasn't as if I were entirely unknown to the residents of Bowerstone. So additional eyes could easily have been recruited by his already existing network of unknown size to keep a watch on me.

Or there could be no one. It could have been that the spy back in Millfields had been the only one on Reaver's payroll, and the things he had told me were not the truth at all; he could have just been an extremely convincing liar, and I was going to spend the rest of my time in Bowerstone, if not the rest of my life, jumping at shadows. Sometimes your own mind can be a far greater threat to you than actual enemies.

At that point, though, I couldn't afford not to operate on the assumption that Reaver did indeed have people watching me everywhere I went. Which meant that the manner in which I handled my interaction with Page was going to be extremely crucial. The most frustrating thing was that, even after all this time, I still hadn't worked out an actual plan of what to do. I was simply making things up as I went along, and that was a dangerous way to handle the situation. But I couldn't find the emotional distance required to form a coherent plan of attack on the problem. Instead, I would simply have to rely on my instincts, and if those instincts prompted me to bury a knife between Page's ribs, then that was what I was going to do.

Although I'd probably wait until her back was turned. Face-to-face, she would doubtless relieve me of the knife, then force me to eat it.

I entered Bowerstone Industrial on foot, having left Clash well stabled back in the village. It seemed easier that way, particularly since personal property was much more likely to disappear if left unattended even for five minutes in Bowerstone Industrial, and the odds were only slightly better in the Market.

I went to the most logical place I could think of in order to find her: the sewers. But when I arrived and went to what had been the headquarters of the Resistance, I was surprised to find that she wasn't there. I suppose I shouldn't have been. She had to leave
some
time. It was just lousy timing that it was then.

I considered waiting around for her return, but somehow that strategy didn't ring true to me. Even though I had no real plan formed, I was sure that the best way to approach that impossible situation was to appear as casual as possible. A sort of, “Hello, Page, I just happened to be in the area, thought I'd drop by” attitude would be the best one for me to display. That wasn't going to work if she found me standing there waiting for her. She'd sense something was up, and I was reasonably sure that my ill-conceived plan wasn't going to be able to stand up to any sort of scrutiny.

Of course, whenever she showed up, I could pretend that I had just arrived as well, but I wasn't confident that my limited acting abilities would allow me to carry that off.

So after a minute or so of pondering, I turned around and headed back out of the sewers. I walked across to the bridge where the gnome had taken up station perched underneath. “Anyone?” I said.

“A couple of stray dockworkers. I was hoping for more.” He sounded disappointed. I'd left him out on watch to see if any potential spies had swung by and encouraged him to hurl as many insults their way as he could conceive. The dockworkers might well have had every business being there; on the other hand, they could have been more spies. Mentally, I cursed Reaver for putting my mind in such a state.

“Maybe next time,” I said.

“Where's the woman? Was she there? Did you kill her? If you did, I want to go look.”

“She wasn't there.”

Once again, there was disappointment on his face. “Then where is she?”

“That I do not know. But her minimal belongings are there, so I assume she's still somewhere in town.”

I had no choice but to look around and hope that luck was with me.

As it turned out, for once, it was.

Simply strolling around Bowerstone Industrial is not the most enjoyable of experiences. There is a distinct and constant stench in the air, most of the residents are indigent, and Reaver's main factory dwarfs everything else, serving to remind me that I was still not in control of my own destiny. There was a steady stream of beggar children who approached me, and under ordinary circumstances I would have had to be constantly concerned that my wallet was going to be stolen. The gnome, as it turned out, was handy in that regard. He skulked along by my side and hurled insults and sneers at anyone who even looked like he was thinking about coming our way. So we were able to pass through the place with relative ease.

I didn't spot Page anywhere in Bowerstone Industrial, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. It wasn't as if I could conduct a room-to-room search of every building in the area. Having nothing to lose, I continued on the path that took me to Bowerstone Market, the shabby and run-down buildings giving way to active shopping and the sounds of money changing hands. I didn't know that Page had any more reason to be there than anywhere else, but I really wasn't sure what else I could do.

I wandered near the Cock in the Crown, and my inclination was to steer clear of it, having no desire to encounter Jennifer again (she of the load-bearing hips and generous breasts) or—even worse—her husband. I doubted Page would be in there anyway. Tossing back brews and socializing wasn't exactly her sort of thing.

