Bounty (39 page)

Grin widening, Seth’s eyes flashed as he turned to wash his hands in the courtyard fountain.

Godren sat on the rim, running his fingers through is hair. “Wolf,” he mused aloud, sobering.

“What are we going to do about him?” Seth asked, splashing water over his head and ruffling his own hair.

Godren began shaking his head, then trailed absently off in thought, but Seth saw neither – he was still absorbed in cleaning himself up. As if he didn’t really expect an answer, he didn’t press for one, either, or check to measure Godren’s focus. He just kept scrubbing at the disgrace that had come over his form and working the kinks out of his muscles.

Godren did not see any practical means of tracking down Wolf at will – after all, he was as good as a needle in a haystack hiding in the Crowing Woods – but a trickle of inspiration from his new philosophy encouraged him, once again, to disregard what was practical and feasible and put faith in other means.

Don’t be ridiculous; aren’t you putting faith in far too much as it is?
he chastised himself.
I am already taking too many chances, and depending on the fickle favor of unseen forces that have shown an interest only according to our interpretations.
Suddenly he wanted to scoff in disgust at his newfound gall for ambition. It was reckless. Nothing but reckless.

Yet…he had a feeling. Some newly awakened sense was stirring, sleepless now that it had been stimulated, prodding him to tread deeper into a mystic dependence.

“We are going to let nature take its course,” he announced in a flat tone, paying no mind to the lateness of his response.

“Say what?”

“We don’t really have any other means.”

“‘Nature’ isn’t precisely a means, you know.”

Godren shrugged. “Maybe not. But it is very, very cruel, and it’s what our friend Wolf has put stock in.” With a smile, Godren stood and left Seth standing in the courtyard rendered notably bemused by his friend’s partaking of riddles.

Godren did not have anywhere particular to go, but he could not sit still for very long anticipating Damious’s scheduled appearance. Who knew when it would play out? He wandered the corridors, half pacing, and didn’t notice at first when the cats frequenting the shadows went uncanny in reaction to his presence. They pressed themselves up against the walls as he passed, heads lowered, eyes glinting as they watched him go by. It wasn’t until one of them emitted a low, keening growl that he took note of all the glowing eyes trained on him from the shadows. Could they feel the mystical elements that were taking root in his significance? Or could they sense his pending treachery against their mistress? Godren paused in wary respect for the possibilities, and then treaded onward more carefully.

The best place to ultimately wait for Damious, he surmised, was in Mastodon’s study, but if the cats were showing an aversion to his presence it might not be such a good idea. Too, placing himself in such a strategically accurate position might look suspicious as well, now that he put some thought into it. He never sought Mastodon’s company unless necessary or unless she summoned
him
. He had no good excuse to hang around her quarters.

But surely,
he thought,
I won’t really need to – Damious usually makes himself known, doesn’t he?
Surely he would know when the assassin penetrated the Underworld, regardless of where he was at the time. Damious was dramatic. You couldn’t miss him.

Better to just stay close, he decided. Then he would time his interception so as to avoid suspicion, and pounce on the assassin when he didn’t know to expect it. Not having a precise plan would actually work in his favor – that way, it would not look scripted, and he could get away with a certain authenticity.

As traces of anticipation galloped their feathery thrills up his spine, he had to force himself not to second-guess the operation he had put in motion. He was out of his element, and somewhere that terrified him, but he embraced being a vessel for greater ambitions.

Trailing his fingers over the walls as he traversed the corridors, Godren fantasized that the numbness in his skin that prevented him from feeling the stone texture was a symbol of the walls fading around him. Soon, he would not be sequestered by them at all. He would be free.

Or dead,
he reminded himself.

But still free.

Gradually, Godren worked his way closer to Mastodon’s quarters. Was there anything he needed to prepare? Anything that would aid his scheme or make it more convincing?

Perhaps I should loosen my muscles,
he thought. There was no sense pulling something, and besides – Damious had never agreed to go down without a fight. He would probably take a sort of foul pleasure in fighting back without resisting the deliverance of a few respectable shiners. If the fight was for show, he was bound to put on quite a show.

So Godren stationed himself relatively nearby and went through a stimulating routine of exercises. He discontinued his efforts after a light sweat, not wanting to tire himself out overly much. Then he decided to resist pacing and rest for a bit, realizing that was something he didn’t do much of anymore. Getting comfortable on the ground, he leaned his head back against the wall and sought the peaceful gray of the void’s fringes.

Somewhere in the drift between consciousness and unconsciousness, a racket drew him back. A fire-breathing equine fled from the dreamlike veneer taking root, and then the tapestry of the dream itself drained from his sight as he engaged his vision. The trumpeting echo of a real horse whinnying reinforced his disorientation, though, and he jumped to his feet in confusion. What was a horse doing in the Underworld?

Remembering what he was waiting for, he cursed dryly in conclusion. Damious had brought a
horse
? It shouldn’t really surprise him, he supposed.

A hoof splintered against a door.

A little overboard on the drama, Damious,
he thought, cringing.

Well…he certainly had his excuse to come running in. The cats were probably frantic all throughout the Underworld. No one would have missed that.

Engaging a fleet stride before Mastodon could record enough of a lag to reprimand him for
not
showing up right away, Godren hurried toward the sound of the commotion. Things had settled down by the time he got there, but there was no doubt Damious had caused a stir.

Bastin stood in the doorway, rigid with his hand posed above his knife. Past him, Godren could see a majestic black rump, tail streaming, with body-sized bundles tied to an extending back. Beyond the animal’s massive head stood the lord of drama himself, at Mastodon’s desk, ignoring the stir like he hadn’t caused it.

