WARP world (41 page)

Now that he had avoided death at the hands of the Shasir, the need to tend to the small wound was paramount.

Assuring himself the Port House was deserted, he stepped in further. Broken glass crunched under his boots, along with some soggy, flour-like material scattered on the wood. Inside, he glanced up and noticed the wall decoration for the first time–a large, dusty skeleton with an unmistakable serpentine shape. The drexla’s empty eye sockets stared out at him, challenged him.

Water was death.

He sifted through the debris, wary of the sharp-edged glass that lurked in the muck. Even though the windows were uncovered, the murky morning provided little light with which to work.

Most of the bottles had been smashed during whatever upset had befallen the place. But in the corner, behind the bar, he found a crate that had been set aside for refilling. Many of them had a few dregs left, and he took an experimental sip from one. The taste of raw alcohol hammered his senses and made his eyes swim.

“Good,” he muttered, and set the bottle aside. The rawest of spirits was what he needed. He continued through the case, with sips from each bottle. When he found a bottle of proper potency, he poured the small quantities into the first. The lips of the bottles clinked together as he tapped them to make sure every drop was extracted.

The rain picked up in intensity as he worked, fatter drops spattering against the windows. Every few moments he glanced at the open doorway. In this rain, anyone could simply walk up to the door and he wouldn’t hear a hint of their presence until it was too late. Knife or not, an Outer child could overwhelm him right now.

He lifted the first bottle and swilled it around, then peered through the dark glass. Perhaps a cup’s worth. It would have to do. Beside the precious bottle of alcohol, he set a small bottle of lantern oil he had found under the bar.

Next, he needed something with which to strike a fire. The local techbase was advanced enough to use matches, which they kept in small leather packets with a sewn-on striking surface. The dead lanterns in the room offered him hope. Finally, under the bar, near the shattered jar that had likely held money from the patrons, his search was successful.

He fixed the match packet in his mouth, then gathered the two bottles carefully under his good arm. Last, he grasped the knife. There was no place to sit in the main room, but perhaps somewhere behind the door?

He nudged the door open with his foot and he coughed as a fresh wave of stench washed over him. With a look to the floor, he discovered the source of the rotten odor.

Her cheeks sagged inward and it appeared that the woman had been dead at least a couple of days. Too-red hair was speckled with strands and clumps of silver and grey, the results of a poorly done dye-job. What remained of her clothing was taut and suggestive, and it was easy to deduce what employment she found in the back room of this fisherman’s tavern. Her throat had been cut, as had some of her clothing. She lay on the floor, hollow eyes staring at the ceiling.

An act of savagery, nothing less, likely from the Damiar constables. The realization jolted him. The authorities were engaging in general reprisals now. Stevan’s death, the shoot-out at the temple, those actions had sparked a fresh wave of oppression.

He sat down on her bed with a weary groan. This world felt as if it were bearing down on his shoulders.

This woman had suffered and died from his actions. It was one thing to cause death when it directly affected his mission, another entirely when it was simply spillover. Needless, incidental waste.

“Evade contact,” he repeated aloud, to pull himself back into focus. “Gather materials. Move to extrans.”

The room was, as suspected, used half for storage, half as living space. A curtain had once partitioned the two; it hung by one corner now, likely torn off by whoever had murdered the whore. Likewise, the stores had been ransacked.

He took a deep breath, lifted the bottle of alcohol and allowed himself one small swallow, then carefully set it on the nightstand, along with the bottle of lantern fuel. His boots rubbed against the body and he frowned, then tried to nudge it away. Every push lifted it slightly, then saw it fall back onto his foot. Finally he braced himself with his good arm and pushed her away, turned those accusing eyes toward the floor. He scooted along the bed toward the nightstand. Lifting his knife, he looked at his arm.

“Focus”, he whispered. If he did not hold still he would botch the job and end up worse than he started. With another deep breath, he checked the edge of the weapon. Ruch, the man who had died saving him, had kept a sharp blade.

“Good man.” Would he have been one of the men Brin recruited for him?

“Focus,” he reminded himself. He placed the blade on the proximal side of his wound and angled it carefully. Then he stopped as a thought occurred to him. Laying the blade aside, he grabbed the filthy sheet from the bed, balled it up, then bit down on it. The taste was greasy, tangy and he put it out of his mind as he applied the blade to his skin once more. Mentally he counted down from three, then pushed. He screamed into the improvised gag as he sliced the flesh away. Likely he took far more skin than he needed to but the risk in taking too little was greater. At the end of his cut, he squinted as he pinched the shaved skin with his thumb and forced the blade through.

Done. He hurled the blade away and beat his good hand down on his leg as he continued to groan into the sheet. Blood oozed down his arm from the fresh wound. Finally, he spit the sheet out, then held it on the wound to soak up the blood until the flow ebbed.

“Damn.” His eyes watered. “Oh damn. Damn.”

Not finished yet. He had to make sure the toxin was completely eliminated. He lifted the bottle and emptied all of the contents on to the wound, then spun the cap on the lantern oil and did the same. He writhed and nearly fell backwards as the sting of the alcohol and the oily fuel met the sliced flesh.

Gasping for air, he fumbled for the matches and drew one with a shaky hand. He couldn’t strike against the striker with one hand, and he had to squirm around to position his immobilized arm at the base of the small packet. Fighting the pain, he struck the match, watched it flare to life in front of him. He had to move quickly; the flame was already guttering. With a panted whimper, he jabbed the match into the wound. It ignited with a blue flame that didn’t hurt at first. The heat came as the oozing blood sizzled and blackened, then the meat began to char and singe underneath.

