Mutt

by Evan Fuller

  9

  Bargaining

  The assailants were clearly as startled as Emery was by the gateman's appearance, but they were not so frightened that they were willing to comply immediately with his request. “Not so fast, Green,” said the one closest to Emery. “Did ye' see what he did to our brother's head?” He motioned at the man writhing quietly on the ground.

  “I'll give you a balm for that,” said the gateman, “but these two have business with the king, and I'll be damned if I put your revenge before my job.”

  “There's rules out 'ere, Green,” the other said. “King knows that. Stranger jumps one of our own, in our camp, we'd 'ave to bloody 'im up, even if he wasn't a pureblood.”

  The gateman smiled. “If you insist,” he said, “you have your little fight. But I'm with the pureblood and the boy. You beat all three of us, I'll go on home, no hard feelings.” Both men's eyes widened at this. “Or how about this?” the gateman continued, smiling. “They can even sit and watch. Just you two against me. If you win, hell, I'll hogtie the pureblood myself and hand him on over.”

  Emery wasn't sure why they were so frightened: the gateman certainly looked imposing, but not enough to fight two men unarmed and unassisted. He shot a glance at Timothy, who looked too relieved at present to be confused. “Ye' tell the king,” the first man said, “that he can't go rulin' by threats and strength of arms. There's a reason we don't cast our lot with Zakarova's boys, ye' know.”

  “The king, and his servants, honor that choice,” the gateman said. “But the man you're trying to hold for ransom plays a bigger part than you, that's the hard truth of it.” The two men scowled; the gateman reached into a pocket in his huge, threadbare coat and retrieved a two-ounce glass bottle, its label long since worn away. He approached the man closest Emery and handed it to him.

  “Made it myself,” he said. “Put a few drops on the wound every hour till the bottle's gone, and it'll heal up in no time.” He looked down at the injured man. “Just don't blame me for how he looks afterward. Near as I can tell, he was ugly to begin with.”

  “Get these two out of 'ere before I knock their 'eads off,” the man who had received the salve replied, his tone resigned.

  One minute prior, Emery had been ready, if reluctant, to go to work on the two men who were still standing; now, as the adrenaline drained from his bloodstream and his perceptions returned to their normal state, he felt awful that he had injured their friend. Upset, but unsure of what to do, he reached into his backpack and dug out the bag of dry food Lydia had packed for him. He tossed it at the nearer man, whose eyes widened as he caught it by instinct. “Take this,” Emery said. “I— I'm sorry…”

  The man scowled, but Emery knew he was in no position to turn down a gift of food. “Let's get going,” the gateman said, and Emery and Timothy turned to follow him. Emery felt the men's eyes on their backs until they were out of sight.

  “Why'd you do that?” the gateman asked.

  Emery was still thinking of the fight; he looked up, surprised. “What?”

  “You didn't have to give them your food,” the gateman said. “If you were counting on me to replace it for you, you're outta luck.”

  Emery had certainly not been counting on the gateman to replace it. “Oh. No, I just felt awful about what happened.”

  “Why would you feel awful? They jumped you, and you kicked some ass.” The gateman paused. “'Course, I guess you did show up in their back yard uninvited, and they had no clue who you were, and they have to worry about feeding their kids…” he trailed off. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty awful. But what else could you have done? Rotten world, rotten choices.”

  Emery wanted to reply, but he could think of no way around the gateman's assessment. His heart had finally slowed, and he was suddenly aware again of the cold night air and his damp clothing. He shivered.

  “Look,” the gateman said. “It's a good thing you didn't let them have you, because you're doing work for us that no one else can do. But you should remember what this looks like.”

  He directed the beam of his flashlight into the trees to their right. Amidst them was a small cluster of hovels, many of which were braced against the tree trunks. They looked to Emery like a herd of sick livestock, ready to collapse at the slightest provocation. They were built on the foundations of pre-extinction homes, wrought from the remains of those older dwellings and held together by sticks and mud. Holes in the flat roofs were patched with branches and other plant matter; Emery could hardly see the point in using such an abode for shelter.

