Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law (16 page)

‘You must be pissing your pants with joy over the outcome, then, eh?’

‘Said we’d have to get her.’

‘So stop pointing it out and get it done.’

Dodd’s wheedling voice. ‘Look, the money’s here, we could just scrape this up and get off, there ain’t no need to—’

‘Did you and I really spring from between the same set o’ legs?’ sneered Jeg. ‘You are the stupidest bastard.’

‘Stupidest,’ said Neary.

‘You think I’m leaving four thousand marks for the crows?’ said Jeg. ‘You scrape that up, Dodd, we’ll break the mare.’

‘Where do you reckon she is?’ asked Neary.

‘I thought you was the big tracker?’

‘Out in the wild, but we ain’t in the wild.’

Jeg cocked an eyebrow at the empty shacks. ‘You’d call this the highest extent of civilisation, would you?’

They looked at each other a moment, dust blowing up around their legs, then settling again.

‘She’s here somewhere,’ said Neary.

‘You think? Good thing I got the self-described sharpest eyes west of the mountains with me so I don’t miss her dead horse ten fucking strides away. Yes, she’s here somewhere.’

‘Where, do you reckon?’ asked Neary.

‘Where would you be?’

Neary looked about the buildings and Shy jerked out of the way as his narrowed eyes darted over the tavern.

‘In that one, I reckon, but I ain’t her.’

‘Course you ain’t fucking her. You know how I can tell? You got bigger tits and less sense. If you was her I wouldn’t have to fucking look for her now, would I?’

Another silence, another dusty gust.

‘Guess not,’ said Neary.

Jeg took his tall hat off, scrubbed at his sweaty hair with his fingernails, and jammed it back on at an angle. ‘You look in there, I’ll try the one next to it, but don’t kill the bitch, eh? That’ll halve the reward.’

Shy eased back into the shadows, feeling the sweat tickling under her shirt. To be caught in this worthless arsehole of a place. By these worthless bastards. In bare feet. She didn’t deserve this. All she’d wanted was to be somebody worth speaking of. To not be nothing, forgotten the day of her death. Now she saw that there’s a sharp balance between too little excitement and a huge helping too much. But like most of her lame-legged epiphanies, it had dawned a year too late.

She sucked air through the little gap between her teeth as she heard Neary creaking across the boards in the common room, maybe just the metal rattle of that big axe. She was shivering all over. Felt so weak of a sudden she could hardly hold the knife, let alone imagine swinging it. Maybe it was time to give up. Toss the blade out the doorway and say, ‘I’m coming out! I’ll be no trouble! You win!’ Smile and nod and thank ’em for their betrayal and their kind consideration when they kicked the shit out of her or horsewhipped her or broke her legs and whatever else amused them on the way to her hanging.

She’d seen her share of those and never relished the spectacle. Standing there tied while they read your name and your crime, hoping for some last reprieve that wouldn’t come while the noose was drawn tight, sobbing for mercy or hurling your curses and neither making the slightest hair of difference. Kicking at nothing, tongue stuck out while you shat yourself for the amusement of scum no better’n you. She pictured Jeg and Neary, up front in the grinning crowd as they watched her do the thief’s dance at rope’s end. Probably arrayed in even more ridiculous clothes secured with the reward money.

‘
Fuck
them,’ she mouthed at the darkness, lips curling back in a snarl as she heard Neary’s foot on the bottom step.

She had a hell of a contrary streak, did Shy. From when she was a tot, when someone told her how things would be, she started thinking on how she’d make ’em otherwise. Her mother had always called her mule-stubborn and blamed it on her Ghost blood. ‘That’s your damn Ghost blood,’ as though being born quarter savage was Shy’s own choice rather than on account of her mother picking a half-Ghost wanderer to lie with, who turned out – no crashing surprise – to be a no-good drunk.

Shy would be fighting. No doubt she’d be losing, but she’d be fighting. She’d make those bastards kill her, and at least rob ’em of half the reward. Might not expect such thoughts as those to steady your hand, but they did hers. The little knife still shook, but now from how hard she was gripping it.

For a man who proclaimed himself the great tracker, Neary had some trouble keeping quiet. She heard the breath in his nose as he paused at the top of the steps, close enough to touch if it hadn’t been for the plank wall between them.

