“Aye, Seth, I hear you.”
“Sheesh, this job frazzles my nerves. ‘Don’t stress over the little things’, I tell myself, but then I just end up stressing over the whole picture!”
Godren murmured a laugh at his friend’s distress, glad that some things never changed. “Thanks for dragging Ossen out the other day, Seth. It wasn’t a good time for interruption.”
“My pleasure. He protested the whole way,” Seth said with a grin. “So I dragged him an extra few meters, just for the hey of it. You should have seen him brushing himself off like an idiot.” Seth’s delight manifested like that of a little kid.
“It’s gratifying to finally ruffle his petals a little, ay?”
“If only I could do a better impression of an aphid, and really make him squirm,” Seth lamented.
“Keep working on it, Seth,” Godren said with a chuckle. “You’re getting there.”
“Really? Because I could have sworn I was having major drawbacks with my green hue.”
“Have you tried rotten tomatoes? They tend to cause the most delightful sick color when ingested.”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t. Do they induce tossing of the cookies as well, though? Because that’s a side effect I’m looking to avoid.”
“Not if you’re good at holding your cookies.”
Seth almost turned green just imagining. “I think holding down said manner of cookies would take things a little beyond the desired hue. I might turn purple.”
“And as a younger Seth liked to say, purple is a distinctly girly color, and you won’t be caught wearing it until the day you want to bloody look pretty.”
Grin widening, Seth’s eyes flashed as he turned to wash his hands in the courtyard fountain.
Godren sat on the rim, running his fingers through is hair. “Wolf,” he mused aloud, sobering.
“What are we going to do about him?” Seth asked, splashing water over his head and ruffling his own hair.
Godren began shaking his head, then trailed absently off in thought, but Seth saw neither – he was still absorbed in cleaning himself up. As if he didn’t really expect an answer, he didn’t press for one, either, or check to measure Godren’s focus. He just kept scrubbing at the disgrace that had come over his form and working the kinks out of his muscles.
Godren did not see any practical means of tracking down Wolf at will – after all, he was as good as a needle in a haystack hiding in the Crowing Woods – but a trickle of inspiration from his new philosophy encouraged him, once again, to disregard what was practical and feasible and put faith in other means.
Don’t be ridiculous; aren’t you putting faith in far too much as it is? he chastised himself. I am already taking too many chances, and depending on the fickle favor of unseen forces that have shown an interest only according to our interpretations. Suddenly he wanted to scoff in disgust at his newfound gall for ambition. It was reckless. Nothing but reckless.
Yet…he had a feeling. Some newly awakened sense was stirring, sleepless now that it had been stimulated, prodding him to tread deeper into a mystic dependence.
“We are going to let nature take its course,” he announced in a flat tone, paying no mind to the lateness of his response.
“Say what?”
“We don’t really have any other means.”
“‘Nature’ isn’t precisely a means, you know.”
Godren shrugged. “Maybe not. But it is very, very cruel, and it’s what our friend Wolf has put stock in.” With a smile, Godren stood and left Seth standing in the courtyard rendered notably bemused by his friend’s partaking of riddles.
Godren did not have anywhere particular to go, but he could not sit still for very long anticipating Damious’s scheduled appearance. Who knew when it would play out? He wandered the corridors, half pacing, and didn’t notice at first when the cats frequenting the shadows went uncanny in reaction to his presence. They pressed themselves up against the walls as he passed, heads lowered, eyes glinting as they watched him go by. It wasn’t until one of them emitted a low, keening growl that he took note of all the glowing eyes trained on him from the shadows. Could they feel the mystical elements that were taking root in his significance? Or could they sense his pending treachery against their mistress? Godren paused in wary respect for the possibilities, and then treaded onward more carefully.
The best place to ultimately wait for Damious, he surmised, was in Mastodon’s study, but if the cats were showing an aversion to his presence it might not be such a good idea. Too, placing himself in such a strategically accurate position might look suspicious as well, now that he put some thought into it. He never sought Mastodon’s company unless necessary or unless she summoned him. He had no good excuse to hang around her quarters.
But surely, he thought, I won’t really need to – Damious usually makes himself known, doesn’t he? Surely he would know when the assassin penetrated the Underworld, regardless of where he was at the time. Damious was dramatic. You couldn’t miss him.
Better to just stay close, he decided. Then he would time his interception so as to avoid suspicion, and pounce on the assassin when he didn’t know to expect it. Not having a precise plan would actually work in his favor – that way, it would not look scripted, and he could get away with a certain authenticity.
As traces of anticipation galloped their feathery thrills up his spine, he had to force himself not to second-guess the operation he had put in motion. He was out of his element, and somewhere that terrified him, but he embraced being a vessel for greater ambitions.
Trailing his fingers over the walls as he traversed the corridors, Godren fantasized that the numbness in his skin that prevented him from feeling the stone texture was a symbol of the walls fading around him. Soon, he would not be sequestered by them at all. He would be free.
Or dead, he reminded himself.
But still free.
Gradually, Godren worked his way closer to Mastodon’s quarters. Was there anything he needed to prepare? Anything that would aid his scheme or make it more convincing?