Even as I started to turn away from it, however, I abruptly heard a crashing sound as if a table had just been knocked over. Then there was the familiar sound of some part of the human anatomy being broken—a jaw was my guess. Then came a roar of outraged voices and one female voice soared above the others.
“Who else?”
came the shout.
“Who else wants to try? Do any more of you piss-drunk, empty-headed louts with no social conscience want to try to grab my breasts?”

“Found her,” I said.

The gnome cocked his head in what I could only describe as intrigued interest. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually think I like her.”

I strode quickly toward the pub, the gnome bringing up the rear and actually chortling with delight to himself, a sound I still found disconcerting, to say the least. Reaching the pub door, I was about to enter when I heard another sharp crack of knuckle against bone and the trajectory of the outcry warned me just in time. I sidestepped as a man came flying backwards out of the pub and crashed to the walk just past me. He lay there, stunned, trying to raise his head.

“I wouldn't bother if I were you,” I advised him.

He made a motion that seemed an attempt to nod, and his head slumped back.

Then I stepped into the pub and saw a world of chaos.

Page was at the center of a whirlwind of violence, men coming at her from all directions. What she had going for her was her natural battle skills and the fact that most of the men were hampered by being fairly drunk.

What she had going against her was that she hadn't drawn a weapon but instead was using her bare hands against all comers. It was like watching a dancer in motion, an incredibly lethal dancer who was flattening all the other dancers with deadly accurate strikes to the weakest points of the human body. Anyone who drew within range of her was met with a formidable combination of punches and kicks aimed at jaws, throats, kneecaps, and solar plexuses.

Unfortunately, just like most humans, Page didn't have eyes in the back of her head. Cramped quarters are not the best venue for fighting a battle, particularly when you're heavily outnumbered. Tables and chairs had been knocked aside in the melee, but that still didn't leave a lot of room to maneuver. So it was that even as Page was handling everyone to the front of her and to the sides, I spotted a man coming up behind her wielding a cudgel. In about two seconds, he was going to bring it crashing down on the back of her skull.

With me, to think is to act, plus it was a blessing to be presented with a situation that didn't involve a good deal of pondering on my part. Two seconds he might have had, but I had my gun drawn and cocked in half that time, and I fired all in one motion. I would have had no hesitation in blowing his damned head off under the circumstances, but I had no desire to announce my return to Bowerstone by killing someone. Besides, it would have gotten blood all over Page's nice outfit.

So, instead, I shot the cudgel out of his hand.

Everyone froze as the loud report of the gun echoed in the pub. Page looked my way, obviously concerned that a new enemy had presented himself, attempted to shoot her, and simply missed with the first shot. Then she realized who it was, and I saw the first unguarded, genuine smile that I could ever recall adorning Page's face. Just as quickly as it appeared, however, it promptly vanished, as if she had remembered who she was and who I was.

The man who had been wielding the cudgel had frozen, his arms looking rather comical poised over his head considering he wasn't holding anything in his hands anymore. Page glanced behind herself, saw him, and promptly drove an elbow into his face, knocking him off his feet. This prompted, very briefly, a renewed surge toward her.

I cocked the hammer again. It had the typical effect that the distinctive sound usually had: It paralyzed people in their tracks, much like the child's game called frozen tag. Plus there was still smoke wafting from the muzzle for added emphasis, and the smell of discharged gunpowder was managing to replace the general fragrance of alcohol. “Well now, this doesn't exactly seem fair odds,” I said in a lazy way, making it clear from my tone that I was perfectly comfortable with threatening people at gunpoint. “Seems to me we should thin the herd a bit to make it more even. Any volunteers for the thinning? Anyone? Anyone at all? Just raise your hands right up there, and I'll oblige by shooting you in the face. Come on. Just throw those hands right up there.”

Imagine my astonishment when no hands went up.

“This is just shocking,” I said. “I mean, here I thought the citizens of Bowerstone were always willing to give of themselves and volunteer their services when called upon to do so. What has the world come to? Miss? Any thoughts on the matter?”

“It's a sad state of affairs,” Page deadpanned.

“I couldn't agree more. Tell you what. How about you come with me, and we'll commiserate on the lack of community spirit these folks are displaying. And maybe later we can come back and shoot a few of them just on general principle.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.”

Slowly, she walked toward me as I kept the gun leveled. There was always the possibility one of them might grab her and try to use her as a human shield, but I had a distinct feeling that they'd be quite content to see her leave. It turned out my assessment of the situation was spot-on and, moments later, Page and I were walking the streets of Bowerstone.

She didn't seem inclined to volunteer any words, and so I filled the silence for us. “So I see you've been keeping busy.”

“I just wanted a quiet drink.”