A board groaned as he shifted his weight and Shy’s whole body tensed, every hair twitching up. Then she saw him – not darting through the doorway at her, axe in his fist and murder in his eyes – but creeping off down the balcony after the bait of bloody footsteps, drawn bow pointed exactly the wrong the way.

When she was given a gift, Shy had always believed in grabbing it with both hands rather than thinking on how to say thank you. She dashed at Neary’s back, teeth bared and the low growl ripping at her throat. His head whipped around, whites of his eyes showing and the bow following after, head of the arrow glinting with such light as strayed into that abandoned place.

She ducked low and caught him around the legs, shoulder driving hard into his thigh and making him grunt, her hand finding her wrist and clamping tight under Neary’s arse, her nose suddenly full of the horse and sour sweat stink of him. The bowstring went but Shy was already straightening, snarling, screaming, bursting up and – big man though he was – she hoisted Neary right over the rail as neat as she used to hoist a sack of grain on her mother’s farm.

He hung in the air a moment, mouth and eyes wide with shock, then he plummeted with a breathy whoop and crashed through the boards down below.

Shy blinked, hardly able to believe it. Her scalp was burning and she touched a finger to it, half-expecting to feel the arrow stuck right in her brains, but she turned and saw it was in the wall behind her, a considerably happier outcome from her standpoint. Blood, though, sticky in her hair, tickling at her forehead. Maybe the lath of the bow scratched her. Get that bow, she’d have a chance. She made a step towards the stairs, then stopped dead. Jeg was in the doorway, his sword a long, black curve against the sun-glare street.

‘Smoke!’ he roared, and she was off down the balcony like a rabbit, following her own trail of bloody footprints to nowhere, hearing Jeg’s heavy boots clomping towards the stairs. She hit the door at the end full tilt with her shoulder and burst into the light, out onto another balcony behind the building. Up onto the low rail with one bare foot – better to just go with her contrary streak and hope it somehow carried her through than to pause for thought – and she jumped. Flung herself writhing at a ramshackle balcony on the building across the narrow lane, as if flapping her hands and feet like she was having a fit might carry her further.

She caught the rail, wood smashing her in the ribs, slipped down, moaning, clawing for a grip, fought desperately to drag herself up and over, felt something give—

And with a groan of tortured wood the whole weather-blasted thing tore from the side of the building.

Again, Shy was offered a flailing instant aloft to consider the situation. Again not good, at a brief assay. She was just starting to wail when her old enemy the ground caught up with her – as the ground always will – folded her left leg, spun her over then smashed her in the side and drove her wind right out.

Shy coughed, then moaned, then spat more grit. That she’d been right about her earlier sandy mouth not being her last was scant comfort. She saw Jeg standing on the balcony where she’d jumped. He pushed his hat back and gave a chuckle, then ducked inside.

She still had a piece of the rail in her fist, well-rotted through. A little like her hopes. She tossed it away as she rolled over, waiting again for that sick pain that told her she was done. Again it didn’t come. She could move. She worked her feet around and guessed she could stand. But she thought she might leave that for now. Chances were she’d only get to do it one more time.

She floundered clear of the tangle of broken wood against the wall, her shadow stretching out towards the doorway, groaning with pain as she heard Jeg’s heavy footsteps inside. She started wriggling back on her arse and her elbows, dragging one leg after, the little knife blade hidden up behind her wrist, her other fist clutching at the dirt.

‘Where are you off to?’ Jeg ducked under the low lintel and into the lane. He was a big man, but he looked a giant right then. Half a head taller than Shy, even if she’d been standing, and probably not much short of twice her weight, even if she’d eaten that day. He strutted over, tongue wedged into his lower lip so it bulged out, heavy sword loose in his hand, relishing his big moment.

‘Pulled a neat trick on Neary, eh?’ He pushed the brim of his hat up a little to show the tan mark across his forehead. ‘You’re stronger’n you look. That boy’s so dumb he could’ve fallen without the help, though. You’ll be pulling no tricks on me.’

They’d see about that, but she’d let her knife say it for her. Even a little knife can be a damned eloquent piece of metal if you stick it in the right place. She scrambled back, kicking up dust, making it look like she was trying to push herself to her feet then sagging with a whimper as her left leg took her weight. Looking badly hurt was taking no great effort of acting. She could feel blood creeping from her hair and tickling her forehead. Jeg stepped out of the shadow and the low sun shone in his face, making him squint. Just the way she wanted it.

