The Last Protector (23 page)

The regular singer was returning from his break. Giving quick kisses to Blondie and Blue Eyes, Scrornuck grabbed the Setron and jumped up to meet him. The two performers whispered quietly for a few minutes, and Scrornuck scribbled some lyrics on a slip of paper borrowed from a serving wench. The singer nodded and took his place behind the piano as Scrornuck turned to face the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “it is with great pleasure that Syb's announces the World Premiere of a future Number-One-On-The-Charts Hit!” He turned to the singer and whispered, “Remember—I sing the first line, you sing the second, we do the third together and whatever you do, don't whine!” Taking a deep breath, he squeezed the Setron's grip, ripped out a few bring-it-up-to-speed opening chords and began the number he'd composed earlier in the evening:

Sittin’ on a bar stool

Feelin’ like a damn fool

Baby went and left me again.

Order up another beer

Wonder what I'm doin’ here

Starin’ out the window, and then

I see her comin’ up the steps

And that's the hardest part

'Cause I got a full, full bladder

And an empty heart.

He let the piano player carry the tune as they sang the second verse:

I say it's a cryin’ shame

'Cause I know I'm the one to blame

My foolish words were hurtin’ us so.

She says she wants to make it better

Says we oughta stay together

"Honey, I don't wanna let you go"

Then she puts her arms around me

And the lovin's ‘bout to start

But I got a full, full bladder

And an empty heart

He pranced about the stage, hair flying as he wound in some serious electric-guitar wailing and signaled the piano-player to sing lead on the bridge section:

And I know that those last five beers

Were just a big mistake.

'Cause I'm losin’ my chance to get my baby back

With every piss I gotta take.

And we both wanna get it all back together

We're ready for some sweet romance.

But how do we bring back that lovin’ feeling

When I'm about to wet my pants?

To his delight, Scrornuck found the squeeze that made the Setron wail like a raunchy sax through a short solo. Meanwhile, the piano-player hammered his keyboard as if trying to pound the instrument back into tune. Then, together, they delivered the final chorus:

So did we have a chance at love

Or were we doomed right from the start?

By a full, full bladder

And an empty heart.

By the time the song ended with another short solo and a repeat of the final verse, the people in the bar were singing along, stomping their feet and clapping. Scrornuck leaned over the piano and whispered, “I think you're a hit. Keep up the good work, and remember, don't whine!"

As he returned to the table, he felt an odd tingling in his right hand, as if the instrument were trying to tell him something. Wondering just what sounds might come forth, he squeezed the grip just so and stroked his fingers over the Setron's fretboard one more time. Though a few of its frets flashed, the instrument made no sound. He shrugged, took his seat and reached for his beer.

"You know, that bridge doesn't work,” Jape said. “You don't wear pants."

"No shit, Sherlock!"

Jape rolled his eyes in mock dismay. “Now you'll be saying that every time I turn around!"

"With variations!” Scrornuck chugged about half his beer, which finally seemed to be working. “No crap, Cromwell! No feces, Ferdinand!"

"Keep that up and it's going to be no beer, Bubba,” Jape said, sliding Scrornuck's pint away.

"No ... kidding?” Scrornuck slid his beer back and clutched it possessively. “Yeah, the bridge sucked. But it was easier to rhyme. Besides, the other guy sang it, and he had pants on."

The evening went on. The singer remembered not to whine, the beer kept flowing, Nalia quietly held hands with Tremmlowe, and Scrornuck enjoyed the attention of the two
chickaderos.

Sometime during the singer's fourth set, a barmaid placed yet another pint before Scrornuck and handed Jape a key. “Hey, Mister Saughblade!” Jape called.

"Huh?” Scrornuck pulled his nose out of Blondie's ample cleavage. “What?"

Jape drained his longneck and held up the key. “How ‘bout you three take yourselves somewhere more comfortable."

"I'm pretty comfortable here!"

"Well, I'm not!” Jape tossed the key. “Scram before I start selling tickets!"

Blondie caught the key and dropped it into her bosom. “If you want it, tiger, you have to chase it!” She and Blue Eyes each grabbed an unopened bottle of that nasty champagne and headed for the stairs.

