Blood Ties (18 page)

“Reaver . . .” And William was speaking with effort. “I beg you, let him go. He wandered into the middle of this in a misguided attempt to save me.”

“Indeed, as you say, he's already in it, and thus cannot be permitted out of it as easily as all that. Still”—and he regarded me with open curiosity—“of what importance is he to you?”

William hesitated, but there seemed little point in hiding our relationship. So I spoke up. “He is my brother.”

Reaver studied the two of us for a moment, then understanding appeared to dawn. “Let me guess. You were one of the defenders of Blackholm. You came into conflict with William here, and he, afraid for your life, called for a withdrawal rather than risk anything happening to you. Is that more or less the situation as we have it?”

“More or less,” I said.

Making a scolding, clucking noise, Reaver said, “William, William, William. Why could you not have simply told us that? Why did you allow yourself to be subjected to such extreme measures”—and he pointed his walking stick in the general direction of the lashes on William's chest—“designed to elicit the information?”

Looking down at his feet as if they had somehow committed an offense, William said, “I was just trying to protect him.”

“How very fraternal of you. Considering that he is currently being held at gunpoint and is a mere word away from being roundly perforated, how would you say that your endeavors to protect him are going so far?”

“Not well,” William had to admit.

“Not well indeed. How fortunate for you that our dear Warlord Droogan is being kept otherwise entertained by my staff. That provides us an opportunity to sort these matters out without him shouting for your blood. That can be most distracting, you know.”

“I'm sure it can be,” I said. I tried to sound solicitous and did not succeed terribly well.

The bolted door was holding firm, but I saw it bend a bit more than it was before. The creatures within were making a concerted effort to bypass it. At that rate, sooner or later, they were going to succeed. I hoped it would not be sooner and prayed there actually would come a later.

“So”—and Reaver rested his walking stick against the brass handrail that circled the entire observation deck—“what to do about this current situation? What would you have, my dear Mr. Finn?”

“My brother's freedom.”

“And you don't even ask for your own. How terribly noble of you. Are you quite sure you're not a Hero? Here's a hint: You could claim that you were, and most people wouldn't know the difference.”

“I'm no Hero,” I assured him. “I'm just a man who found the brother he thought was dead and is now trying to do whatever he can to make sure he doesn't wind up that way yet again.”

“A worthy goal. One that, as it turns out, you will require my aid in order to accomplish. Would you call that an accurate assessment of what we have before us?”

“Fairly accurate, yes.”

“And are you a man of your word, Ben Finn?”

The question caught me off guard. I had no idea why he was asking, but certainly it couldn't hurt to give an honest answer. “I like to think so.”

“That is rather a vague response, wouldn't you say?”

“All right, then,” I said more firmly. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“In that case,” said Reaver, “I have a business proposition to discuss with you. One that would give both of us what we want and result in your brother's freedom as well. All I ask is that you make no attempt to escape or shoot or stab anyone with any manner of weaponry. Do I have your word on that?”

What did I have to lose? Granted, the thought of making any sort of bargain or agreement with a vile creature such as Reaver was anathema to me, but I had no choice. He had the overwhelming advantage, not to mention a considerable amount of firepower aimed directly at me. I was still holding my rifle, true, but even if I had a dozen shots in it, I was hardly capable of firing all of them off before being killed myself. I might have had time to get off one shot, and I could make certain that the recipient of that bullet was Reaver. But his men would still open fire on me, and the odds were that they would wind up taking down William as well. I had no problem with the notion of risking my own life, but I wasn't about to make a move that would likely result in William's demise as well.

“You have my word,” I said.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Let us all meet someplace a bit less cavernous, and we shall speak as men do.”

I didn't like the sound of that at all. And even as his guards lowered ladders that would enable us to clamber up to the observation deck and out, I heard the snarling and howling from the creatures on the other side of the door. Considering what Reaver was capable of, I was starting to wonder if I might not have better luck taking my chances with those beasts. All they would do is rip apart my body. When dealing with Reaver, one had to worry about keeping one's soul intact, and that was certainly the harder job.

WILLIAM AND I WERE USHERED INTO
the same study that Reaver had been using earlier when he was meeting with Droogan. Despite my having given my word that I would not try to escape or undertake any sort of offensive stance in return for safe passage out of the Pit, the guardsmen were still escorting us at gunpoint. What a world we live in that trust is practically a thing of the past.

On the other hand, Reaver was certainly something of a villain himself, and naturally that would tend to make him suspicious of others. He probably figured that the rest of the world was as unscrupulous as he was. Except the strange truth was that Reaver really did have a code of honor of sorts. Perhaps being disreputable was not quite the same as being dishonorable. Then again, considering some of the things I've done just in order to survive, who am I to render judgments on anyone else?

“First things first,” said Reaver as he sat behind his desk. For Droogan, he leaned on the front; for me, he was apparently more relaxed. “In the future, Mr. Finn, you should be aware of the fact that when you're watching someone in a mirror, unless you're very careful, the person you are viewing can catch a glimpse of you as well.”

“Dammit,” I muttered.

He waved it off as if it were of no consequence. “Nothing to concern yourself about. I assure you if I hadn't become aware of you because of that, then something else would have alerted me. Can I safely assume that you are the reason that Herman, my doorman, was found unconscious behind a hedge?”

“That's correct.”

“Ah. Well, you've certainly caused him some trauma.”

“I assume he'll recover.”

“Yes.” Reaver had removed some papers from one of his desk drawers, and he had spread them out in front of him. “So: Your brother has been quite busy since his supposed death.”

Unable to resist my curiosity, I nodded toward the papers. “What are those?”

“His ownership papers.”

