Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2) (36 page)

“You know I do,” she lied.

“Yeah, well…” he gave her a bland look. “Let’s get to it
then, I guess. Gettin’ on toward afternoon, and no telling what them starwinds
gonna cook up for us next.”

“I don’t feel so well,” Toler said.

Lokes collared the shepherd and hauled him up. “Good. You get
a mind to run off again, maybe you’ll think twice.”

They gathered their things to leave, Toler grunting and
grimacing as if fighting off some stomach-related urge. Weaver opened the door
to let them out into the narrow hallway, locked it behind her, and slipped the
old brass key into her pocket. The room was empty of their belongings now, but
she didn’t know who was around and she didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
Downstairs, the stable hands took their tickets and retrieved their horses.

“I forgot about what an upper-class place this is,” Lokes
said with a grin. “Ain’t it nice to be around civilized folk for a change?” He
prodded her with an elbow.

“I’ll say. Too fancy around here for folks like us.”

Lokes laughed, giving her a broad smile that made her heart
race.

It was hard to stay mad at him. Weaver often tried, but
somehow he always roped her back in. There was a soft side beneath that bristly
exterior, and she couldn’t get enough of it. So what if he only gave her brief
glimpses? She’d never had that kind of connection with anyone before. That made
it worth taking the bad with the good.

Didn’t it?

The crowd outside the Scorpion’s Uncle had begun to thin out
and shuffle back inside, convinced the quakes were over for now. They mounted
and rode past at a walk. Lokes led the way while Weaver took up the rear to
keep Toler between them. They made a slight right turn down a side lane, where
another crowd parted to let the horses through.

It wasn’t until they were in the thick of the crowd that
Weaver began to recognize a few of the faces within it. They were faces she
didn’t like. Faces that brought back sour memories.

Before she could react, a hand reached up and took hold of
Meldi’s bridle. Weaver looked down to see the familiar and unpleasant face of a
woman staring back at her, a single white eye glistening in a field of ruddy
wrinkles. The crone grinned, chapped lips sliding back to reveal rows of rotten
teeth. Weaver called out for Lokes to stop.

Up ahead, Lokes had already reined up where a line of
unsavory-looking characters stood to block his path. Weaver exhaled. She’d been
hoping they wouldn’t run into the old gang before they located the southerner.

“I been wondering if you two was ever gonna show your purty
faces ‘round here again,” said the woman holding Meldi’s reins. “I thought you
might not. Thought we was gonna have to track you down.”

Portia LeMeire
, Weaver knew. The gang called her
Pretty Portia on account of her shriveled left eye, lidless where a rival posse
had removed the flap of skin as a trophy. The blind eye was shot through with
veins, red lightning bolts pulsing on a round white egg.

Tracking me across the wastes would be about as easy as
taking a gander at your own rear end
, Weaver wanted to say, but thought
better of it.

“You done gave us the run-around long enough, Will,” said
Hannigan Fink, the impossibly-slender man standing ahead of Lokes. His
fur-lined duster was fraying at the hemline, the brim of his open crown hat
cracked and spotted.

“Where’s the hardware, Lokes, ol’ pal?” asked Guy Ulrich,
looking a midget beside Hannigan. His oversized dust goggles and the brengen
skull he wore as a helmet made him look like some strange nocturnal creature.

Weaver recognized most of the others. There was Keeton Dunn,
clad in livery sewn together from patches of a dozen different business suits;
Lally McNally, the big-boned brawling woman who would’ve made a formidable
match for any man, whether in the ring or between the sheets; and a fellow they
called The Weasler, whose pets tunneled through and poked their furry heads out
from beneath the thick layers of knitted clothing he wore.

There were new faces in the gang as well. A dark-skinned nomad
with a beaded feather woven into his tangled black hair stared down from of the
building tops, a long rifle in his hands. A figure in a hooded fur vest lurked
in the shadows of a second-story window. He flexed his bare tattooed arms and
gave Weaver a glittering smile, brandishing a longknife with a serrated blade.

“Now look here. We gonna get you dways your money,” Lokes was
saying. “Matter of fact, that’s where we was just headed. Now ain’t the time to
be stirring up trouble. ‘Sides, y’all don’t want what I got for you.” He
bounced his eyebrows and tapped his sweeties.

He never stops making threats, even when he’s hopelessly
outmanned
, Weaver reflected with dismay. She would’ve felt better about the
confrontation had it happened on the wastes. But the gang, of course, knew what
she could do out there. That was why they’d waited until there was pavement
beneath her feet.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Will,” said Hannigan.

“Wouldn’t dare,” Lokes said. “Promise goes for you,
especially.” He pointed a finger in the shape of a gun and mimed pulling the
trigger.