  “Now, you're a damn saint in my book,” the gateman continued—Emery wasn't sure how much irony the man meant to convey in his tone—“but don't forget that when you get home, you have four walls and food and probably silver bricks to wipe your ass with. Those guys back there are honest people, trying to find a way to feed their kids without going to work in the poppy fields.”

  “That's why I tried to leave them with something,” Emery said.

  The gateman nodded. “Good. Don't ever stop thinking like that.”

  “How did you find us?” Timothy asked, breaking his silence.

  The gateman grinned. It wasn't a pleasant sight. “Pureblood here doesn't want to know the answer to that.”

  “Actually,” Emery said, “I would have been wondering that myself, if I hadn't been caught up with trying not to get kidnapped. I'm a bit surprised you even recognized me.”

  “I saw you in the palace a few times on your last holiday out here,” the gateman said. “You didn't speak much, but I never forget a face. I heard you're not a big fan of the talents we have out here, but his majesty didn't want to lose track of you. You gave him a silver ring when you first met, right? Well, we did some work on it, and now it lets him know when you're in the neighborhood.”

  Emery's eyes narrowed. “You put some kind of spell on me?”

  The gateman's grin widened: he was enjoying this. “Worst thing it'll probably do is make you sprout a few new fingers,” he said, laughing when Emery blanched. “Calm down. The spell is on the ring, not on you. It's developed a, how do you say…hypersensitivity” (he pronounced each syllable of the word meticulously, as if the shape of it felt strange in his mouth) “and it burns a bit when you come around. Once the king sent me looking, it was just a matter of following the pureblood stink till you turned up.”

  “I'm glad it was so easy for you,” Emery said. “Next time, try to arrive three minutes sooner.”

  “I'd like to see you magick yourself ten feet without keeling over,” the gateman said. “No, actually, I'd like to see it just so I'd get to watch you keel over. There's a cost in blood for every spell worth doing, what I just did would kill most people. Even most of the king's people can't whisk themselves as far as I did, as fast as I did, without passing out.” He held up his left arm and pulled his coat sleeve back with his right hand, revealing a fresh cut.

  Emery tried not to let his queasiness show; magic that required bloodletting always upset him. “What's your name?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Names are for people you trust,” the gateman replied; Emery was surprised at the edge in his voice. “You can call me Green. But none of that 'sir' nonsense you purebloods like; the only 'sir' out here is the king, unless you work in the poppy-and-stabbing business.”

  “Can all of the king's gatemen transport themselves magically like you can?” Timothy asked.

  “Most of them, Green said. “None as well as me, of course. All the king's men have their own talents. Mine are transportation and, erm, preemptive defense tactics.”

  “What?”

  “Setting people on fire,” the gateman said, grinning again. “With magic.” Emery was quickly learning that it was never a good sign when he smiled.

  As they walked, it occurred to Emery that Green had other talents as well, ones that he apparently didn't find worthy of mention but for which Emery was grateful. He realized very suddenly that his clothes had
dried at an unnatural rate, and the night, while still brisk, seemed far less cold than it had before the gateman had joined them.

  “Alright,” Green said when they had emerged from the seemingly endless forest onto a dirt road, “we're almost there. I was going to be friendly and provide my services for free today, but since I had to give your friends back there a good balm, I'm going to need a bit of compensation.” His tone was suddenly more imposing; his eyes glistened in the moonlight. Emery had prepared for this, but the gateman's casual demeanor until this point had made him forget that, for Green, this was a business arrangement.

  Emery straightened his back. “Does the king know you solicit payment from his subjects?”

