“There are no lords here, Durge.”
“But who serves the king and queen?”
“There isn’t a king or queen, either.” Travis reached under his hat to scratch his head. “Well, there
is
a queen in England— the country across the ocean I was talking about last night. Her name is Victoria. And nobles from Europe did visit Colorado back then—I mean, in this time. I seem to remember something about a Russian grand duke who came to the West to hunt buffalo.” He sighed. “Although I suppose they’re already just about gone by now, aren’t they?”
Durge seemed to consider these words. “If you have no king in this land, how is order kept?”
Travis hadn’t considered how strange things here would be to people from a medieval world. He tried to think of a simple way to explain it. “Well, we have a president. I’m not sure who it would be right now. Grover Cleveland? No, he was a bit later—he was the one who made all of the silver miners go broke.” He shrugged. “Anyway, the people of the country elect a president every four years, along with a number of lawmakers. And each state has a governor. And there are local officials like mayors and sheriffs who are elected as well.”
“A curious system,” Durge rumbled in obvious distaste. “And who votes for these officials? Peasants?”
“Anyone over eighteen.” Travis rethought that. “Well, in my time, at least. Right now, women aren’t allowed to vote.”
Lirith turned back around and let out an exasperated sound. “I see some things are the same on any world.”
“I think this place is more like the Free Cities,” Sareth said to Durge and Lirith. “It’s not royal blood that matters, but gold and silver.”
Travis couldn’t argue with that. In his time, Castle City was a quiet town, especially when the handful of tourists left for the summer. However, the small city before him was alive with action.
People jostled past each other on the boardwalks that lined the streets, some in the dusty garb of miners and cowboys, others in black coats and stiff white shirts, checking gold pocket watches as they went. Some women trudged by in elaborate, heavy dresses, while others wore the drab pinafores of laundry-women and workingmen’s wives. A flock of children in shabby shoes followed a prim schoolmarm, and young men wearing caps ran past carrying stacks of freshly printed newspapers. The street itself was a circus of horses, mule-drawn wagons, and more coaches. On rainy days it was probably a quagmire; today it was a dust bowl, and a fine layer of grit covered everything and everyone.
The buildings that lined the street were every bit as diverse and industrious-looking as the people. Some were brick or stone, but most were slapped together from wood planks, each wearing its false front like a miner who had donned an opera coat. Travis saw banks, restaurants, barbershops, grocers, tack stores, booksellers, and clothiers. And every third storefront looked to be some sort of saloon or drinking house. Silver flowed freely from the mines, and the wealth was everywhere.
Only it wouldn’t last. By 1883, the mines were already starting to play out. And Travis had heard stories of the crash of 1893, when President Cleveland finally revoked the Bland-Allison Act, which had created an artificial market for silver. Overnight, the price of silver fell to a fraction of what it had been, and just about every mine went bust. Vast fortunes were lost in a day. Henry Tabor, who had been the richest man in Colorado, would spend the last year of his life grateful just to be postmaster of Denver. His wife, the fabled Baby Doe, would die years later, a solitary madwoman. They would find her body frozen so hard to the floor of her shack in Leadville they would have to wait until the spring thaw to take it away.
“So where do we go for lodging?” Lirith said, eyeing the buildings on either side of the street.
Travis was pretty sure they couldn’t afford the Silver Palace Hotel. “I’m not sure. Let’s just walk down Elk Street and see if anything looks—” He swallowed the word
cheap
. “—affordable.”
They moved onto the boardwalk, jostling their way past workingmen, miners’ wives, and clerks running errands. They passed several establishments that bore signs in the window, offering rooms for rent. However, the prices shocked Travis. Some wanted as much as five dollars a day. At that rate, their remaining twenty wouldn’t last long. They kept moving.
Travis supposed it was nine in the morning, but as far as he could tell all of the saloons were open. Most of them had swinging doors, just like in Western movies, but a wooden screen or panel just beyond kept anyone from seeing inside. All the same, the sound of laughter and the rattling of dice spilled out, along with the occasional man who squinted bleary eyes— obviously astonished to see the sun was well risen—before stumbling away down the boardwalk.
Soon Travis caught sight of a familiar sign hanging over the boardwalk. The sign looked almost the same as the last time he had repainted it, its lettering so familiar he could read it without the usual effort: THE MINE SHAFT. The saloon. His saloon—at least one day. What would it be like to walk through those doors?
Hard laughter interrupted his thoughts. Three men leaned against the boardwalk railing just ahead. They looked to be in their twenties and were dressed in white shirts and dark three-piece suits with silver watch fobs dangling from their vest pockets. Black Stetsons crowned their heads, and black boots shod their feet. One of the men was clean-shaven, one had a downy red beard, and the other a neatly waxed mustache.
