by Craig Askham
For a while, not much mattered other than the kolkka game. Conversation at all the tables died down, interrupted at regular intervals by the cracking of dice against the wooden shields that rose from the centre of the octagonal tables like spiders’ legs. The tray fixed to the top of the elaborate structure turned these shields into each player’s private compartment for hiding their score, and also served as the pot for holding everyone’s money. Every strike of the dice on the wood was immediately followed by a short period of silence as the roller added up his or her score without giving away their total to the other players. The silences were usually then followed by much lip-licking and knuckle-cracking as the roller tried to convince everyone to add money to the pot. It wasn’t entirely unlike a simpler version of poker, which was a game this world was crying out for to be invented, in Ironshoulder’s opinion. It just didn’t know it, yet. Nobody had even invented playing cards yet, in fact, which was quite annoying. The game was still interesting enough, though, on the right day. But today wasn’t that day. The feeling of the Watchman’s eyes drilling into the side of his head just wouldn’t go away, and the volume from Lekan’s table was already starting to rise once more. It was more than a little ironic that the ponytailed officer of the Watch seemed more interested in him than he did in the idiot gamers, considering his job was to allay suspicion rather than stoke it. Nevertheless, the growing noise from the spaniel’s table was becoming incredibly irksome. Heavyfinger had no idea what was going on; he was so lost in his game that the place could have been burning down around him and nobody here would have been able to prise his backside from his chair.
An hour dragged by, and Heavyfinger was losing money hand over fist. He was also drunk, which flew in the face of the advice he’d not so long ago offered Ironshoulder. He never left the table, even when the need to relieve himself caused him to start bouncing his knees up and down, but somehow he was never short of a drink. The staff here were good; they knew he was a man who liked his mead, and also a man who was awful at kolkka. The only thing better than those two things on their own was those two things added together. It was almost as if there was a tiny serving boy under the table, passing up secret drinks every few minutes. The boy was obviously so busy getting Heavyfinger inebriated that he didn’t have time to perform the same service for Ironshoulder. He didn’t mind, though; it made it easier for him to back out of rounds without risking too much of his money. The downside of this, of course, was that on the few occasions he actually had a good hand and was willing to play, nobody else on the table could be tempted to put more money into the pot.
“You will let me roll again, Stephen. I’m the goddamn Foreign Secretary of the United Bloody Kingdom, for Christ’s sake!”
Ironshoulder felt every hair on his body stand up. Even Heavyfinger paused mid-roll to look over at him in shock.
“Oh, for…” he murmured.
Ironshoulder sighed.
“Think it might be game over, Rurhol,” he said, and the other man’s face hardened. In the background, Stephen was desperately trying to calm Lekan down. Lekan. Or the goddamn Foreign Secretary of the United Bloody Kingdom, to give him his full title. Whoever he was, he was in no mood to listen to Stephen, who apparently wasn’t worthy of being called by his Vanguran name. Ironshoulder took a small amount of comfort in having correctly guessed Lekan’s profession, though. He hated politicians with a passion.
“Well, bloody switch places with me then, Stephen!” His voice had risen to a whine. “Every time I roll the dice, they get stuck in that bloody great hole the Stillwater prick put there with his stupid knife!”
That was more than enough for Ironshoulder.
“Distraction, please,” he said to Rurhol, and they both pushed themselves up from their chairs at the same time. Heavyfinger was almost in tears at having to leave the game he was doing so badly at, but it couldn’t be helped. Forcing his eyes away from the growing stack of silver duskets on the tray atop the shield, he reluctantly gestured his withdrawal from the game with one hand, whilst scooping up his mead with the other. The other players didn’t look too pleased to see him go.
“Why can’t you do the distraction?” he complained. “I don’t really fancy spending the rest of the night in a cell being pissed on by rats.”
Ironshoulder didn’t bother copying Heavyfinger’s withdrawal gesture, figuring he was so far on the fringes of the game that the other gamers would barely notice his exit, anyway. Instead, he held up the index finger of his right hand as the pair of them sauntered casually in the direction of the Watchmen, who were too busy watching Lekan embarrass himself to notice them coming.