Hannigan Fink cracked a smile. “Y’ain’t getting no wiser in
your old age, I see.”

The patrons at the Scorpion’s Uncle were leaking outside to
witness the spectacle, but the streets had grown quiet. Weaver shifted in her
saddle, wondering what Lokes would do next. There was never any telling with
him.

Lokes lifted his gambler and mopped his brow. “Wisdom is a
dead man’s game, Fink. You gonna step aside so I can go make you some money, or
we gonna sit here all day drowning in our own sweat?”

Fink’s smile faded. “You got ‘til nightfall. After dark, I
tend to forget my manners.” He stepped aside, spreading his long, bony fingers
down the street in a sweeping bow.

Lokes struck the reins to get Gish moving. Toler followed,
and Weaver wasted no time. As she passed through the opening in the line of
Fink’s men, Lally McNally slid a wet pink tongue over her lips and gave Weaver
a rotten smile.

When they’d gone a few dozen fathoms down the street, Fink
called after them. “Nightfall, Will. I see them stars ‘fore I see that purty
face of yours, you ain’t gonna live long enough to regret it.”

CHAPTER 29

For the Greater Good

The ordeal of forming a clear thought seemed to Toler
Glaive like trying to shave with a dull razor. His belly was sick and his bones
felt like twisted rags. He’d been living under the terrible effects of the
starwinds for too long now. Plenty of people were feeling their effects, but he
always seemed to feel them more acutely than most. Had he been home, he
could’ve rested.
But I’m not at home, am I? I’m caught up with the two
jokers hauling me across this Infernal-forsaken city, looking for bloodthirsty
savages while we dodge the bandits who want them dead
. “Fink’s the reason
you need the hardware, isn’t he?”

“You get smarter by the minute, don’t you, Shep?”

“These starwinds are making me sicker by the minute. What
will you do if the nomads don’t know where Daxin is?”

“Tie you to that old gelding and sell you both to the slavers
as a package deal.”

“You don’t want to do that. I can help you, if you help me.”

“Don’t need no help, Shep. And in case you was too sick to
notice how many people that tall fella had in his misfit gang back there, I
ain’t got time to help you. Find somebody else to heckle.”

“All I’m trying to do is get you out of this before it’s too
late. All three of us are going to be toes-up if that freakshow has anything to
say about it. How’d you get wrapped up with a bunch of bandits like them,
anyway?”

“Used to be one of ‘em.”

“I ran with ‘em too, for a while,” Weaver added. “Right
around the time Lokes and I first met.”

“You all did seem to know each other awfully well,” Toler
said. He’d been silently hoping their little showdown would come to blows. It
was the best hope he’d had of escaping them yet. “How did you end up owing them
money?”

“We done run off with it,” Lokes said with a chuckle. “Years
ago, the gang stole itself a nice chunk of hardware. We planned to split it
nine ways, of course; same slice of the profits for each of us. I ain’t never
been much for pie… always been more of a sandwich fella myself. Turned out Jal
was the same way. She and I, we packed up the booty and took off in the night.
Run straight through the next day without a stop. Hit the city and disappeared.
They caught up with us eventually. Wasn’t for a long time, but they found us.”

“You don’t think you two could hold your own against them in
a fight?” Toler asked. “They don’t look like much.”

“They’re as talented a bunch as I ever seen.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“That’s the idea, Shep.”

They came to the end of the narrow side street and emerged
onto a wider road lined with gutted shops and restaurants. The light-star shone
high overhead, so they clung to the shadows of the awnings along the sidewalk.
Dust clouded the air around a building whose side had collapsed in a heap of
rubble. The building’s boldly lettered sign was half-buried beneath, but Toler
could still see what it said: QuickStop Express. Next door was a place called
AmpCo Electronics. Beyond that, a more whimsical sign read: Winston’s
Chocolates.

“Here’s the place,” said Lokes. “Looks like the quake done
got it pretty good.” He and Weaver dismounted, waving away the dust. “Let’s go,
Shep. You’re comin’ with.”

They helped Toler off his horse. As they pulled him down, the
blade beneath his leathers began to slip. He could feel it pressing against his
ribs, the tip poking his waist, the hilt tucked beneath his armpit. He clenched
his arm tight against his side to hold it in place and nearly toppled over onto
Lokes as he slid from the saddle.

“What the blazes are you tryin’ to do Shep, kill me? You
forget how to use your arms or something?”

“Sorry,” Toler said, clinging to the weapon for dear life
while trying not to be obvious about it. “I slipped.”

Lokes frowned and shook his head in disgust.

