The New Hero Volume 2 Read online

  I headed out through the forest toward the mountains on my latest bad-tempered, recalcitrant horse. Two first-timers tried to waylay me, and I thought I was going to have to kill them both, but instead I left them with marks of my sword’s flat across their backsides that wouldn’t fade for a week. I’m not sure why I let them go; either my tolerance of amateurs had grown, or I just already had enough blood on my hands.

  A silver strike six years ago brought a boom to Four Chops that had since dwindled down to a loud clap, with only a brothel, two taverns and a lone gambling house still in operation. The unused buildings had begun to collapse, and in five years the whole place would be abandoned to the forests and the winds.

  For now, though, it was livelier than it should have been, especially after midnight when I arrived. That should’ve tipped me off. A half-dozen horses were tied outside the whorehouse, and both halves of a broken Boneslicer single-edge cavalry sword lay in the mud in the middle of the muddy street. As I passed one of the taverns a man staggered out, cursing in a language I didn’t know, with a dagger imbedded in his thigh. He went past me into one of the abandoned buildings on the opposite side of the street and crashed into something wooden that broke beneath him. No one pursued him.

  I carried my reliable Eventide sword, with the extra-firm grip wrap on the hilt, in a Grand Bruan-style scabbard across my back. I chose that blade despite the fact that it shredded the lip of the expensive scabbard whenever I drew it, because it was light and sharp enough to bisect a sneeze. Hopefully, though, the only metal I’d need to wield would be Jane’s money.

  Miles might be in one of the taverns or the whorehouse, but that would mean he’d won some money first. I decided to start my search in the Diamond Hole, the gambling house where he’d won in the past. It was at the other end of town, a low flat-roofed building with torches blazing on either side of the entrance.

  I tied my horse alongside eight others and went to the door. A big, broad-shouldered man opened it. “Yeah?”

  “I have money I want to lose,” I said. “This looks like the perfect place to do it.”

  “Are you some kind of funny guy?”

  “Some kind. But my gold isn’t a joke.” I took out a coin and held it so the torchlight sparkled on it. “I’m also looking for a pal. Squirrelly little guy named Miles. He wouldn’t happen to be here, would he?”

  “Nobody’s here. I’m not even here.”

  “Lot of horses for nobody,” I pointed out. I extended the coin. “Mind if I look around for myself.”

  He took it without a word. “You have to check your sword with me before you go in.”

  I did so, receiving a little metal chit with a number on it. I noticed mine was the only sword hanging from the pegs. I thought of those horses and wondered what I was walking into.

  It appeared to be an empty room. The only light came from a lamp over a table in the far back corner. All the other tables were empty, and there was no one behind the bar. The normal smells of sweat, ale and desperation had faded to a rancid background odor.

  A tired-looking woman with frizzy hair approached me out of the shadows. She wore clothes more appropriate to a younger, fuller figure. She said, “Hello, stranger. You’re traveling late. Buy a girl a drink?”

  “I’m more interested in a deck of cards,” I said.

  She gestured toward the back of the room. “That’s the only game in town right now, handsome.” She slid her hand inside my jacket and pressed it against my chest. “Unless you count the games where everybody wins.”

  I pulled her hand away and pressed another of Jane’s coins in it. “I’m a sore loser at those kind of games. Nothing personal.”

  She scowled, torn between the money and my disregard for her ragged feminine charms. The money won, and she faded away into the darkness.

  I approached the sole illuminated table. There was Miles Argo, all right. Experience had taught him to sit in the corner so no one could slip up behind him. That didn’t matter in his case, though: the threat was all in front of him, in the form of a deck of cards so cold they might as well have had icicles. The tiny pile of chips in front of him, and the much larger pile before his opponent, told the story.

  Miles Argo had once been a good-looking guy. Now he was skinny, balding and middle-aged, with trembling hands and dark circles under his eyes. The other player at the table, a corpulent woman in expensive clothes, daintily sipped her drink and slid some chips to the center of the table. There was no way Miles could call the bet, so that should’ve been that. But guys like Miles didn’t become guys like Miles by knowing when to quit.