“Ownership papers?” I looked to William in confusion. He said nothing; instead, he simply sat there, staring resolutely forward.

It occurred to me at that moment that William could easily transform into his animalistic aspect, leap across the table, and kill Reaver right where he sat. After all, I had made promises, but he had not. Yet William wasn't making so much as a move against him. For that matter, I thought back to all the cells that had been left unlocked. These creatures could have stormed Reaver at any time. What in the world was keeping them there?

“Yes, ownership papers,” said Reaver readily, and slid them across to me. Apparently, he felt he had nothing to hide. “You were under the impression that dear William was executed some time ago, I take it? Or perhaps rotting away in some jail?” When I managed a silent nod, Reaver continued, “No. He was sold into slavery. Unfortunately, he was not the most cooperative of acquisitions. You”—and he tapped the papers as he spoke to William—“were quite busy, weren't you, William? Come, come, you can respond. I already know the answer, as do you.”

“I was busy, yes,” said William, who suddenly seemed to have taken a great deal of interest in staring at his bare feet.

“He would escape, you see,” said Reaver. He sounded quite chipper about it, as if he were sharing an amusing anecdote over a pint at the local pub. “He would always manage to slip free of his owner and go underground, oftentimes acquiring a new identity and trying to lie low for as long as possible. Doubtless, he hoped that if he could avoid drawing attention to himself for a sufficient length of time, he would be able to resurface and resume his old life. Fortunately—or unfortunately, I suppose, depending upon one's point of view—he never had that opportunity, thanks to Taggert.”

William showed the first real sign of life since we'd been brought to the study. His face twisted into a snarl, and he spat upon the floor. “Taggert,” he said with a growl that sounded more animal than man.

I looked from one of them to the other, confused. “Who's Taggert?” I asked.

“He's a right bastard,” said William.

“He is, in fact, a slave hunter,” Reaver informed me. He sounded quite amused by it. “One of the best. For some reason, he took a particular interest in William's comings and goings. Well, goings more than comings, to be accurate. Apparently, Taggert considered it a challenge to hunt William down time after time.”

“I could have had a life if it weren't for him,” said William. “I could have started anew. But every time I even began to settle in somewhere, the next thing I knew, someone had struck me from behind, and I was waking up inside a cart, chained like an animal, with that damnable Taggert perched on the front seat and driving me back to my ‘master.' ”

“The thing is, runaway slaves are bad business,” Reaver said. “Take it from someone who's had to deal with more than his fair share of them. You have to pay extra for people like Taggert to drag them back, and you have to go out of your way to keep an eye on them. That's a lot of time, investment, and energy for a slave who typically isn't worth it. I knew that full well when I decided to embark on my little endeavor, and so sent out word that I was looking for people . . . well, like your brother here. Slaves who were more trouble than they were worth. Slaves who kept running away.”

“But why?” I said. “Why would you want such individuals ?”

“Because I could acquire them cheaply, of course,” Reaver said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which in retrospect I suppose it should have been. “I am, first and foremost, a businessman, and a smart businessman saves money where he can.”

“I still don't understand. What did you do to William and the others? How do you know they won't run off? I just . . .” I shook my head. “I'm just having some difficulty wrapping my head around all this.”

William appeared as if he wanted to tell me but couldn't bring himself to do so. So he returned to looking down at the floor.

And then, slowly, the pieces began to come together in my head. Pieces that assembled into a puzzle that rendered a horrific picture.

“That man downstairs,” I said slowly. “That man in the mask . . . the one that William didn't want me to kill. He did this to him, didn't he.” It was not a question. “Is he some manner of wizard?”

“More of an alchemist, actually.”

“I thought alchemists are concerned with transforming lead into gold or some such.”

“Alchemists,” said Reaver patiently, leaning back in the large chair behind his desk, “are interested in matters having to do with metamorphosis. Some are obsessed with elemental aspects such as you mention. Others, however, are more interested in seeing what manner of changes can be . . . applied . . . to the human body. The fellow you encountered falls into that category. He calls himself Baro although I tend to think that is not his real name. What care I, though, for names, when the deeds are being accomplished?”

“And in this case the deed was to transform my brother and your other ‘volunteers' into these . . . these Half-breeds, as you call them.”

My voice was trembling with rage. That seemed to bother Reaver not at all. Obviously, he wasn't feeling threatened by my potential wrath, and who could really blame him? If I had figured out this entire business correctly, then he had all the cards, while rage was literally all I possessed.

“That is correct,” he said. “Baro developed a means of infusing human beings with the properties of some of the more dreadful creatures in Albion. A bit of balverine, a bit of hobbe, and some binding magic drawn directly from shadow creatures, from what I understand. And best of all, since they retain part of their humanity, they can be kept under human control.”

“That's your key to keeping them in line,” I said. “It's not just that they still possess inner humanity. It's that they live in perpetual hope that you will reverse what you've done to them.”

“That's part of it, yes,” said Reaver, looking rather pleased with himself. He placed his booted feet upon the desk. “As long as they remain under the kindly influence of either me or Baro, they still retain some claim upon their human aspects. But should they turn on me or try to run away, as your brother is wont to do, then . . . well, William, why don't you tell him?”

William continued to refuse making eye contact with me. But he spoke, slowly and haltingly. It was as if he were confessing some great crime. “The animal is within us, always,” he said. “Baro put it there through his powers and concoctions. If any of us run away . . . if we are away from Baro's enchantments for too long . . . then slowly our humanity will become lost to us. The beast within will swallow it whole, and we will be left as nothing
but
animals, no better than the most vicious of creatures that wander the forest. If there is any spark of humanity remaining, it will be hopelessly, helplessly trapped within. Who in his right mind would desire that?”