Weaver patted her partner on the back, a calming gesture. She
had tossed Toler the knife while they were in the dark of the tunnel, meant for
a fight that had never come. In the aftermath of the earthquake, she’d
forgotten all about it. He only hoped she wouldn’t remember it was gone before
they found his brother.

If Daxin wasn’t around, Toler would use the knife to send a
message to the nomads.
It’ll be a worthy cause
, he told himself.
Even
if it kills me. One last sacrifice for the good of Vantanible, Inc. For the
good of every living soul in the Inner East. A chance to make up for my mistake
.

Vantanible’s trade routes existed for a reason. Although the
nomads were bringing a bounty to Belmond in the form of stolen goods, they were
preventing those same goods from reaching settlements across the Inner East.
Settlements that needed the sorts of items that came from over the Clayhollows,
around the Amber Coast, and across the northern lands. The nomads were slowly
strangling them to death, and they knew it. Without the trade caravans,
thousands wouldn’t live out the short year.

Before they went inside, Lokes appraised Toler, straightening
his tunic and brushing the dust off his shoulders. “Gotta get you looking presentable
for Quarterman. Assuming he’s still alive in there.”

“Quarterman. That’s a strange name for a savage.”

“Quarterman ain’t no savage. He’s the one gonna tell us where
them savages are at. And fill my brass in the meantime.”

“Do I have to be there for that?”

“Shut your mouth, Shep. No one asked. Now get on with you.”
Lokes shoved him toward the pile of rubble.

Toler clambered up, feeling dizzy and uncoordinated, his
bound hands making the obstacle all the more demanding to surmount. On his way
up, he managed to shift the longknife into a more stable position beneath his
armpit. Weaver stayed outside with the horses while they crossed what used to
be the front threshold and entered the building’s dim interior.

Empty shelves lined the walls and battered aisle fixtures lay
among candy bar wrappers, potato chip bags, plastic soda bottles, and shattered
fluorescent bulbs. The cave-in had brought half a dozen steel girders through
the ceiling. If there was another quake while they were inside, they weren’t coming
out again.

“There’s no one here,” Toler said.

“What did I just tell you about keepin’ your mouth shut?”

“To do it.”

Lokes cuffed him a stinging blow across the ear that made him
suck in his breath. “You think I was joking? Follow.” He pushed Toler aside and
headed down the hallway past the restrooms.

The hallway dead-ended a few fathoms beyond the next corner.
At least, it appeared that way upon first glance. When Lokes knocked on what
Toler assumed was the wall, it took only a few seconds for a panel to slide
open and a shadowed man to invite them inside.

“Quarterman, this is Shep. Shep, Quarterman.”

“Toler,” Toler said, shaking Quarterman’s hand.

“Tagg Quarterman. Pleasure.” The man’s grip was firm, though
the last two fingers on his right hand didn’t bend. He slid the panel closed
and led them through a dark workshop thick with the sulfurous smell of
gunpowder. He was short, with pockmarked cheeks, sharp bushy eyebrows, and a
sort of waddling limp that he himself seemed not to notice.

Skylights allowed the daylight in from somewhere high above,
though only a fraction made it through the gaps in the drop ceiling.
Natural
light
, Toler realized.
No open flames. Too dangerous
.

A solid block worktable ran along the back wall, where rows
of brass bullet casings shone beside reloading presses, powder measures,
scales, and dies of all types and calibers. Tall glass jars held the various
components of Quarterman’s craft. In a small adjoining room lay a narrow cot
with tousled blankets and a thin pillow.

“Quite an operation you’ve got here,” Toler said. It was
exactly the kind of operation he’d consider partnering with someday in his own
ventures. But the smuggling game was the furthest thing from his mind right
now. “Out of the way back here, too.”

“I prefer not to be noticed,” said Quarterman. “I don’t often
deal with customers directly, but I’ll always make an exception for old Lokesy.
Brings me good brass, and he’s always got a story or two to tell from his
jaunts through the wide world. What’s your story today, Lokesy?”

Lokes dropped a fistful of spent brass onto the table.

Quarterman inspected the casings one by one as he talked.

“You been out front yet today? Might be you ought to think
about moving.”

“I felt the quakes. Haven’t been out, though. Why?”

Lokes gave him a sympathetic look. “You done had a collapse,
my friend.”

“How bad?”

“Place looks like a plate of hash browns.”

Quarterman knitted his bushy brows together. “This old place
is solid. Didn’t think she’d ever let the quakes get to her.”

“Solid don’t mean shit if the ground ain’t.”

“I can’t move my whole workshop now. I’ve got deadlines to
keep. It took me forever to find this place, and longer still to rig it up nice
and hidden-like. What am I going to do?”