  He placed his cards face-down on the table and said, “I can’t believe I have to fold with a hand like this.” He turned to a well-dressed man with a blank face leaning against the wall. He was clearly the boss, and I wondered why he put up with this.

  “You know my credit’s good, Walter,” Miles said, sounding like a teenage boy pleading with his father. “Get me through this hand? My luck’s turned, I swear it.”

  “You credit’s shit,” Walter said calmly. “And so is your luck.”

  “Please, gentlemen, language,” Miles’ opponent said archly. Her type was easy to classify: slumming minor royalty from one of the bordering kingdoms. Part of the fun was reminding the rabble that her gold made her better than them and that she deserved their deference.

  I looked around again. Where were the people belonging to all those horses? Sure, some would prefer drink and/or whores, but there had to be a few who wanted to gamble away what little money they had. I peered into the shadowy corners, but they were empty, and there were no secondary rooms for private games.

  “So I have to fold,” Miles said, and shook his head. “And me with a hand like this.”

  I tossed enough to cover the bet onto the table. It was Jane’s money, anyway; it seemed appropriate. The jingle got everyone’s attention, especially Miles’.

  “Eddie LaCrosse,” he said when he recognized me. “What a surprise. What brings you to Four Chops?” He sounded sick to his stomach.

  “You do. Finish this hand, then you’re leaving.”

  Miles swallowed hard, glanced at Walter, then said, “It’s, uh … not that easy.”

  He tilted back his chair and raised one ankle. A manacle and chain were around it. “I’m pretty far in the hole. They let me keep playing, though.”

  I looked at Walter. “You have the key to that?”

  Walter gave me no visible respect. “Yeah.”

  “So how far down is he?”

  Walter told me.

  I said, “Come on, he’ll never play his way out of that. You’re just keeping him around for giggles.”

  Walter’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t giggle about money, friend. And I don’t recall anyone saying this was any of your business.”

  There was no way I could pay off his debt, and I wouldn’t even if I had the scratch to do it. Yet Jane had paid me to bring him back. I didn’t expect to find him literally chained to his bad habits, though.

  My options were limited. I could simply kill everyone except Miles, but that seemed an over-reaction, not to mention difficult to do without a sword. So instead, I said, “All right, then. I’ll play you for him.”

  Walter turned his head to look at me. The motion was stiff and mechanical, as if few things ever roused his interest. “What?”

  “One hand. If I win, he leaves and makes good on his debt when he can. If you win, he stays.”

  “He’s already staying,” Walter pointed out.

  “But he’s also losing. That doesn’t put any gold in your strong box, does it?”

  “You’re mace-addled,” Walter said.

  A hidden door opened in the wall beside the table, and in an instant I understood everything. Through the opening I saw a well-lit counting room, the light glittering off neat stacks of coins. Two men bent over vellum scrolls as they noted amounts with long, ragged quills. Three additional men, tall and professionally grim, stood gu
ard. Something similar was probably going on in the other establishments as well: scribes and accountants taking stock of profits, while armed guards both protected them and kept them honest. That explained all the horses.

  But it was the man who opened the door who held my attention. Chills ran up my neck. I knew him and, unfortunately, he knew me.

  “No, Walter, I think that’s an excellent idea,” Gordon Marantz said.

  Marantz was immaculate in a tailor-made tunic and trousers, and boots so expensive they wouldn’t dare scuff. His hair was combed back from his face. He looked vaguely amused, as he tended to whenever he wasn’t actually killing someone. It figured Miles would pick Marantz’s collection night to end up short.

  Marantz smiled at me. I felt like a rabbit looking at a wolf. He said, “If it isn’t Eddie LaCrosse, Neceda’s favorite sword jockey. This is unexpected.”

  “Oh, isn’t it,” I said flatly.

  He came around the table toward me, and it took all my self-control not to back away. He nudged the rich woman opposite Miles. “Get up, Mrs. Farnsworth. This night just got a lot more interesting.” As Mrs. Farnsworth quickly gathered her winnings Marantz said to me, “I think it’s only fair that you and I play this hand.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I said.