“Number one,” he said. “I was the distraction last time.”
“The hell you were.”
“I was.” Ironshoulder took a breath. “Last week, with the whole debacle at Princess Mahendra’s funeral. Three nights I spent in the dungeon, Rurhol, because you were too busy pissing your kolkka winnings up the wall to come and spring me.”
“Ah.” Heavyfinger clapped a hand on his shoulder as they walked. “You might be right. Sorry.”
“And number two, I called it before you. You start a fight, and I’ll get that idiot out of here. I want to slap him around a bit.”
“Fair enough, Giv. Guess I owe you for last week. That ponytailed chap is going to be an issue, though. You’re going to have to kill him, I think; he looks way too suspicious to stop asking questions now.”
Ironshoulder pulled up short of the Watchmen, who looked like they were getting ready to intervene and arrest Lekan’s group. He reached a hand out and stopped Heavyfinger in his tracks, and he looked around at him in confusion.
“I’m not going to kill him, Rurhol. He looks like the sort that responds well to bribery. Think about the oils he must be getting through to keep his hair looking so nice; he has a lifestyle he needs to maintain.”
Heavyfinger looked thoughtfully at him for a second, then rolled his eyes and carried on walking.
“You’re going to kill him,” he said, tapping the nearest Watchman politely on the shoulder. “If I’m right, take that wig from the idiot politician and wear it for a week, even at home.”
“And if I don’t kill him?” Ironshoulder wondered, eyeing up the Foreign Secretary with an air of distaste and dreading to think how sweaty the man’s head was underneath that spaniel hair. The Watchman in front of Heavyfinger turned around, and the bigger man nonchalantly tossed mead in his face. The smaller man stepped back, pinching his eyes with the fingers of one hand as the sweet liquid dripped from a nose that looked like it had been broken three times too many. Heavyfinger started swaying on his feet as if he was incredibly drunk, then turned and wagged a finger at Ironshoulder.
“Then bring it with you when you come to get me out of prison,” he slurred. “And I’ll make the spaniel look the next big fashion around here.” He turned back to face the Watchman he’d just pushed, who had managed to wipe enough stinging liquid from his eyes to be able to see his attacker. With an angry shout, he lunged forward and shoved Heavyfinger in the chest. Heavyfinger didn’t move a foot, just forced himself to sway even more violently. The Watchman suddenly looked a lot less sure of himself, and roughly shook one of his comrades by the shoulder. The other man turned, took in what had happened with a speed that belied the simple expression he’d been born with, and smiled. Heavyfinger held his goblet delicately between a thumb and index finger, and then rapped him hard on his slab of a forehead. The smiled disappeared.
“Deal,” said Ironshoulder, altering his course and waving his friend goodbye as he went. “I’ll see you in a couple of days. Maybe three.”
Four
By now, Lekan was on his feet. Despite his self-righteous anger of mere moments ago, he was now giggling. The music in the next room could barely be heard, but it was loud enough in the politician’s head that he felt compelled to dance to it. Ironshoulder wanted nothing more than to speed up his approach and grab him by an earlobe, but couldn’t
risk drawing attention away from the violent scene behind him that Heavyfinger had so artfully orchestrated. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that even the troublesome ponytail seemed to have become embroiled in the fray. Lekan hadn’t noticed, though; he was too busy performing an ancient, but still popular, dance from Earth that he must have learnt from his parents. It was familiar to Ironshoulder, but it took him a moment to place his finger on its name. Maracana? No. Maracas? Definitely not. Macarena? Sweet Lord, that was it. He lengthened his stride just a little, covering the distance as quickly as he dared, and threw an arm around the older man’s shoulders that, to the casual observer, looked friendly enough. It wasn’t, though; Ironshoulder squeezed the man hard, giving him what he liked to think of as a physical spelling of his Vanguran name. Lekan gasped, hands still crossed on his chest.
“Unhand me!” he hissed, and Ironshoulder clamped a hand over his mouth.
“This is the part where you shut your mouth,” he growled.