The clean-shaven one spat tobacco juice, then made a lewd gesture and pointed a finger. As he did, the front of his jacket parted so that Travis could see the gun holstered at his hip— some kind of revolver. However, it wasn’t the gun that made Travis’s blood go cold.
The man was pointing straight at Lirith.
Travis felt the witch go rigid beside him. She must have seen. The three men laughed again, louder this time. The one with the sparse red beard—the handsomest of the lot—blushed and dropped his head. However, the mustachioed one stared at Lirith, a salacious look on his sharp face, and the clean-shaven one just grinned, a cold light in his blue eyes.
“May the starving spirits of the
morndari
consume their manhood,” Sareth hissed.
Travis winced. He had a feeling that was another of those Mournish oaths that was better without translation. Sareth took a step toward the men, but Travis grabbed his arm.
“Forget it, Sareth. They have guns.”
But the Mournish man wouldn’t know what guns were. He started forward again. However, Durge moved in front of him. The knight’s visage was stern.
“Travis is right. We are strangers here—we must not make trouble. And I know something of these guns he speaks of. They allow a man to kill another without even drawing close.”
Sareth’s eyes blazed. “But those bastards—”
“Mean nothing to me,” Lirith said, stepping between Durge and Sareth. “They are foolish boys, nothing more. And we still must find a place to stay. Please.
Beshala
.”
Some of the anger left Sareth’s eyes, replaced by a softness as he gazed at Lirith. He nodded.
Together, the four continued down the boardwalk at a steady but not too-swift pace. Travis and Durge kept Lirith and Sareth between them. Catcalls rang out as they passed the three men, but they kept their gazes fixed ahead, and soon the whistles and whoops fell behind and were gone.
After walking two blocks, they stopped. Travis risked a glance over his shoulder, but the three men were nowhere in view. They had passed the Mine Shaft a block or so back, but he wasn’t about to retrace their steps. He turned toward the others—then frowned.
“Where’s Lirith?”
“She was right here,” Durge rumbled.
Sareth pointed. “There.”
They hurried after Lirith, who had moved a dozen paces down the boardwalk. They reached her just as she approached a wooden table covered with small blue bottles. Beside the table stood a man with frizzy gray hair, clad in a shabby suit. A painted canvas sign hung on the wall behind him:
DR. WETTERLY’S MEDICINAL BITTERS $1
CURES MANY AND SUNDRY ACHES AND AILMENTS,
INCLUDING BUT NOT IN ANY WAY LIMITED TO
BRUISES, CORNS, CROSSED EYES,
NEURALGIA, HALITOSIS, BOILS,
DROPSY, A LAZY TEMPERAMENT,
RHEUMATISM, GOUT, MELANCHOLIA,
AND HICCOUGHS.
The man in the suit spoke in a ringing voice, addressing the half dozen or so people who stood around the table as if they were a great throng, extolling the virtues of his patent medicine. Lirith picked up one of the bottles, unstopped it, and took a sniff. Her brow creased in a frown.
The medicine seller turned to her. “If you want to do more than smell, miss, lay down your dollar and take yourself a drink. It’ll cure anything that ails you.”
Lirith restopped the bottle and set it down. “You’re lying,” she said in a calm voice, and a murmur ran through the gathering of people.
The man spread his arms, chuckling. “Now, miss, I can understand why you’re a skeptic. But rest assured that in this little blue bottle—”
“Is nothing but crude grain spirits flavored with pepper and colored with burnt honey,” Lirith said, her voice sharper now. “I can sense no herbs, no oils, no tinctures—nothing that might cure even the simplest ailment. In fact, this
medicine
as you call it is little better than poison, and anyone would be a fool to drink it, let alone pay for it. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
The people at the table snatched their silver dollars back, disgust on their faces, and hurried away. Befuddlement gave way to anger in the medicine seller’s eyes.
“Why, you little trollop,” he growled, all traces of good humor gone. “Look what your words have done. You’ve cost me a morning’s income. And you’re going to make up for it.”
Lirith started to step back, but before she could the man grabbed her wrist, twisting it. She let out a soft cry.
Travis and Durge both lunged at once for Sareth, but they were too slow. In a second he was at the table, dark eyes smoldering. Sareth gave the man’s outstretched arm a sharp blow. The fellow let out a yelp, letting go of Lirith and clutching his arm to his chest as he stumbled back against the table. Bottles tumbled, breaking against the boardwalk. The sharp reek of cheap alcohol suffused the air.