“Well, what do you say, Xinna my love?” Damious was asking. “Am I not the best little hound you’ve ever had the pleasure of doing spiteful business with?”

“You have certainly broken my door,” Mastodon said.

“Ah, well…yes. I’ll grant you that. But really, what do you need a door for? It clearly doesn’t keep people out.”

“Nor horses, but then I didn’t design it for such nonsense.”

“
Non
sense? Blackie isn’t nonsense, Lady Xinavane,” Damious insisted very protectively. Turning his back on Mastodon, he murmured some condolences to the horse. “Don’t listen to her, Blackie. She didn’t mean it. Sometimes she says the most frightful things, but they’re not to cause you any distress, now, ay? Good boy.” He turned back, but Mastodon didn’t let him get any further with his antics.

“You would do well to get it ingrained in your head that I have meant every word I ever said,” she told him.

“Ah good, then I can count on the promised reward for these fellows,” Damious related, then thought to add, “Fellows and Alice.”

“You insult me implying I would not keep my end of my deal, but then I really don’t care. The worse the impression I can manage to make on you, the better chance I have at keeping you away. Are they dead?”

“No. An assassin only kills when it is required of him, my lady Mastodon, or else he becomes something else entirely. I have just kept them agreeably knocked out. You must forgive me if you cannot seem to recognize them past the shiners to the head.”

“Let’s see them,” Mastodon prompted.

Turning, Damious pulled the sacks from the prisoners’ heads. “Osbourne, Devlyn, Graver, and, my personal favorite, Alice,” he identified as he revealed them, patting Graver on his oblivious head. “All safe and secure, and, you must admit, a very agreeable package. No trouble at all in this state. Just a little top-heavy if you handle them wrong. It’s kind of amusing to set them up and watch them keel forward right onto their faces, especially if you do it continuously. It had me in hysterical stitches one evening. You ought to try it; they say laughter is good for the soul.”

“If I wanted to better my soul, I would visit the chapel or commit suicide to sacrifice myself for the good of humanity.”

“Well. That would be out of character, wouldn’t it? And we certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardize your lovely reputation – or leave any of your endearing bruisers out of a job. So; let’s just get down to business, shall we?”

“If you
don’t
mind.”

Godren pushed quietly past Bastin, moving into the room. The horse flicked an ear at him, but no one else sent him any acknowledgment.

“So who goes first?” Damious posed the debatable question. “I always wonder how two parties who can’t trust each other ever end up solving the particulars of an exchange – it’s been happening since the dawn of time, obviously enough, where neither side can, in good conscience, be the first to hand over their bargaining chip, but there’s no way to really set things in motion at the same time lest all hell breaks loose in the middle, yet successful exchanges are still made all the time. It’s like one of those facts that goes down in the history books but fails to provide the relevant details of how it came to be. Why in the
gods
names do people just accept such a thing, when it’s so clearly and most certainly the most inconvenient stalemate to ever frequent the veins of business? You would think someone would have had the piece of mind to reveal whatever secret one is supposed to apply in this situation, for the gods’ sake. I mean, is there really a solution? Or does everyone flounder like this? When you think about it, that rather takes the fantasized dignity out of these things. Oh we both come thinking we’re so smooth, about to pull a clever bargain with the esteemed ranks of corruption…and then we learn that there’s no charm under the table but to flounder like novices without any resources. How demeaning.”

“Just give me the prisoners and take your payment, for the gods’ sake,” Mastodon said. “Or would you rather we settle one product at a time and make the exchange gradual? That way, you can ensure you will at least get most of what you came for.”

“That will only leave us with the same fix at the end. A stalemate is a stalemate, Xinna; it doesn’t matter the magnitude of what weighs in the balance. What good is your money in my hands if I’m stuck on your territory? And I want
all
of my reward, thank you very much. I am a professional – I execute a job with thorough finesse, and style, and earn every penny of what I set out for. You may not cheat me of my dues.”

“Then please, Damious, make up your own rules and get on with it. I do have a business to run, and as far as I’m concerned you are costing me a profit the longer you keep me from running it.” Reaching into her desk, she produced four sizeable drawstring pouches and tossed them onto the surface between her and Damious. “There’s your reward, extra in one for Alice, now shut up, take it, and get out.”

Damious looked at the bagged reward, sniffing as if touched by something. “Why, Xinna…I didn’t know you trusted me so deeply.”

“Don’t be a sentimental fool. As you pointed out, you
are
in my territory. I don’t care if you take the money first; you won’t be allowed to leave if you don’t turn over the prisoners.”

“Ah, a very valid point of view. Alright then.” Collecting the pouches, Damious checked their contents and then secured them to his steed. Fiddling with a few straps, he released the unconscious prisoners and let them slide to the floor.

Bastin moved forward to secure them, making sure their hands were bound. “Give me a hand, Godren.”

“Get Seth to help you,” Godren said, eyes on Damious.

Bastin paused at the tone in Godren’s voice, noting the direction and conviction of his gaze. Cursing, he began hustling the prisoners into the corner and out of the way, and then strode to the door and went to get Seth as quickly as possible.

“Well if that’s all – Blackie and I will be on our way,” Damious said as he made ready to leave. “Until next time; pleasure doing business with you.” Pulling Blackie’s head around, he led the horse toward the study door, glancing at Godren where he stood just off to the side. As he passed him, he focused very carefully on the door ahead.

“The pleasure is all hers,” Godren said, and then sent a hard elbow into the assassin’s gut.