Toler felt sorry for him. A man trying to earn an honest
living was rare in south Belmond. Thieves and addicts prowled every street in
this city; people who’d just as soon steal the shirt off your back as look at
you.

“Wish I had more time to hang around and give you a hand,”
said Lokes. “As it turns out, I’m on a deadline myself, of sorts. As for news,
I’ll tell you the starwinds are the strongest I ever seen ‘em. Savages are
still eating them trains alive. Things are tough out there. Getting tougher.
Tell you what, though. Your stock looks good. Here’s a little something extra
to get you back on your feet.” He gave Quarterman a tiny gold ingot, three
silver rings, and a six-inch coil of copper wire, then swept a short line of
revolver rounds off the table and into his open palm. “That look good to you?”

“You don’t have to do that for me, Lokesy,” Quarterman said.
He slid the silver rings back toward Lokes.

“I ain’t takin’ those,” Lokes insisted. “They’re part of the
deal. We got a trade, or don’t we?”

Quarterman smirked humbly. He lifted a reluctant hand, which
Lokes snagged and gave a firm shake.

“We have a trade.”

“My highest regards to you and yours, as always,” Lokes said.
“Now, got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Where was them savages holed up, last you heard?”

“Axant Chemical,” said Quarterman. “Factory up near the river
ducts, across the bridge.”

“Oh, right. I know it. Much obliged to you.”

“You have business with them?”

“Tell you about it another time. Got to go.”

“Alright. Be good, Lokesy.”

“Always am. Get you out of this place as soon as you can,”
Lokes urged him. “More quakes comin’, says Jal. Last thing you need is your
eggs scrambled.”

“Will do. Tell her hello for me.”

They said their goodbyes, left through the disguised wall
panel, and joined Weaver out front. She was sitting by while the horses stood
around looking for something to eat. Toler could see the heat was tiring them
out.

He held the knife close against his side this time as Lokes
gave him a push onto his saddle. He thought he could feel blood in his shirt
from where the blade had cut him, but he didn’t dare check.

The road opened onto a patch of bare ground where the dry
brown remains of a lawn and tree plantings led to the highway. Ahead, an
overpass curved across the many lanes of the freeway below. A decomposing
skeleton hung from a noose in the sidewall, swaying in the breeze. They started
up the overpass, a one-lane exit littered with vehicle wreckage. The aluminum
gantry held a faded sign pointing them toward the eastbound lanes of Rutherford
Turnpike.

Someone had been living on this overpass, Toler could see by
the way the vehicle parts were assembled into a series of roughshod lean-tos.
The makeshift dwellings stood in grubby contrast to the clean blue sky behind
them. At first glance, the bridge looked abandoned. But when they came closer
and saw fresh refuse littering the asphalt, there was no doubt the residents
were still at home.

Lokes raised a hand to halt them. Toler and Weaver tugged
their mounts to a standstill alongside him, lining up like racehorses at a
gate. They sat still to watch and listen.

The wind blew. The rope creaked.

Toler Glaive felt a lot like that skeleton; he wasn’t too far
from the end of his rope, either. He would’ve given anything for a good smoke,
or a drink of something hard and fiery. He could taste it; he could smell that
sweet husky aroma, feel the heat sliding down his throat.

If nothing else, a couple of drinks would’ve made it easier
to forget what a shitshow his life had become. An ailing fiancé who thought
he’d left her; a boss and future father-in-law whose company was falling into
ruin; a side business at risk of being found out; and a jackass brother who
couldn’t keep his grubby mitts out of everyone else’s affairs.

There was one thing to look forward to in all of this. If the
fates bore him any goodwill at all, he’d soon be in the presence of every
single person responsible for his plight.
Imagine that
, he thought.
Everyone
who’s had a hand in screwing up my world, all in the same place at once. All
breathing the same air
.

A head popped up from behind one of the wrecked vehicles to
study them through big brown eyes. Lokes drew with his left. The head vanished,
then reappeared in the vehicle’s cracked rear window. It was a girl,
blonde-haired and skinny. Toler didn’t know enough children to make a decent
guess at her age, but he would’ve said ten or twelve if pressed.

“Hey. Come on out,” Lokes said, holstering the revolver. “I
ain’t gonna hurt you.”

The girl slipped her fingers around the vehicle’s rusted
door. Timidly, she stepped out from her hiding place. Her hair was an oily
tangle lopped off above the shoulders. She wore a loose-fitting, sleeveless
white shirt above tattered denim shorts and bare feet. When she stood, her legs
were like sticks. “Spare a two-inch of copper, mister?” she asked.