"Rowrrrr!"
Scrornuck got up and headed after them.

Tremmlowe stood up, coughing and wheezing, and proclaimed, “A toast!” He lifted his glass. “To young lust!"

"To young lust!” the patrons shouted back. Scrornuck glanced over his shoulder and saw Jape raising the newly delivered pint of Batatat's. Well, he thought, the guy's finally showing some taste in beer.

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Jape was right, Scrornuck decided. A night of rest and recreation was exactly what he needed. Music, drinks, and the
chickaderos
had delivered the recreation. Now, dozing in the upstairs bedroom, his arms around the two ladies, he was ready for a well-deserved rest.

A movement roused him from pleasant dreaming to partial wakefulness as Blondie and Blue Eyes quietly got out of the bed, dressed and departed. On their way to the next customer, no doubt. Then again, they'd left the door ajar. Maybe they were planning to come back, with another bottle of that nasty-but-strong champagne and some new tricks. In your dreams, he thought, as he rolled over and prepared to go back to sleep.

A floorboard squeaked in the hall, and seconds later the door quietly swung open. Scrornuck opened one eye, and quickly realized this wasn't going to be a night of rest after all—unless Blondie and Blue Eyes had grown about four inches and taken to wearing all-black outfits, he was getting a visit from a pair of assassins.

He let his left arm drop over the edge of the bed, searching the floor for Ol’ Red. The two intruders cautiously approached the bedside. One drew a long, flexible blade, while the other produced some kind of strangling-cord. Scrornuck waited until the two assassins were practically on top of him. Then, with a shout of anger at those who would kill a man in his sleep, he brought his knee straight up into the swordsman's
cojones
, taking that man out of the fray for a few seconds. The other assassin shoved a knee into Scrornuck's chest, got the strangling-cord around his neck and started to pull.

Scrornuck wedged his right hand under the strangler's cord. His left, searching desperately under the bed, closed around Ol’ Red's grip. He brought the weapon up to the strangler's belly, and the assassin had just enough time to utter a choked
wurgh?
before the blade went through him, erupting from his back in a spray of blood and bone chips. As the strangler's body slid over the edge of the bed, Scrornuck saw in his face no fear, no pain, just an overwhelming sense of surprise.

The strangler's cord was fastened with some sort of one-way knot that Scrornuck couldn't untie. Since it wasn't tight enough to choke him, he could worry about it later. Right now, the remaining assassin was back on his feet. As Scrornuck kicked off the blankets and jumped out of bed, the swordsman darted forward and jabbed him in the left side. It was just a tiny nick, but it burned ferociously. Bloody hell, he thought, the thing's poisoned!

A warm numbness spread through Scrornuck's left side and arm, and in seconds he could no longer squeeze Ol’ Red precisely enough to slice off the assassin's blade. His mind was wandering as well, thinking about how he really hated going into combat butt-naked. Though his ancestors had terrorized the Romans by charging into battle without a stitch of clothing, he found the random flapping of his various parts and pieces to be distracting.

The assassin clobbered him in the face with a broken chair leg. The blow hurt, but it focused his attention.
Time to finish this.
Ignoring the flapping body parts, he deflected the intruder's next jab and brought Ol’ Red down in a swing that nearly split the man in two. As he and the eviscerated assassin collapsed onto the bed, one final thought crept into his mind: the housekeeper's going to kill me when she sees this.

For a long time, Scrornuck dreamed a dream in which one man after another tried to kill him, with swords, ropes, clubs and every weapon imaginable.

He awoke to find something heavy and sticky resting on his chest. With a great effort, he shoved the mutilated body of the second assassin aside, wondering why the bad dreams so often continued after he woke up. The good dreams never did. His left side felt heavy and tingly, a hangover from the poison. And a hangover from the champagne, he thought, clutching his throbbing head as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He spotted a chamber-pot in a far corner, and with an almost super-human effort, he staggered across the room and knelt before the porcelain shrine. There, he upchucked what felt like a gallon of good beer and lousy champagne, along with a few artificial-cheese-flavor snacks that still retained their orange color.