  Confused, Miles looked from Marantz to me and back.

  Marantz laughed again. “Come on, Eddie, if I wanted you dead, you’d be tasting sword metal right now. So would your red-haired girlfriend. You have to know that.”

  I knew it, although the threat to Liz was new. Marantz must really dislike me. “Do you want me to say thanks?”

  “Not at all. I like knowing you’re always looking over your shoulder.” He sat, picked up the deck of cards and rippled them between his hands. “Here’s the game, though. We’re playing for finger stakes.”

  “Finger stakes?” I asked.

  He nodded at Miles. “His.”

  Miles sat up straight. “Now, wait a minute.”

  “Shut up,” Marantz and I said in unison.

  Miles’ voice grew high and desperate. “Like hell I will, you can’t just treat me like I’m not here—”

  Marantz continued as if Miles hadn’t spoken. “Best of five hands, which means you have to win three, Eddie. If you do, I’ll cancel his debt and let you take him home. But for each hand you lose, he loses a finger.”

  Miles looked as if he might be ill. “Mr. Marantz, Eddie, please, I can get myself out of this.”

  “No, you can’t, Miles,” I said, but my gaze stayed locked on Marantz. To the gangster I said, “You’re doing this for fun, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Like you said before: giggles. He’s a bum, and I’m tired of messing with him. You, though … I’m looking forward to messing with you.”

  “Let’s play for my fingers, then.”

  Marantz shook his head. “No, Eddie. I understand how you think. You’re tough: if I chop off a few of your fingers, you’ll just figure out a way to swing a sword with your toes. But you’ll hear the knife cut through his skin and bones in your dreams for the rest of your life.”

  I really didn’t like the idea that Gordon Marantz knew me so well. But I also saw no other choice. “All right,” I said. “Best of five. But I want some changes first. Let’s have a new deck.” I kicked two chairs away from a nearby empty table, picked it up and inspected the bottom for anything untoward. “And a new table. This one will do.”

  “Hey,” Walter said, “I could take that personally.”

  “Good,” I said.

  A flunky appeared and lit the lamp over our new table, directly beside the current one. The front door opened and a half-dozen of Marantz’s men entered. They froze and fell silent when they saw their boss. He gestured for them to stay where they were.

  When we stood behind our new respective chairs I said, “Miles comes, too.”

  Marantz’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “He deals.”

  “I don’t think he’s objective enough.”

  “That breaks my heart. He deals, or I walk.”

  “That’s sort of an empty threat, Eddie.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. Call my bluff, then.”

  Marantz’s face gave nothing away as he pondered. He might know things about me, but that went both ways. I knew his vanity was as wide as the Gusay River, and now that he had a crowd of his own people watching, he wouldn’t want to deprive them of a show.

  At last he shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Walter, unlock the ferret and bring him over.”

  Suddenly Miles was beside me, his hand on my arm. “Eddie, we have to get out of here. There aren’t that many, you can take them—”

  “You have a gag handy, Walter?” I said.

  “I do,” Walter agreed.

  “All right, all right,” Miles said, raising his hands in defeat. He pulled out his chair and dropped heavily into it. “Let’s get this over with, all right?”

  Marantz sat at the new table, put his hands flat on it and said, “Walter, get us that new deck our friend asked for. And bring me a drink.” He looked a question at me, but I shook my head. He laughed. “Mr. LaCrosse doesn’t trust us to give him unpoisoned ale.”

  I took my seat. “Mr. LaCrosse doesn’t trust you to give him unpoisoned air.” I glanced over at Miles, which was a mistake. I did not need to see the fear in his eyes.

  Walter brought Marantz a drink and a fresh deck of cards. He gave them to me to shuffle, which I did. Then I handed them to Miles. He dropped the deck twice, scattering the cards on the floor the second time. As he picked them up, I tried to calm the pounding in my chest. I was only partially successful.

  At last Miles got the cards under control and dealt them carefully, practically handing them directly to us. I felt his sweat on them when I arranged them in my hand. Marantz was as cool as a mountaintop in winter.