“Let’s go,” Sareth said, steering Lirith away from the table.
“Thief!” the gray-haired man shrieked. “You have to pay for what your harlot’s broken. Thief!”
Heart pounding, Travis hurried to Lirith and Sareth, Durge just behind him. They needed to get out of there. Fast. As one, they turned around— —and found themselves facing the trio of men in suits.
The beardless one grinned the same grin they had seen before, although the expression didn’t reach his cold blue eyes. “What have we got here, Doc? A bunch of bummers? Well, we know what to do with the likes of them in this town.”
He pushed back his suit coat, displaying the revolver at his hip, and the two men flanking him did the same.
7.
Dusty air swirled through the empty space that seconds ago had been a crowded section of boardwalk. Frightened faces peered from across the street or through shop windows, but no one came near.
Travis drew in a gritty breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Durge start to reach over his shoulder for his greatsword, then stop. The blade was wrapped in the cloak and bound with rope; it would do the knight no good.
“Are you all right there, Doc?” asked the youngest of the three men, the one with red fluff on his cheeks.
The gray-haired man—evidently Doc Wetterly himself— scrambled on his hands and knees on the boardwalk, grabbing stray bottles and stuffing them in his coat pockets. “Yes, yes, Mr. Murray. I assure you, I can manage just fine.” He hopped to his feet, clutching several bottles to his chest. A number of them were leaking, dribbling down his suit, onto the boardwalk. “Now, if you’ll just—”
Before Wetterly’s lips could finish excusing himself, his legs were already carrying him at a fast clip down the boardwalk. He ducked around a corner and was gone.
The blue-eyed man shifted his weight and rested his hand on his hip beside his gun. “I thought these four had a shifty look about them the moment I laid eyes on them. Didn’t I say so, Mr. Ellis?”
“That you did, Mr. Gentry,” said the mustachioed man, the one with the sallow face. He lifted a thin cigar to his lips and took a long puff.
“I thought for sure I did,” the one called Gentry said in a melodious drawl. “I suppose these two don’t look all that peculiar.” He nodded at Travis and Durge. “Though the tall one’s a mite on the pale side—must be he’s fresh from the East. And the short one has a perilous look about him. I know a man-killer when I see one, and I’d say by the look in his eyes he’s taken a life before, maybe more than just one.”
Travis could see muscles bulge along Durge’s jaw. Next to him, Lirith pressed close to Sareth. Was she speaking to him with a spell? Travis wanted to say something, anything, but his tongue had bonded to the roof of his mouth.
Gentry moved toward Sareth and Lirith. “Now these two, Mr. Ellis, Mr. Murray, they stood out right away. We don’t see too many Negresses in this town, and the only ones I know of can be found for a dime a dance down at Morgan’s Variety. But you ain’t dressed like a hurdy-gurdy girl, though I reckon you’re more than pretty enough to be one.”
Anger flashed in Sareth’s eyes. He started to speak, but Gentry was faster.
“And you,” he said, his voice growing hard, “you’re the one that really troubles me. When I seen you, I thunk to myself, ‘Lionel Gentry, what in tarnation would a good man be doing with a peg leg?’ And then the answer came, ‘Well now, a good man wouldn’t have a peg leg. Them are for pirates and the like.’ And then I thunk, even without a peg leg, you’re an odd fellow. You don’t quite look like a Mexican, and you sure ain’t an Indian. So just what are you, boy?”
“He’s a gypsy,” Travis blurted out before Sareth could speak. He didn’t want Gentry to start asking what a
Mournish
was.
Gentry’s eyes narrowed to icy slits. “A gypsy? Well now, seems I was right about you. I’ve heard your kind are nothing but a lot of liars, thieves, and murderers. That’s why you’re always a-wandering.”
Motion caught Travis’s eye. He could see Lirith’s fingers moving at her sides. Was she trying to weave a spell? Maybe, but didn’t she need to close her eyes to concentrate?
What about you, Travis. Why don’t you speak a rune?
Only what rune could he speak without killing them all? This town was practically made of kindling; speaking
Krond
would burn it to the ground. What about
Meleq
then, the rune of wood? Could he make the planks of the boardwalk obey his commands? He had done something similar once with
Sar
, the rune of stone—forging shackles from a stone wall to bind an ironheart who tried to kill him in Calavere.
And what would
Meleq
do to Sareth’s leg, Travis? And all
the shops around us, and the people in them?
Durge started to reach again for his greatsword, then forced his hand down.