  The gateman scowled, straightening his back to rise to his formidable full height. “First, last time I checked, you wasn't the king's subject,” he said. “Second, you can feel free to rat me out when you see him, but good luck doing that without my help. Third, remember those mudholes back there? I have a family too, and my accommodations only look any better 'cause of gratuities like these. If there's one rule for surviving out here, it's that you don't question Providence. You take what you can get. And last,” he said with a sudden hint of humor, “I charged your friend here, and he certainly doesn't got nearly what you do. We wouldn't want to set a bad example for the boy by being unfair, now would we?” The muscles in Green's jaw tensed visibly. “And speaking of which—”

  His tall body lurched forward, and his arm shot out like a whip. Almost before Emery realized the gateman had moved, Green had seized Timothy by his coat collar and hoisted the boy into the air. With alarming ease, Green's single hand held Timothy so the two were at eye level, their noses almost touching. “That was a cute trick you pulled with the batteries,” the gateman hissed; flecks of spittle collided with Timothy's cheeks. “You're lucky you're not alone, you little prick, or I'd leave you to rot.”

  He dropped the boy to the ground; Timothy staggered but did not fall. His fists were trembling, but his face was impassive. Green turned to Emery, who had been too taken aback to intervene. “I'm doin' business with you,” he said, “but don't think you're gonna pull one over on me. Your little friend ripped me off good the last time we met, and I never forget a bad deal.”

  “Okay.” Emery shot an ugly glance at Timothy; part of him was impressed by the courage it must have taken to shortchange the gateman, but presently, it wasn't making the bargaining process any easier. Emery reached into his backpack and produced a small, heavy bag. “How's four hundred rai sound?”

  Green opened the bag and fished one of the small stones out from it. It was a flat disc, perfectly circular, with a smaller circle hollowed out in the middle. The gateman held the rai close to his face between two fingers, squinting at it with one open eye. Then, abruptly, he burst out in uproarious laughter. “So it is true,” he wheezed. “You Rittenhouse types deal in pieces of rock like they mean somethin'!” He gasped for breath, then continued laughing.

  Emery sighed. “It's a medium of trade—”

  “Oh, you don't have to explain it to me. With walls all around you an' more food than you can even eat, you all can afford to be stupid!” Then, even more abruptly than it had appeared, his humorous expression vanished. “You're going to have to give me something I can use,” he said, casting Emery a deadpan gaze. “How 'bout that nice coat you're wearing?”

  Emery thought about this for a moment; the coat wasn't even one he generally wore, being was far too large, and anyway, it would be easy enough to obtain another. “I'll freeze to death before I get back into the city,” he told the gateman. “If you want this, you have to at least give me something to replace it.”

  “Not a problem,” Green said. “You can have mine.”

  It was the best deal Emery was likely to get, and it was really no trouble to him. He hesitated long enough to appear as though he was conflicted about the decision, making a show of staring at the gateman's ruined coat. He wasn't sure when he'd require Green's assistance again, and the easier he made the barter this time, the more Green would feel inclined to ask for then. “This is a good coat,” Emery said. “It'll last you forever, even if you put it through hell. You have yourself a deal, but this counts as two payments. Next time we have this conversation, I don't owe you anything more. And you're settled with my friend, too.”

  The gateman's eyes narrowed. “Deal,” he said. “Stingy son of a whore.”

  Green's hands in their fingerless gloves darted faster than Emery could track them; Emery wasn't sure how many pockets they entered or how many trinkets they extracted, but soon Green was hold a veritable trove of strange objects. Emery spotted vials like the one the gateman had given the injured man, as well as artifacts Emery hadn't the slightest idea what to make of. The gateman dropped these into his enormous backpack and shrugged off a coat that Emery found himself wearing a moment later. It reeked of sweat and ash, and its fabric was so deeply stained as to give no indication what its original color had been beneath the present green-brown. “Pleasure doing business with you,” Green hissed as he buttoned the black wool peacoat that might never have been worn before Emery had selected it for this journey. “Now hurry up. Can't keep his majesty waiting for your sorry hides.”