One Foot in the Fade, page 11
He sighed and hung up his dishcloth.
“Let me sleep on it. Maybe something will come to mind.”
“Thanks, Georgio. I’m going out to see what else I can dig up. I’ve told Portemus to call here if he finds anything, so I’ll check in with you first thing in the morning.”
“Of course.”
Georgio sat down on a stool, exhausted, and caught his breath.
“Are you all right?”
“Just tired. Big days.”
“Maybe you need a break.”
“Maybe. Too busy.”
“Take a day off. People can eat elsewhere, can’t they?”
He looked up at me, and his kind blue eyes were ringed with disappointment. I could feel them trying to release the steam from my engines and ask me to slow down. I resisted them. Too much to do. Too few people to do it.
“You okay, Georgio? Can I get you anything?”
“Do you remember the story I told you about the Ponoto?”
I did my best to squash my impatience.
“The guys who, when they save someone’s life, dedicate themselves to serving that person?”
“Yes. What do you think happens when a Ponoto’s life is saved by another warrior? Someone with the opposite belief system?”
Frustration rose up in me. More time wasted.
“You mean when the other warrior thinks the Ponoto owes him his life, and the Ponoto thinks the opposite? I have no idea. They fight it out?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing. They part on peaceful terms. No problem.”
“Oh, right. Interesting. Well, good night.”
“It is the other situation that causes problems.”
“What? The Ponoto saves someone’s life, so now they both want to serve each other?”
“Exactly!” He had a tired chuckle to himself. “The Ponoto wants to dedicate his life to the one he saved. The warrior wants to dedicate his life to the Ponoto. Neither will relinquish and neither can walk away. It is a catastrophe!”
“I don’t get it.”
“Because you haven’t thought about it. What would you like more, Mr Fetch Phillips, Man for Hire? Some stranger following you around all the time, never leaving your side, or to know that you’ve dedicated your life to something noble and true?” Georgio didn’t wait for an answer; he just smiled like he knew what it would be, and wiggled his long finger in my face. “Go on, you Ponoto. Be safe out there.”
“Sure. Thanks, Georgio.”
I’d had enough of his nonsense advice. It was time to get back into action.
So, I walked out onto Main Street and got hit by a car.
16
I heard the car coming from the south. Expecting it to pass by, I reached into my pocket for the pack of Clayfields. But it didn’t pass. It ran right up onto the curb and hit me before I had any idea what was happening.
Luckily, it wasn’t going that fast. It must have been waiting on the corner and had only accelerated when I’d stepped out of the café. The gutter would have taken the edge off the impact too. Even so, it made a right mess of me in a myriad of ways.
The car hit my left side, launching me off my feet. My head hit the front of the vehicle, somewhere near the windshield, and my body got all bent back like a slingshot ready to snap. Then they hit the brakes and I went skidding off the side, onto the ground, and landed on my hip, shoulder and the side of my head.
Before the pain could set in, I heard footsteps. I reached for my pistol, but I was seeing stars, and my fingers were slick with blood. Two sets of hands dragged me inside the very same car that had just made friends with my internal organs.
My assailants were a couple of the goons from outside the police station. I recognized them by the black eyes and bruises I’d left them with, more than any defining features of their own. They shoved me into the center seat and held my arms, though I had no intention of fighting until I worked out just how badly I’d been injured.
“You’re not hurt too bad, are you?”
Yale, one of Niles’s top henchpeople, was sitting in the driver’s seat, her head twisted just enough for me to see the side of her face.
“Only my feelings, pride, reputation, skin and bones.”
“Good. The boss wants to have a little talk.”
The guard at the gates pushed them open with perfect timing, allowing the car to glide through. Rather than stop at the front door, we went around the house to the expansive backyard, lit up by torches as impressive as the ones that lined Main Street.
Between the immaculately mowed lawns and the carefully pruned hedges, there was a circular platform. It was only a foot high, built from wood, and covered with soft matting. It was a stage, of sorts, currently hosting a single performer: Thurston Niles, wearing peculiar armor, and swinging a shining rapier.
One of the suits opened my door and I stepped out, still nursing a sprained left wrist and a headache.
“Fetch! What do you think?” He spun on the spot, showing off the strange attire. “We’re bringing plate mail into the modern world. No need for the gambeson because it has its own lining, and it doesn’t require three men to get you into it. It’s lightweight, flexible and just as tough as the old stuff. Here!”
He threw me a sword. I stepped away and let it hit the car, scratching the paintwork. Yale swore and the suit grabbed my lapels.
“Drop him,” ordered Niles, picking up a second sword. “That was my fault. But Fetch, if you don’t play along from here on out, and give it your all, that will be the last time I hold the boys back.”
This wasn’t my first invitation into Thurston’s backyard to engage in a bit of sport, but every other time, I’d been handed a pair of boxing gloves.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
“Dueling. Like men. I want to test the armor – and myself – against your skills.”
“Is that why you had Yale hit me with your jalopy before she brought me here? You wanted to soften me up so you won’t lose as badly as last time?”
“She did?” He feigned surprise. “That must be related to your exhibition match outside the police station. Nothing to do with me. Now, get up here.”