The man called Ellis let out another puff of smoke. “What does that one there have on his back?” He pointed with his cigar at Durge.
“That’s right,” said the young one, Murray. “I keep seeing him reach for it, like it’s important to him.”
Gentry stood in front of Durge. “What do you have wrapped up in there, mister? A shotgun, maybe?”
Durge’s brown eyes were grim. “It does not concern you.”
At this, Gentry let out a soft laugh. “On the contrary, everything in this town concerns me. And right now, that includes you and your friends here. You see, this ain’t like some places you might have been. We believe in law and order here in Castle City. Good folk live here, peaceable folk. We’ve got no place for bummers or bilks or shootists. Or gypsies. Those types better learn to behave themselves. Or better yet, they should just get on out of town.” He touched the grip of his holstered gun. “You see, around here, bad things have a tendency to happen to bad folk.”
Travis tried to swallow the dusty lump in his throat. They couldn’t leave town. Not yet. They had to wait for Jack to come. Jack was the only one who could help them get back to where they belonged.
“I think they get your meaning, Mr. Gentry,” Ellis said, his lip curling in a smile. He took one last drag on his cigar, then poised his fingers to flick away the butt.
Lirith’s fingers froze. “I wouldn’t do that.” Her gaze flickered down to the boardwalk.
Travis looked down and saw the wet stains seeping across the wood planks.
Ellis’s visage darkened. “I won’t have the likes of you telling me what to do, miss.” He flicked the butt from his finger, and the glowing stump of the cigar hit the boardwalk.
Blue flames roared upward.
Travis, Lirith, Durge, and Sareth had already taken a big step back; even without a magical communication from Lirith, each had known what was going to happen. Not so the others. Murray scrambled back, kicking out the flames dancing on the toes of his boots. Ellis stared, mouth gaping. Gentry grabbed his arm, jerking him away from the fire.
“You idiot,” he snarled. “You know Doc Wetterly’s stuff is just about strong as kerosene. Now help me get this fire out.”
He took off his coat and started beating at the flames. Ellis and Murray did the same. However, the dry, weathered wood had been soaked with the alcohol from the broken bottles of patent medicine. The flames raced along the boardwalk. Shouts rang out up and down Elk Street.
“Sareth!” Lirith shouted. “Water!” She pointed to a rain barrel a few paces away, near the entrance to an alley. As one, Sareth and Durge lunged for it.
Yes. That was what they needed. Water. Travis reached into his pocket and touched the Stone of Twilight. Just as Durge and Sareth tipped the barrel, Travis whispered a word.
“Sharn
.
”
The rain barrel was only half-f. A thin sheet of water poured forth and struck the flames, but it wasn’t nearly enough. It should have evaporated in an instant.
It didn’t. Suddenly, more water than a single barrel could possibly have held flooded the boardwalk, washing over the tops of their boots, quenching the flames in a cloud of hissing steam. By the time the steam began to clear, the fire was out, and the water had run off the boardwalk, where it was drunk by the thirsty dirt of Elk Street. Murray and Ellis stamped the water from their boots; the cuffs of their pants were sopping.
“What the hell?” Gentry said, gazing at the barrel. “That just ain’t possible.”
He looked up, and his blue eyes narrowed as they locked on Travis. Travis opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Gentry lunged forward and grabbed the neck of Travis’s shirt.
“Let him go, Mr. Gentry,” said a deep voice.
Both Gentry and Travis froze as a man stepped through one last curl of steam.
He wasn’t a big man, no taller than Durge and slight of build. His face was plain, largely lost behind a sandy mustache, and his eyes were a watery color beneath the brim of his gray hat. All the same, there was something about the way the man stood that lent him an air of gravity. He wore a navy blue suit similar to those the other men wore. The suit was free of dust, but somewhat threadbare and frayed at the cuffs.
Gentry didn’t move; he still gripped Travis’s shirt. It was getting hard to breathe.
“I said let him go.”
Gentry released Travis and took a step back, his smooth face bearing no trace of expression.
“You don’t understand,” Murray said, stepping forward. “They’re a bunch of bummers, Sheriff Tanner.”
Only as Murray spoke did Travis finally see the polished silver badge pinned to the breast of the newcomer’s suit.
“Is that so, Calvin Murray?” Sheriff Tanner let out a quiet laugh that was somehow more damning than the sharpest reproach. “Of course, it looks to me like they just kept the whole town from burning down. Pretty good for a lot of bummers, wouldn’t you say?”
Murray hung his head, his cheeks as red as his whiskers.