Though nearly unbearable, he let the fuel burn as long as he could stand. But it was not long before he slapped down the flame and smothered it with the greasy sheet. His breath came too fast, too ragged. He fell back in a haze of throbbing pain and fatigue.

He had no idea of how long he had laid there. Despite the discomfort, he had dozed off. Now, pain shivered up and down his body like a web of fire. He felt something tickle his cheek and turned slowly. The insect was easily half the size of his thumb, its antennae twitching inquisitively. Its forelegs ended in vicious pinchers that it waved at him, as if to warn him away.

It worked. He lurched from the bed, away from the creature, upending the bottle on the nightstand, which fell with a soft thud onto the body that he nearly tripped over as he backed away. He staggered forward and grabbed the knife. Distractedly, he wiped it clean on his pant leg as the insect meandered over his newly vacated kingdom.

Seg caught his breath, steadied himself, and walked back into the main room. By the light, he knew he must have slept the better part of the day. There were only a few hours of daylight remaining and he would have to be on the move when they were gone. He took a long look around; the enormity of what lay ahead threatened to paralyze him.

Gather materials.

Bandage, he would need a bandage for his wound. He started his search.

Outside the Port House, Seg shouldered the grimy, half-rotted knapsack he had found in the back room. The pack contained only the few supplies he had scrounged but even so it weighed on him and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the wound on his shoulder flared and ached.

He oriented himself in the dim light of early evening, turning a slow circle. The surrounding village had been mostly burned, the ashes now washing away in the rain. Ahead of him, the dark forest lurked, with all the dangers he had already encountered on this savage world and doubtless hundreds more besides. His enemies were spread throughout the region, hunting him.

His digifilm had survived intact. If nothing else, he had a map and a compass. He needed to get to the rendezvous. He needed to get to Alisir and rescue Ama, or die trying. Both destinations were south. Both impossibly far away, unreachable.

“Move.”

He could sort the rest out later.

Behind him, he heard wood cracking and shifting. Men’s voices drifted through the rain. Looters? Constables? It didn’t matter. He was prey to everyone on this world at the moment. All he could do was run.

Ama’s chains rattled as she was pulled from the prison cartul. Around her, the river port of Alisir mirrored her defeat. A pall had fallen over the city. Smoke rose in grey tendrils from Kenda boats the authorities had torched, their black skeletons a warning to the masses. In spite of this, business went on in the city but the sound and color had been drained away. Surrounded by constables, she hung her head and trudged down the ramp, with a sidelong glance to the other boats anchored nearby. Her fellow mariners were well aware of her presence, but kept their eyes deliberately averted as she was hustled along the dock, toward a waiting cruiser.

Dagga led the procession. From his elevated shoulders, Ama could tell he was agitated.

Her pace was restricted by the shackles on her ankles, which were joined by a heavy chain just longer than the width of her shoulders. Her wrists were shackled in front, with barely an inch between them. Another chain ran from a ring between her hands to the guard that dragged her forward.

At the stairs to the cruiser, Judicia Serval waited. His smile of greeting drooped as Dagga approached.

“No checkpoints outside the city. No patrols,” Dagga spat as he approached, barking out his displeasure. “I sent a dispatch with orders.”

Serval spread his hands, “Head Constable, you have to understand, there have been uprisings. The Sky Ceremony is underway at the temple. We need the—”

“
You
understand this,” Dagga growled, jabbing his finger at the Judicia, “we got traitors infesting our cities. Get those men and lock this scum pond down. Now!”

“Watch your tongue with me, Head Constable,” Serval fired back. “I am still your superior and Alisir is not your jurisdiction.”

“Orders come from the Shasir, not me. You gonna disobey them?”

“Never, Head Constable,” Serval acquiesced. His eyes stole to Ama as she was herded past him, to the stairs. What did she catch in that fleeting look? Fear?

“Got my dispatch from Largent?” Dagga asked.

“The Shasir’dua sent a runner from the Alisir Temple this morning.” Serval passed Dagga a folded piece of paper. Ama tried to keep her eyes on Dagga as he read but the constable leading her yanked on the chain. She stumbled forward, barely catching herself from falling.

There was a moment of silence but it was soon shattered.

“Escaped?” Dagga roared, from behind.

A wind blew through Ama’s heart as she stepped onto the deck. Below, Dagga raged at the Judicia, at the constables, at the absent Kenda rebels, but Ama only heard that one word.

Escaped.

From Dagga’s reaction, it could only be Seg. He was alive.

Careful not to betray her joy, she kept her head low and scouted the boat. Too many guards, no allies here. She was being led to the hatch that would take her below deck, where a cell waited to hold her for the voyage to the Banks. If they locked her up, it was over. Now was the only chance she had.

Dagga was shouting orders, the men were distracted. Purposefully, she slowed her step and let the constable pull her forward again. This time she was ready. When he tugged, she used the momentum to cover her charge.

Both arms swung up as she tackled the constable. She wrapped the loose length of chain around his neck and cinched it tight, choking him as she hopped to the port gunwale.

“Halt!” one of the guards yelled, and raised a banger. But Ama kept the choking constable in front of her as a shield, while she backed up against the rail.

Dagga charged up the stairs, his hand pulling the knife from its sheath as he ran. Ama leaned back, using the weight of her hostage to help push her overboard The man’s arms flailed as they fell. Her back hit the water with a
smack
and the man’s weight drove her down deep. Her second eyelids flipped up.

The guard thrashed to free himself but Ama held tight as the current pushed them downriver and into the hull of the neighbouring boat. Banger shots pierced the water, out of range. Ama and her human cargo were pinned against the hull. At last, the struggling ceased. She loosened the chain and pushed the dead weight away.