The other times we’d duked it out, I’d had more of a say in the matter. We’d knock back a few drinks and, when the war of words became too heated, we’d come out here to put our grievances into our fists. Despite myself, I’d kind of enjoyed those matches. This had a different energy to it – and it was the last thing I felt like doing when I had a real case to get back to – but as far as I could see it, there were two options: a real fight with the goons or a play fight with their boss.
I picked up the sword and climbed onto the platform.
“There’s a good boy.”
“Where’s my armor?”
“Oh, come now. You’re a soldier. I’m nothing but a puffed-up businessman who sits on his ass all day. We must keep this sporting.”
I didn’t like getting hit anymore. It used to be bad enough, back when the pain was all I had to worry about. Now, it meant recovery time. It meant moving slower, sleeping more, and standing out in a crowd. I needed people’s trust, and a black eye or bloody nose could be the difference between someone confiding in me and not.
I did not want to play this game. I didn’t want to be here. But if I had to play, I’d be playing to win.
“All right, Niles. What are the rules? What do I gotta do to you before you’ll let me go home?”
“First to draw blood?” he suggested, putting his helmet on.
“Well, you’ve got the advantage there, in your fancy metal suit. How about we go until someone calls Uncle?”
“Sounds fair. Sword contact only, though. No closing the distance and kicking me. Wouldn’t be fair.”
“And you do love being fair.”
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
We moved at the same time, both trying to get that first cheap shot, same as the start of every one of our boxing matches. Unfortunately, his suit gave him the advantage in a game of chicken. My sword clanged off his helmet, while his hit my left shoulder and sliced through my jacket and my skin.
“Shit!” I jumped back and created some distance. “You keep your practice swords sharp.”
“Who said they were practice swords?”
Emboldened by his successful hit, he attacked again, but I was ready for him now, and aware of how I had to play the game. He didn’t need to block me, so I could only attack when I had him disarmed, caught off balance, or if his sword had been batted away. Till then, I had to bide my time.
He attacked in a rehearsed, triple-move flurry, and I parried them all at the last moment.
“When I was last here,” I said between dodges and deflections, “you asked me why I visited.”
“Yes. And you told me it was because you hated me.”
“I respect you too much to lie to you.”
He feinted an overhead cut. When I went to block it, he twirled his sword around and switched to a stab that just touched my side as I jumped back.
“What about you?” I asked. “Why do you keep inviting me?”
He had me backed into the corner.
“Well—” He went for a clean belly slash that I couldn’t move out of the way of. I had to block it and push past him. Having the upper hand, and not being worried about a counterattack, he kept the pressure on, and as I moved away from the edge, back towards the center of the circle, he ran the edge of the blade along my right upper arm. Not deep, but damn painful. I had some room to move now, but I couldn’t let myself get cornered again.
“Well,” he repeated, breathing hard already, “I find you amusing.”
Slash. Back away.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you think you’re something better than the rest of them.”
Another rehearsed routine. Musical, almost. I parried the first two, pushed the third strike aside and gave him a jab under the ribs. Can’t let him get too comfortable.
“Rest of who?”
“The Humans. You believe that you’ll actually make the sacrifice. That you’ll put everyone else’s happiness above your own. Their lives above yours.” Slash, dodge. Stab, parry. “But it’s all a game. A way to let yourself sleep at night, after what you’ve done.” Feint, lunge, riposte, parry. “When it comes down to it, if you ever have to make that call and give your life for their cause, you, like all of us, will ensure your own survival first.” Slice, lean. Slice, block. “I invite you over because I know that one day, whether you deign to wear a uniform or not, you’re going to realize that you and I are on the same side.” Stab, parry. “And lucky for you, because of me, our side is going to win.”
He did another one of those rehearsed routines. They were the sort of things we’d do as drills at the Opus, but not the kind of moves that would serve you in a real battle. We’d practice them for months before facing each other in the dueling circle. Then we’d go a whole year before finally being bestowed with our real swords and sent out into the field.
I was surprised at how quickly the skills came back. Of course, any real swordsman would have me in ribbons, but Niles was a long way from being a real swordsman. I had a feeling that whoever he’d hired to train him had been overly complimentary, which gave him an inflated sense of his talents. I played along – not blocking too soon or hitting his sword away too hard – until I’d finally had enough.
I was close to the edge again. It made him cocky. He lunged. I deflected it and brought my sword up under his armpit. He yelped.
“I think I see some weak spots in your armor.”
I whacked the back of his knee. The mesh stopped it from cutting through, but the impact buckled his leg. He stumbled, almost off the edge, then spun around, uneven in his footing.
He slashed, desperate to make room. I hopped back to let the blade pass, then stepped in and punched him in the face with the hilt of my sword.
Shouts erupted from the goons as Thurston tumbled off the platform and fell onto his back, the weight of the armor dropping him hard and fast.
I looked down at him.
“Ring out don’t count, right? You gotta say Uncle.” He struggled to roll over.
“No punches, remember?” He rolled onto all fours and struggled to get onto two.
“You said sword contact only. The hilt is still the sword.”