After rinsing his mouth with a carafe of water he found on the nightstand, he felt human enough to turn up the gas lamp and examine himself in the room's small mirror. You look like ten miles of bad road, he thought. There was an ugly gash in his cheek, and half-dried blood in his hair, in his beard, everywhere. Finding a small basin of water and a towel, he wiped off the worst of the blood. Then he turned his attention to his clothing. The black leather shirt was ruined—on the floor underneath two very bloody corpses—but his plaid, belt and sporran, carefully hung across the back of a chair, had escaped with only a few small spatters of blood. Lacking the ambition to fold and pleat a proper kilt, he simply wrapped the plaid around his waist and secured it with his belt.

Something hard and sharp-edged irritated his neck, and he unconsciously reached up to pull it off. Making a soft zipping noise, it tightened around his neck. He gasped as he remembered what it was—the strangler's cord. Struggling to breathe, he extended a sliver of Ol’ Red's blade and carefully cut the garrote. As he caught his breath, he examined the device—an oversize plastic zip-tie, the kind used for securing bundles of electric cables. Where'd the son-of-a-bitch find one of these, he wondered. Thinking Jape might find it interesting, he dropped the cable-tie into his sporran. Then he slipped on his boots, offered a quick prayer for the dead and set about investigating the two would-be killers.

He found a Residence Pass, similar but not identical to Nalia's, on a chain around the dead swordsman's neck, and dropped it into his sporran. Another clue, he thought. The strangler turned out to be one of the Servants of Spafu who'd attacked him the previous night. In a sheath on the man's belt Scrornuck found the long, curved knife that Ferinianne had pulled.
My souvenir.

A sudden stab of pain in his left side made him drop the knife. It struck the floor with a clunk that made his head throb, and he realized this was the first sound he'd heard since waking up. Where's all the noise, he wondered—Taupeaquaah should never be this quiet. Rubbing his sore side with one hand and his aching head with the other, he limped to the window. A few people sat in the street below, a few more leaned against buildings, but nobody moved or spoke. “Oh, no,” he muttered, remembering the last time everyone else had been frozen like this.

When he opened the door, another black-clad figure tumbled into the room, still breathing, eyes wide open, and completely unresponsive—the third assassin, Tremmlowe's bodyguard. Resting a hand on Ol’ Red's grip, he pondered what to do with her—while she'd clearly been a part of the plot, in her current state she posed no threat. Executing somebody in her condition offended his sense of justice, so for the time being, he simply shoved her inert form into the room and locked the door.

Holding his sore side, he limped down the stairs to the bar. Jape sat alone at the table, behind a mug of Batatat's Stout, staring vacantly into space. Sheeyit, Scrornuck thought. The one night I don't watch over this guy, and look what happens. He waved a hand in front of the Ranger's eyes, shouted in his ears, shook his hands, and even gave him an open-handed slap across the face, but Jape remained in his trance. Noticing an odd, nasty aroma, he sniffed Jape's beer—and almost upchucked a second time. Stuff turns to absolute shit when it gets warm, he thought, shoving the mug far, far away.

A few other customers sat at stools or leaned against walls, in the same kind of trance as Jape. Nalia and Tremmlowe, however, were nowhere to be found. “Knew I should have broken that little shit's face,” Scrornuck muttered, as he headed back to search the upstairs. He used Ol’ Red to pick the rather simple lock on the room across the hall from his. To his momentary surprise, he found a frozen threesome of Blondie, Blue Eyes and a man he recognized from Sunday's parade as the Mayor of Taupeaquaah. Tremmlowe, it appeared, had hired the best hookers in town for his little plot. Scrornuck felt vaguely honored.

Justice shall be done, he thought as he retrieved the third assassin and stripped her naked. Grinning and thinking about how there were punishments worse than execution, he installed her in the middle of the threesome and tied his distinctive red bandanna around her neck as a calling card.

He worked his way down the dimly lit hall, picking one lock after another. Place even looks like a whorehouse, he thought, looking at the garish pink-and-red curtains covering the walls. In the rooms he found people sleeping off a night of overindulgence, high-stakes card games stalled in mid-deal, and ladies of the evening frozen in the middle of their business. He wondered just how much of the City was playing this game of living statues.