“What’s going on?” one of the other gamers demanded, pointing a finger at Ironshoulder but not looking too convinced it was the right idea. It was probably Stephen. His black hair was damp with sweat, probably from the stress of having to deal with the Foreign Secretary rather than the warmth of the room, and the pointed finger was quivering noticeably. Ironshoulder glanced over at the Watchmen, and then jerked his head to beckon the other man closer. Whilst he tried to decide whether or not he should comply, one of the Watchmen landed on a nearby kolkka table with a thud and an oof. The players around it scattered backwards, some tipping backwards off their chairs, but the table held firm under the added weight. Stephen took a hesitant step forward.
“Time for the honourable gentleman to go home,” Ironshoulder said, just loudly enough for the shaking man to hear and respond with a blank look of confusion. The Stillwater agent sighed, and decided to slow down his next sentence quite dramatically. “Those guys,” he said, nodding his head at the brawling Watchmen. Stephen nodded. “Are going to arrest your loudmouthed friend. Yes?” Nod. “I’m going to get him out of here.” Pause. No response. “Yes?” Nod, but not a certain one.
“What about us?” he wondered.
“Apologies if I didn’t make that implicit enough. You’re all coming, too.”
Lekan tried to struggle free of the much bigger man’s grip, but was going absolutely nowhere without permission.
“But we’ve paid for…”
“Don’t care,” Ironshoulder interrupted, heaving Lekan in the direction of the door. He looked back over his shoulder at the rest of them. “You broke the rules, so get moving. Now.”
They fell into line at that, exchanging worried glances with each other as they went. When they made it to the door, there was a shout from behind.
“Stop where you are, by order of the W…argh!”
The order ended abruptly, the owner of the voice suddenly too busy dealing with Heavyfinger to worry about finishing it. Ironshoulder removed his hand from Lekan’s mouth and used it to open the door, then shoved the drunken gamer into the main room. Lekan stumbled, caught himself, and whirled around to face his kidnapper with unadulterated fury screwing up his face. He opened his mouth to take the deep breath that was undoubtedly preparing the way for a tirade. Ironshoulder plunged a fist into his solar plexus, and the air whooshed straight back out again. Dropping to his knees, Lekan clutched his midriff and vomited dark liquid onto the flagstone floor.
“Get up!” Ironshoulder ordered, grabbing a handful of hair and remembering it was a wig just before he yanked it. Letting go again, he grabbed a handful of collar and yanked that instead. The flimsy fabric ripped, but up came Lekan nonetheless, gasping for breath. He had a newly-acquired goatee of sick, and a disoriented look that made Ironshoulder like him much better. Slipping the politician’s arm around his shoulder, he supported his weight and started manoeuvring him through the crowds like a good soldier helping a fallen comrade away from the battlefield. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a distinctive scarf. “Pej Vahdat!” he bellowed, and the guide turned as if surprised anyone was capable of getting his name right. It took him another few moments of staring to realise he was looking at Givrok Ironshoulder plus one other, not a pair of twins conjoined at the hip, at which point his handsome features split into a knowing grin. He spared his group of gamers a quick glance to make sure they were behaving, and then hurried over. Ironshoulder shrugged himself free, and indicated that the other man should take over the burden.
“What’s going on?” Pej wondered, shrinking away from the smell of sick.
“I need you to get this guy back through the portal as quickly as possible,” he answered, looking behind him to make sure the other gamers were there. They weren’t. “Shit.”
“Okay,” Pej said, recognising the need for urgency from the tone of his voice. “What about my guys?”
“Have they calmed down?” he asked, and the Rakeshi nodded. “Leave them here for a bit, then. These idiots have been running their mouths off, and the Watch were about to arrest them. The gods only know who they bribed to be let off the leash without a guide, but that’s something I’m going to look into once we get back. Rurhol’s creating a distraction so we can get them out of harm’s way. I’ve lost the others, though.”
Pej strode forward and slipped Lekan’s arm around his own shoulder, then baulked at the other man’s weight.
