The Infiltrators (17 page)

He suddenly turned into a nearby alley,
ducked behind a barrel, and pulled off his crumby jacket, revealing
a shirt fit for any businessman enjoying a night out on the town.
He removed his wig of long, dirty hair, revealing a respectable,
short haircut. He turned the wig inside out and quickly folded it
into a businessman’s hat.

As he exited the alley, he sniffed
violently several times, touching his nose repeatedly, and then let
out a couple of good sneezes, appearing to be just another
gentleman finishing up with a little green nose candy.

He reached his horse several minutes
later, hopped on, and began to follow his agents. He soon caught up
with them enough that he could see the entourage they were
tailing.

Suddenly, the entourage went in three
different directions, the carriage going straight on its original
path while many of the toughs went left or right.

Zelven admired Rob’s effort, but it
didn’t fool him. He grabbed his glasses and rotated the right lens
several times. Sure enough, he noticed the rascal headed right with
just a few bodyguards with him.

Feeling the heat,
eh?

Zelven let out a relaxing whistle from
a popular local pub tune and punctuated it with a slight jab at the
end, informing his agents to go right. They did so, also making a
few adjustments to their spectacles as they permitted Rob more and
more breathing room.

The streets were getting less dense
now. They were headed towards a nice neighborhood.

By the time Zelven and his agents
passed Rob’s mansion, they were traveling about ten minutes apart.
Zelven admired Rob’s taste in style but lost some respect with
regards to his discretion. Being the only house to have multiple
armed guards pacing around in front, it was not a particularly
difficult target to spot.

Chapter 25

Righty’s leisurely trip on horseback
had now brought him to the outskirts of Pitkins’ shop, which was
skirted by a small patch of forest.

He almost found himself riding right up
to the shop, glad for once to be able to proudly tie his horse in
front like an ordinary man instead of risking yet again that
Pitkins would ask how a man who lived in Selegania always managed
to show up on time for his sword lessons in Sodorf City . . . on
foot!

But he quickly realized that showing up
on horseback today would only invite unwanted questions on the
subject.

Hey, it’s about time you got
an extra pair of legs to help you down here. You jog most other
times?

He wheeled his horse around and headed
back into the forest. He quickly told the konulans with him that
they were to bang against the shop if anything happened to his
beloved appaloosa but that their first response should be to fly
directly towards the eyes of any marauding snoopers.

He invited a couple to sit on his
shoulder until he made it to the edge of the forest. He took just
one step out before seeing something that made him backpedal even
quicker than he had moments earlier with his horse.

It couldn’t be, and yet he
simultaneously knew it was.

It was none other than Rucifus, and she
was standing there at the doorway talking to Pitkins and had
someone with her.

“What in the blazes of holy hell is she
doing here?” he whispered under his breath.

He checked his watch and saw his lesson
was supposed to be starting in just one minute.

“Curses!”

“Go see what they’re talking about,” he
told one of the konulans, and Dylan went to investigate.

Righty’s hand went instinctively to his
sword when he saw Rucifus’s hands waving up and down
angrily.

Choosing between killing a
multi-billion-falon contact and letting his sword instructor fend
for himself wasn’t exactly a dilemma he expected himself to face
today, but he knew as soon as his fingers caressed the cold steel
of his sword handle what choice he would make.

“MISTAKE!” was the only word he could
make out.

Dylan came flying back as Rucifus and a
large gorilla-like man got on their horses and started heading
away.

Dylan started to eagerly fill Righty
in, but he responded softly, “Shhh, they’ll be plenty of time
later. I’ve got to get going as soon as they’re out of
sight.”

He watched them carefully until they
seemed to have made a good distance, and he noticed Pitkins was
doing the same. Then Pitkins punched the door with what appeared to
be a half-hearted effort, and yet Righty noticed a few splinters go
flying off all the same.

Righty left the cover of the woods and
began walking quickly towards Pitkins, feeling awkward to be seen
emerging from the woods on foot.

Pitkins studied him closely as he
approached.

“First time you’ve ever been
late.”

“I saw you had company and thought it
best not to intrude.”

Pitkins’ eyes studied him closely. Too
closely. Righty felt like a suspect in a lineup.

“Well, I guess you thought right.
Wasn’t exactly a pleasant conversation.”

“My sword almost left its
scabbard.”

“Oh?”

“Well . . . not that you would need any
help, but it’s the principle of the thing. I wouldn’t stand there
and let that guy attack you without heading over here just in case
you needed help.”

“So it was the guy you thought was the
threat?”

“Well—” Righty began confused, “he was
almost two of you. I guess you mean the woman was the
threat?”

“She made a good impression on me the
first time I met her, but as soon as I made it clear I wasn’t
putting a sword into the hands of that guard dog she had at her
side, I saw a viciousness I’ve never seen in a female—maybe not in
any human being.”

Righty raised his eyebrows but said
nothing, though he wished he could concur, having shared Pitkins’
ominous perception of Rucifus.

“Something tells me I haven’t seen the
last of her. She says she runs most of the brothels in the city and
has lots of power and that I’ve made a big mistake.”

