Read She Who Waits (Low Town 3) Online
Authors: Daniel Polansky
She Who Waits (Low Town 3) (46 page)
‘I suppose this is something of a surprise,’ Guiscard said.
I still had a knife in my boot and for a moment I thought about going for it, seeing if I couldn’t juke one of the thugs into joining me in the hereafter. But in the end I didn’t bother. I was too tired to make any sort of serious go of it. And what was the point, anyway? Another corpse, another mother weeping – the Firstborn knows I’ve made enough of both. Given that we were about to have an interview, I didn’t see any point in scarring another notch on my record.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘You’re a slow learner, but you had good teachers. Or very bad ones, depending on how you look at it.’
Guiscard’s heavies were waiting for the sign to move on me. What Guiscard was waiting for, I wasn’t exactly sure.
‘I am sorry about this,’ he said. ‘But it’s no good leaving you alive, not with everything you know. And I needed to do something to make Monck clear on my value.’
‘Take a last lesson from me. There’s nothing you can say to make a man forgive you for murdering him.’
‘I suppose not.’
Guiscard gave the go ahead. The thug on the right went left and the thug on the left came right and then there was something warm leaking down into my boots that I was pretty sure wasn’t piss. I didn’t see the point in remaining standing. There was a brick wall behind me and I stumbled back into it, slid down into the mud.
One thing about being killed by professionals, they didn’t bother making my last moments any more miserable. The two heavies stood aside and left Guiscard room to come and make his last goodbyes. He knelt down till he was about level with me, though he kept a good distance, still wary even at this late stage. ‘I wish things had gone a different way.’
I didn’t bother to answer – I had other things on my mind, here in what seemed my final moments. Guiscard was well on his way to becoming the new Old Man, and that wasn’t a position that ended happily. He’d get his, somewhere down the line. It was hard to care. The anger was seeping out with my blood.
He left finally, him and his boys, and I was alone again, at last. The wound didn’t hurt like I thought it would have. A dull ache, a growing sensation of cold. It started to rain. I watched little droplets of rain beat down into the mud and listened to my breathing.
Things had gone better than could have been expected. Somewhere south west, where the bay runs into the ocean, Wren and Adeline were in the bottom of a Tarasaighn smuggler. The boy furious as a wounded hog, Adeline calming him down as best she could. They had the money I’d made off the Sons, and what else I’d scuttled away over the years. It was enough to give them a start. Shame that their father wouldn’t be joining them, but there wasn’t nothing for that now.
As far as Adolphus went, I’d settled up as best as could be done. Crowley was gone, and the Old Man with him. Fifteen years waiting on that last one, and as the rain wets down my hair, the memory of his face as I’d walked out the door keeps me warm.
I hoped Albertine was all right. She’d managed to escape Rigus once, she could probably pull it off a second time. Whatever security apparatus was still extant had larger concerns than the emigration of one middle-aged Nestrian. Even now I’m not sure if there was any part of what she’d given me that wasn’t a con. But it’s an abstract concern, would be even if I wasn’t dying. I’m feeling quite magnanimous, now that it’s too late to display it.
The light starts to fade. I clench and unclench my fists, for no better reason than I still can. Then I can’t anymore, and I know I don’t have much longer.
Things are coming at me quickly, fragments of my past, stray images and bits of memory. Adolphus at the counter serving drinks. Adeline behind him, silent and smiling. Yancey as he had been, strong and wild, hands tapping, head swaying. Celia as a girl, sweet and sad and innocent, before she’d gone so wrong. The Blue Crane laughing, long fingers leaving a trail of sparks in their wake. Crispin and I, brothers in arms, foolish and decent and brave. Albertine, so beautiful it hurts to think of her, hurts more than the hole in my gut. Wren when he was just a boy, willful and foolish. Wren as he is now, a good man, maybe a great one, something decent I’d left behind.
And then they fall away as well, and there’s nothing left but the rain. And then there’s nothing left at all. It’s not so hard, dying. Just stop struggling for a moment, and let the night take you.
Many thanks (for various things) go out to …
My agent Chris, my editor Oliver, all the good folk at Hodder. My mother and father, Michael, David, Marisa and Mike. My grandmother and my extended family all the way down the line. Alex, Pete, John and co., William, Dr. Robert, Michael Rubin Esquire, Rusty, Sam, Elliot. Lisa. People I loved but forgot to mention specifically. Apologies.
Alice, Lucas at the House of the Wind, everyone who lives in Boipeba, Eduardo for letting me pretend to be a cowboy. Zero Piraeus. Mauricio and Mariann, who I will get into a book one day, as per our agreement. Francislane. Katerina. Andrea. Alex from Paris, I hope you got your movie done. Many other people. It is getting late.
There was a Brazilian hippie I met once on a path in a jungle near a beach who gave me a half of his coconut, and I never felt that I properly thanked him. So, thanks.
Thanks to anyone who read through all three of these (or even just this one, really) and maybe enjoyed it a bit. Regards.
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