‘Still remember the day I first put eyes on you,’ he went on, loving the sound of his own bleating. ‘Dodd come to me, all excited, and said he met Smoke, her whose killer’s face is on all them bills up near Rostod, four thousand marks offered for her capture. The tales they tell on you!’ He gave a whoop and she scrambled back again, moving that left leg underneath her, making sure it’d work when she needed it. ‘You’d think you was a demon with two swords to a hand the way they breathe your name. Picture my fucking
disappointment
when I find you ain’t naught but a scared girl with gappy teeth and a powerful smell o’ piss about her.’ As if Jeg smelled of summer meadows. He took another step forward, reaching out for her with one big hand. ‘Now don’t scratch, you’re worth more to me alive. I don’t want to—’

She flung the dirt with her left hand as she shoved up hard with her right, coming onto her feet. He twisted his head away, snarling as the dust showered across his face. He swung blind as she darted at him low and the sword whipped over her head, wind of it snatching at her hair, weight of it turning him sideways. She caught his flapping coat-tail in her left hand and sank her eating knife into his sword-shoulder with the other.

He gave a strangled grunt as she pulled the knife clear and stabbed at him again, blade ripping open the sleeve of his coat and the arm inside it, too, almost cutting into her own leg. She was bringing up the knife again when his fist crunched into the side of her mouth and sent her reeling, bare feet wrestling with the dirt. She caught hold of the corner of the building and hung there for a moment, trying to shake the light from her skull. She saw Jeg a pace or two off, bared teeth frothy with spit as he tried to fumble the sword from his dangling right hand into his left, fingers tangled with the fancy brass basketwork.

When things were moving fast, Shy had a knack for just doing, without thoughts of mercy, or thoughts of outcomes, or thoughts of much at all. That was what had kept her alive through all this shit. And what had landed her in it in the first place, for that matter. Ain’t many blessings aren’t mixed blessings once you have to live with them, and she’d a curse for thinking too much after the action, but that was another story. If Jeg got a good grip on that sword she was dead, simple as that, so before she’d quite stopped the street spinning she charged at him again. He tried to free an arm but she managed to catch it with her clawing left hand, pressing up against him, holding herself steady by his coat as she punched wildly with the knife – in his gut, in his ribs, in his ribs again, her snarling at him and him grunting at her with every thump of the blade, the grip slippery in her aching hand.

He grabbed her shirt, stitches tearing as the sleeve half-ripped off, tried to shove her away as she stabbed him again but there was no strength in it, only sent her back a step. Her head was clearing now and she kept her balance but Jeg stumbled and dropped on one knee. She lifted the knife up high in both hands and drove it right down on that stupid hat, squashing it flat, leaving the blade buried to the handle in the top of Jeg’s head.

She staggered back, expecting him just to pitch on his face. Instead he lurched up suddenly like a camel she’d once seen at a fair, brim of his hat jammed down over his eyes to the bridge of his nose and the knife-handle jutting straight up.

‘Where you gone?’ The words all mangled as if his mouth was full of gravel. ‘Smoke?’ He lurched one way then the other. ‘Smoke?’ He shuffled at her, kicking up dust, sword dangling from his bloody right hand, point scratching grooves in the dust around his feet. He raised his left, fingers all stretched out stiff but the wrist all floppy, started prodding at his hat like he had something in his eye and wanted to wipe it clear.

‘Shmoke?’ One side of his face was twitching, shuddering, fluttering in a most unnatural way. Or maybe it was natural enough for a man with a knife lodged through his brains. ‘Thmoke?’ There was blood dripping from the bent brim of his hat, leaving red streaks down his cheek, shirt halfway soaked with it, but he kept coming, bloody right arm jerking, hilt of his sword rattling against his leg. ‘Thmoe?’ She backed away, staring, her own hands limp and all her skin prickling, until she hit the wall behind her. ‘Thoe?’

‘Shut your mouth!’ And she dived at him with both palms, shoving him over backwards, sword bouncing from his hand, bloody hat still pinned to his head with her knife. He slowly rolled over, onto his face, right arm flopping. He slid his other hand underneath his shoulder as though he’d push himself up.