“Unhand me,” Lekan demanded, eyes totally unfocused and swaying so much he threatened to topple them both. He gasped as if he was stood at the edge of a cliff. “Don’t unhand me!” he begged. Ironshoulder reached out and put a hand on each man’s shoulder, steadying them as best he could. Pej braced himself and took the strain.
“You got this?”
“No promises.”
“Good. Get out of here, I’ll catch you up.”
Ironshoulder guided them towards the door, and held it open for them as they staggered through. He shook his head, questioning his decision-making but knowing it was too late to do anything about it now. He watched them until the darkness swallowed them up, then headed back into the tavern and let the door slam closed behind him.
By the time Ironshoulder made it back to the kolkka room, Heavyfinger had allowed himself to be overpowered and was in the process of being restrained. The Watchmen weren’t being particularly gentle about it, either. The missing gamers weren’t there and, more worryingly, neither was the ponytailed Watchman. Ironshoulder’s heart sank.
“You!” It was one of the remaining Watchmen, an older man who looked like he’d had muscle once upon a time, but it had more than half turned to fat. He’d spotted Ironshoulder, and make the connection between the two men. “Wait there! I want a word with you!”
Ironshoulder tried to catch Heavyfinger’s eye, which was difficult as he was being pinned face-first to a kolkka table with his arms forced unnaturally high behind his back. Somehow, though, the pair of them made eye contact. Ironshoulder winked, and Heavyfinger mouthed an unintelligible swear word back at him before forcing himself to his feet and throwing off his would-be captors as if they were children.
“Fancy another dance, lads?” he roared, grabbing a fistful of the older Watchman’s hair and yanking him back before he could set foot in Ironshoulder’s direction. Ironshoulder nodded his thanks, and backed out of the room again. Once over the threshold, he spun on his heel and pushed his way through the crowds with more urgency than before, earning himself a few grumbles and curses in the process. Unsurprisingly, though, nobody challenged his rudeness to his face. He cast his eyes left and right, craning his neck so he could see over the heads of revellers, and was eventually rewarded for his persistence. There they were, up ahead, talking urgently to a woman with what looked like a name hovering above her head. He approached and, when they spotted him, all four of them looked ready to bolt. The woman’s eyes flicked above Ironshoulder’s head, read his name, and placed a restraining hand on Stephen’s arm. She was tall and slim, with broad s
houlders a swimmer would have been proud of. Dressed in different hues of dark green, some of it leather and some of it hard-wearing suede, she looked every inch a forester. She was no such thing, of course; as Ironshoulder got close enough to read her name, he recognised it and relaxed. Vaida Nassera. He’d struck gold with this one; although he’d never met her, he knew her by reputation. She was a Catcher, one of Stillwater’s elite agents. A big league bounty hunter with a Hollywood salary who dragged rich teenagers back through the portal by their ears. Now he needed her help, of course, he was perhaps willing to concede that he’d allowed a little bit of professional jealousy to creep into his earlier assessment of them. The truth was, when gamers decided they were having too much fun on Vangura to bother going home, they inevitably made a run for it. Some even had the forethought to cut the trackers out of their arms, but it never changed the outcome. Catchers like Vaida Nassera were sent to hunt them down and bring them back again, by whatever means necessary. They never failed.
“Well, well, well,” she greeted him, a smile flickering across her pretty features as the minstrels’ latest rendition faded to a close. The resulting applause made finishing her sentence impossible, so Ironshoulder took the opportunity to study this fine example of the Stillwater gold standard he hoped to one day become. Blue eyes, freckles across her cheeks, cute little button nose, and plump red lips in front of straight white teeth; the best enhancements money could buy. It was the sort of perfection that would get her lost in a crowd back on Earth, and exalted like a goddess here on Vangura. The clapping tailed off, leaving a lull that encouraged her to finish her cordial greeting. “Got myself a real-life Fixer,” she murmured, giving him an appraising once-over of her own. “And one with a ridiculous name, at that.”
Ironshoulder stiffened at the insult, and forced himself to relax.
“It’s just a placeholder name,” he said, offering her what could have been a smile or a sneer; he wasn’t sure which. “Still thinking of a proper one.”