“Pardon me if I’m speaking out of line,
but one can’t help hear things—I would think it mighty foolish of
her to make such a threat when your wife’s father is one of the
highest-ranking nobles.”

“You do hear things,” Pitkins said with
neither positive nor negative emotion in his voice, but a
suspicious glint in his eye. “The nobles are a joke. They’re a
fixture . . . a decoration. They do hold legal power but not real
power. That’s been seized by the drug barons in this city. It’s
said that most of the nobles are addicted to Smokeless Green. They
fatten their pockets without raising taxes by taking bribes from
the largest drug barons in exchange for keeping the sheriff’s men
off their tail.

“She may be bluffing, since
Donive’s father is a noble, but he’s lost considerable clout ever
since the disastrous war with Dachwald. They say it was won
for
him, not
by
him, and many people
blame him for the countless dead, since he was the head noble at
the time. He’s now just one more empty suit filling a chair at
their meetings.”

Right was tempted to
say,
I’ll handle Rucifus
, but had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

“It’s the drug barons now who dictate
policy to the nobles. And I’ve got a gut feeling Rucifus is
somewhere way up there on the drug baron ladder.”

Righty gulped nervously.

“Where’s your horse?” Pitkins asked
nosily without apology by word or tone.

“I keep her tied up back there in the
woods. She’s a real beauty, and I guess I figure if no one sees
her, no one will steal her.”

“Take me to her.”

An awkward stare-down
ensued.

“Look, Mr. Simmers. I’m normally not a
prier. But you come back and forth from Selegania several times per
week without a horse, and you’ve come across a fellow at your ranch
that reminds me of a people I consider my fiercest enemies. Take me
to your horse, or never come back here.”

Righty was surprised at the bite in
Pitkins’ voice, but he figured it was reasonable, and he didn’t
have particularly thin skin in such matters.

“Come with,” Righty invited.

They walked in awkward silence until
reaching Susanna.

“Well, I do apologize.
That
is
a beauty.”
Pitkins admired the animal for a long moment, then gently caressed
her long snout.

Pitkins then turned and faced Righty
directly.

“So, what’s the latest with Mr.
Octopus?”

“The grappler?”

Pitkins nodded.

“I haven’t talked to him since last
time I was here. We usually don’t have combat training every day.
I’m sure he’ll whip me next time too.”

“And why all this combat training? What
do you do, Mr. Simmers?”

“I grow corn, coffee, apples, lots of
things. The training was something you might say I inherited. When
I bought the farm, I was informed by the ranch hands that they
trained on a regular basis as part of a tradition. It all stems
from wars—if that’s not an exaggeration—they used to have with
criminals from the south. They would kidnap ranchers in the area
and charge a mighty high fee to give them back.

“They would demand a cut of all
earnings from the farm. They said it was ‘for the people,’ whatever
that meant. Anyway, it turned into a long-running struggle, and out
of it the ranchers developed a love of the crossbow and sword. They
eventually beat the bandits, and they stopped coming years—maybe
decades—ago, but the combat heritage that came about never did
die.

“It fit like a glove for me. I was
professional boxer for a short time, and I didn’t realize how much
I could love the sword until I first felt one in my hands. Anyway,
I’ve got a wife and a young one at home, and they need me in one
piece.

“Is there a reason for all these
questions?”

Pitkins seemed far more satisfied than
Righty expected. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t told a single
lie. Left out a few things, maybe. But that wasn’t exactly
lying.

“Come on, Mr. Simmers. We’ve
got sword fighting to practice. I’ll tell you what—you’ve answered
my questions without complaint. And I probably won’t pry like that
again—but with one exception. I want regular updates on Mr.
Octopus.
Don’t
trust him. I want a report on him every time we meet.
Deal?”

“Deal.”

They shook hands and headed to the
shop.

Chapter 26

An hour or two after Mr. Simmers’
lesson was concluded, Pitkins was polishing up a sword for
Felindurv, one of the few nobles Pitkins had a few grains of
respect for and that, to the best of his knowledge, had refused to
accept any drugs or drug money. It seemed to Pitkins it was more
out of classist arrogance than genuine principle, but it still put
him several notches above the rest in Pitkins’ mind.

Something sour raced through Pitkins’
stomach, causing him to uncharacteristically break his usually
impervious concentration when so close to completing the final
touches on any project, particularly when involving
swords.

He paused for a moment, mentally
checking his consumption that day to see if he had eaten anything
out of the ordinary or in excess. He fleetingly considered he could
be nervous due to the importance of his current sword he was
working on but shot that idea down as ridiculous.

Following a hunch that brought back
memories he stubbornly forbade from rising to the conscious level,
he first walked then ran to the door, not locking it in the
process, and then hopped on his horse and slashed the tied reins
with a sword stroke that would have taken a man’s head
off.

Before he had time to consider the
prudence of any of his actions his knees were pressed against his
horse’s side more vigorously than if twenty assassins had been on
his heels.

His mind was blank but sharp like the
stainless steel of the sword he had so recklessly abandoned as he
focused single-mindedly on clearing the distance between him and
his objective.