The sheriff took a step forward. “What I’m curious about is how this fire got started in the first place.” He eyed the broken medicine bottles on the boardwalk, then kicked something with the toe of his boot. It was the charred stump of a thin cigar. “Well now, I’d say that looks like your brand, Eugene Ellis. You know, you shouldn’t throw your live butts down on this old boardwalk. It’s dry as tinder.”
Ellis gave the sheriff a sour look, then bent down, snatched up the cigar butt, and turned away.
Travis cast a glance at Durge, Lirith, and Sareth, but all of them were watching the sheriff. Tanner took another step toward Gentry, so that only five paces separated the men. Gentry’s hand rested near his right hip. In what seemed a completely casual gesture, Tanner brushed back the front of his jacket, revealing a gleaming revolver.
“Why don’t you just move along and get you and your boys a shot of whiskey, Lionel Gentry?” Tanner said. “It’ll steady your nerves.”
Now an expression did touch Gentry’s face: a grin as curved and cutting as a bowie knife. “I don’t think I’m the one who needs steadying, Sheriff.”
Hovering an inch above the grip of his gun, Tanner’s hand vibrated with a resonance too rapid to be voluntary.
The sheriff let his jacket fall back, concealing the gun, and balled his right hand into a fist. “I said move along, Gentry.”
Gentry nodded, still grinning. “C’mon, boys. You heard the sheriff. It’s time for a drink.”
The three men started down the boardwalk, sooty coats slung over their shoulders. After a few paces, Gentry cast a glance back, only it wasn’t the sheriff he looked at. Instead, his icy gaze fell on Sareth. Then the trio stepped through a pair of swinging doors, vanishing into the dimness of a saloon.
“Are you folks all right?”
The sheriff was eyeing them, although not with an air of suspicion like Gentry and his cronies. Instead, his watery eyes were curious.
“We’re fine,” Travis said, letting out a breath of relief. “Thanks for your help, Sheriff.”
“No problem, mister. Men like Lionel Gentry want to think they’re in charge here in Castle City.” He blew a breath through his mustache. “I’m afraid it’s my job to keep reminding them otherwise.”
Durge nodded. “A sheriff is a kind of knight, then.”
Tanner tipped up the brim of his hat. “You haven’t been reading dime novels, have you, mister? If so, don’t believe a thing you’ve seen in them. There isn’t anything romantic about being a sheriff in the West. It’s a dull and dirty job, and not one I asked for.”
“Then why are you sheriff?” Lirith asked.
Tanner laughed. “That’s a story in itself, ma’am. Although nothing so entertaining as you’ll read in one of your pal’s dime novels.”
Sareth frowned. “What are these ‘dime novels’ you keep speaking of?”
“Please forgive my friends,” Travis said hastily. “We’re not from around here.”
Tanner let out a whistle. “That’s for sure. Castle City’s gotten too big for me to know everyone in town, but I could tell in a second you’re not locals. There’s something different about all of you, though I can’t quite put my finger on it. What parts do you hail from?”
“Back East,” Travis said, hoping that was both vague and specific enough.
“You got a place to stay in town?”
The four were silent.
“Thought as much,” Tanner said. “Well, you won’t find anyplace to stay here on Elk Street.” He cast a sidelong glance at Lirith. “But there’s a boardinghouse two blocks over, on Grant Street, called the Bluebell. I know the woman who runs it. She’s a good gal, despite what some folks might say. Tell her I sent you, and she’ll fix you up with a couple of rooms.”
Travis gave him a grateful smile. How old was the sheriff? It was hard to tell. He didn’t look any older than Travis; all the same, there was an air of weariness about him, frayed at the edges just like his suit.
Lirith stepped forward and took the sheriff’s right hand, pressing it between her own. “Thank you,” she said, gazing at him with dark eyes.
“You’re welcome, ma’am. Now go on over to the Bluebell, and get yourself off of this dusty street.”
Gentle as the words were, their intent was clear: Eyes still watched, and the sheriff wanted this show over. He tipped his hat, and the four headed down the boardwalk, which in moments was crowded once more.
They didn’t speak until they reached Grant Street. It was narrower than Elk Street, and not a fraction as crowded, although it was just as dusty.
“That was close,” Travis said with a sigh.
“I have met men such as this Gentry before,” Durge said in his rumbling voice. “They are bored and dangerous, and they are not merely simple brigands. We should take care not to run into him again, else I will have to unwrap my sword.”
Travis tried to imagine the public reaction to Durge wielding his Embarran greatsword in the middle of Elk Street. “Let’s stick to the not-running-into-them-again option.”
“Why did that one hate me so much?” Sareth said, shaking his head. “Was it really because of my leg?”