  I won the first two hands. Possibly Marantz threw them, just to get to the good stuff. The next hand would either send Miles home intact, or start him down the road to wearing only shoes he didn’t have to tie.

  Miles knew it, too. He was breathing so loudly I could hear it. He practically had to shake the cards free of his trembling, clenched fingers.

  I looked at my cards. Marantz looked at his, then at me. We were both professionals at keeping things off our faces, so there were no tells to spot. It was a matter of smarts and nerve.

  “Do you think,” Marantz mused, “he’ll wet his pants when we take his thumb?”

  “You’re starting with his pinky,” I said.

  “I don’t recall agreeing to that.”

  “If you want your fun, you will.”

  “It’s purely a business decision. He loses his thumb, he won’t be able to deal cards any more. Considering what a bad investment he is, I’d be foolish not to do it.”

  “Hey,” Miles said, “I’m sitting right here, you know.”

  “Shut up,” Marantz and I again said in unison.

  “Or,” Marantz continued, “I could take his nose-picker first. You pick your nose a lot, Miles?”

  Before Miles could answer I said, “You’re taking his pinky first. End of negotiation.”

  Marantz leaned over the table toward me. His smile disappeared, and his voice dropped to a whisper meant only for me. “You need to think this tough-guy thing through, Eddie. You’re sitting in one of my establishments, a long way from home, surrounded by folks a whole lot more scared of me than they are of you.”

  “I’m scared of you, too,” I said simply. It was the truth.

  This took him by surprise, although he hid it so well I’m not sure anyone else saw it. In our previous encounter, I’d bluffed him into doing what I wanted by appealing to his honor, which at the time had amused him no end. Perhaps he thought it gave me an inflated sense of my own invulnerability, and he anticipated the fun of correcting that in front of his people. Now I’d just taken that away from him.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Eddie,
” Marantz said. “Why are you doing this? For him?” He nodded at Miles. “You have to know he’s a turd. Really. Look at him. He’d sell you out in a minute if it got him off the hook. So what’s in it for you?”

  “Twenty-five gold pieces a day, plus expenses.”

  “That’s all you’re worth?”

  I smiled. Marantz didn’t understand as much as he thought. He’d never comprehend why naming your own price was important. “That’s what I’m worth.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “You always surprise me, Eddie. Do you want any more cards?”

  I looked at my cards a final time and shook my head.

  “Then show me what you got.” He tossed his own cards to the table.

  ***

  “It hurts,” Miles whimpered.

  “Oh, shut up,” I said. “It’s just a damn pinky. You’ll be lucky when you get home if Jane lets you keep both your balls.”

  We were halfway back to Neceda, and the sky in the east was now gray with impending dawn. Birds tittered in the trees around us. The road was deserted, but the closer we got to town, the busier it would become, as farmers and tradesmen started their long days. I led Miles’ horse beside my own, while he wobbled in his saddle and cradled his bandaged right hand against his chest. The white cloth was thoroughly soaked with blood.

  “You threw that hand on purpose!” he wailed.

  I snapped, “Hey, jackass, I rescued you, remember?” But I wasn’t entirely sure he was wrong.

  I’d had a decent hand back at the Diamond Hole, but could’ve discarded and made it better without losing anything. Maybe secretly I did want Miles to suffer for everything he’d put Jane through over the years. I’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her in battle, something I knew Miles had never done. Or ever would do. She deserved better than this wheedling little toad.

  “It hurts,” he said again, drawing out the last word.

  I was sure it did. But not, I suspected, enough.

  Saturday’s Children

  Jesse Bullington

  There’s this moment before they show up where all the church talk and ghost stories seem a sight realer than usual, when the traffic outside and the rats in the walls go quiet, when anything seems possible…and then it is. I seen him settle onto her, saw it in the way her shoulders relaxed, all her fear pushed out or down or wherever she goes when one of them gets on board. I backed away from her…no, from him, careful not to smudge the symbol on the floor…it looked like he was already here so maybe it wouldn’t matter but the first thing she taught me was never ever screw up one of their whatchamacallits, those symbols, because that was what they needed to find their way here…into the real world.