I jumped down and socked him in the back of his head, knocking the front of his helmet into the dirt.
Pistols appeared from out of the charcoal jackets.
“Woah, lads. This wasn’t my idea.” I stepped back. I was technically correct, but nobody would care if they shot me dead, buried me beneath the platform, and pretended they’d never seen me. “How about we reset? Unless you want to call Uncle.”
Thurston got to his feet. There was dirt in his visor. His gauntlets were too thick to wipe it out, so he resorted to hitting himself in the back of the head.
“Reset,” he coughed, like he was tough.
I got back on the platform and offered Thurston my hand.
“Wanna lift?”
He swatted it away, then made a right ass of himself as he climbed clumsily up on his own.
“Before we get going,” I said, “can you order these guys not to shoot me if I win? Fight goes till one of us says Uncle, right?”
“Right.” He turned to his men. “Nobody interrupt the fight until it’s done.”
“Thanks. We good?”
He got into a stupid-looking en-garde position.
“Good.”
He attacked as he said it. I blocked, trapped his sword, slid in, and gave him an uppercut with my hilt. Twice. He fell back, too heavy, and when he landed, I punched him in the guts (with the handle of the sword, of course).
“Anything to say?” I asked. I waited for a breath, then hit him again. “Anything?” I hit his helmet again, and again, and again. It dented nicely; the metal was made for blade hits but nothing like this. “ANYTHING?!”
“UNCLE!” he screamed. It sounded sloppy, like his mouth was full of water. I stepped back.
All those guns were pointed on me again. They wanted to use them. Any longer, and they would have. Then Niles would have got his answer about what I was willing to die for: a lot less than most.
I dropped the sword. There was blood on my left hand, dripping down from that cut he’d given my shoulder at the start.
“We done here?” I asked. Nobody said anything. I jumped off the platform and headed for the side exit. “Thanks for the fun, Niles. Next time, I’ll drive myself.”
17
I’d hurt my wrist and my arm was bleeding, so I didn’t much feel like wandering the streets, searching for more handprints. Instead, I went north until I got to the shell of a prison once known as the Gullet. A tree had burst from its walls about a year ago. The plant had once been a Sprite, then a statue, and was now a towering landmark looking over all of Sunder. She’d gone bare during the winter, but now her branches were budding, and her trunk was shedding bark to reveal fresh, pale layers underneath. She was huge, and she was still growing, her limbs reaching out towards the lights of the city. Insects buzzed between her branches. Her first new leaves opened like beckoning hands that unfurled from each other, ready to return her to her fullest glory over the coming weeks.
Often, I would climb into her arms. Not tonight. I needed to get to bed. I needed to see a doctor. But no medicine could make me feel better than being beside her. Even in silence. Even like this.
I’d hated Hendricks for what he’d done to her: stolen her soul from her frozen body and delivered it here. Now, I thanked him every day. She could breathe. She could feel the sun and drink the rain; watch the days rise and fall and the city turn, and her old idiotic friend run around in circles waiting to figure things out.
I put my hand against her. Her trunk was thick, and her roots were deep. She was strong. Yale could run a car right into her and it would barely leave a mark. Whether I won or lost, it wouldn’t matter to her at all. I couldn’t convince myself that I was doing it in her name or for her sake or anything like that. She was finally free from the burden of having me try to make her happy.
I brought my hand back from the bark and, lit by the residual glow of the fire-filled lanterns, a bloody print remained. Unlike the burns that had been left on Benjamin and the Wizard, it was an uneven image, with more blood on my fingers than on my palm.
I took out my lighter to get a better look. My fingerprints glistened: five red spots, similar to the ones that I’d seen on that strange man’s face. That smiling guy who spoke nonsense and kept wandering the streets aimlessly, always getting in everyone’s way.
He’d been marked like Benjamin.
Well, he had the spots, but not the rest of it. Why would that happen? If somebody had gripped his head from the front, the mark would have covered his entire face, leaving a print that would be clearly noticeable to anyone.
Unless, of course, he’d been wearing a mask.
18
The next morning, I went to the medical center and got my arm sewed up and my wrist strapped, then I restocked my Clayfields and spent the day searching for the strange little man. He wasn’t outside the corner store this time, and he wasn’t back in Five Shadows Square. Around sunset, I finally found him down by the Southern-most lamp.
He was on a bench, finishing off a serving of beggar’s bread. Oil dripped from his fingers, and he wore ragged clothes and those five red spots around his face. He didn’t seem to care when I sat down beside him. He just kept munching on his dinner, allowing me to get a good look at the red mark on his temple, which, now that I could see it up close, was undeniably a thumb print.
“You seem happy,” I said.
The pleasant pauper looked at me and laughed.
“And you most certainly do not.”
With his face turned toward me, all sparkling eyes and laugh-lines, I had my first proper chance to weigh it up against my hypothesis… and it seemed impossible. When I’d fought the mask-maker down at the Mess, I’d never seen his whole face. I’d heard his voice, and though it wasn’t dissimilar, I couldn’t imagine the entitled, conceited speeches of the artefact thief coming out of the affable, half-asleep hobo.