Perhaps I should loosen my muscles, he thought. There was no sense pulling something, and besides – Damious had never agreed to go down without a fight. He would probably take a sort of foul pleasure in fighting back without resisting the deliverance of a few respectable shiners. If the fight was for show, he was bound to put on quite a show.
So Godren stationed himself relatively nearby and went through a stimulating routine of exercises. He discontinued his efforts after a light sweat, not wanting to tire himself out overly much. Then he decided to resist pacing and rest for a bit, realizing that was something he didn’t do much of anymore. Getting comfortable on the ground, he leaned his head back against the wall and sought the peaceful gray of the void’s fringes.
Somewhere in the drift between consciousness and unconsciousness, a racket drew him back. A fire-breathing equine fled from the dreamlike veneer taking root, and then the tapestry of the dream itself drained from his sight as he engaged his vision. The trumpeting echo of a real horse whinnying reinforced his disorientation, though, and he jumped to his feet in confusion. What was a horse doing in the Underworld?
Remembering what he was waiting for, he cursed dryly in conclusion. Damious had brought a horse? It shouldn’t really surprise him, he supposed.
A hoof splintered against a door.
A little overboard on the drama, Damious, he thought, cringing.
Well…he certainly had his excuse to come running in. The cats were probably frantic all throughout the Underworld. No one would have missed that.
Engaging a fleet stride before Mastodon could record enough of a lag to reprimand him for not showing up right away, Godren hurried toward the sound of the commotion. Things had settled down by the time he got there, but there was no doubt Damious had caused a stir.
Bastin stood in the doorway, rigid with his hand posed above his knife. Past him, Godren could see a majestic black rump, tail streami
ng, with body-sized bundles tied to an extending back. Beyond the animal’s massive head stood the lord of drama himself, at Mastodon’s desk, ignoring the stir like he hadn’t caused it.
“Well, what do you say, Xinna my love?” Damious was asking. “Am I not the best little hound you’ve ever had the pleasure of doing spiteful business with?”
“You have certainly broken my door,” Mastodon said.
“Ah, well…yes. I’ll grant you that. But really, what do you need a door for? It clearly doesn’t keep people out.”
“Nor horses, but then I didn’t design it for such nonsense.”
“Nonsense? Blackie isn’t nonsense, Lady Xinavane,” Damious insisted very protectively. Turning his back on Mastodon, he murmured some condolences to the horse. “Don’t listen to her, Blackie. She didn’t mean it. Sometimes she says the most frightful things, but they’re not to cause you any distress, now, ay? Good boy.” He turned back, but Mastodon didn’t let him get any further with his antics.
“You would do well to get it ingrained in your head that I have meant every word I ever said,” she told him.
“Ah good, then I can count on the promised reward for these fellows,” Damious related, then thought to add, “Fellows and Alice.”
“You insult me implying I would not keep my end of my deal, but then I really don’t care. The worse the impression I can manage to make on you, the better chance I have at keeping you away. Are they dead?”
“No. An assassin only kills when it is required of him, my lady Mastodon, or else he becomes something else entirely. I have just kept them agreeably knocked out. You must forgive me if you cannot seem to recognize them past the shiners to the head.”
“Let’s see them,” Mastodon prompted.
Turning, Damious pulled the sacks from the prisoners’ heads. “Osbourne, Devlyn, Graver, and, my personal favorite, Alice,” he identified as he revealed them, patting Graver on his oblivious head. “All safe and secure, and, you must admit, a very agreeable package. No trouble at all in this state. Just a little top-heavy if you handle them wrong. It’s kind of amusing to set them up and watch them keel forward right onto their faces, especially if you do it continuously. It had me in hysterical stitches one evening. You ought to try it; they say laughter is good for the soul.”
“If I wanted to better my soul, I would visit the chapel or commit suicide to sacrifice myself for the good of humanity.”
“Well. That would be out of character, wouldn’t it? And we certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardize your lovely reputation – or leave any of your endearing bruisers out of a job. So; let’s just get down to business, shall we?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Godren pushed quietly past Bastin, moving into the room. The horse flicked an ear at him, but no one else sent him any acknowledgment.
“So who goes first?” Damious posed the debatable question. “I always wonder how two parties who can’t trust each other ever end up solving the particulars of an exchange – it’s been happening since the dawn of time, obviously enough, where neither side can, in good conscience, be the first to hand over their bargaining chip, but there’s no way to really set things in motion at the same time lest all hell breaks loose in the middle, yet successful exchanges are still made all the time. It’s like one of those facts that goes down in the history books but fails to provide the relevant details of how it came to be. Why in the gods names do people just accept such a thing, when it’s so clearly and most certainly the most inconvenient stalemate to ever frequent the veins of business? You would think someone would have had the piece of mind to reveal whatever secret one is supposed to apply in this situation, for the gods’ sake. I mean, is there really a solution? Or does everyone flounder like this? When you think about it, that rather takes the fantasized dignity out of these things. Oh we both come thinking we’re so smooth, about to pull a clever bargain with the esteemed ranks of corruption…and then we learn that there’s no charm under the table but to flounder like novices without any resources. How demeaning.”
“Just give me the prisoners and take your payment, for the gods’ sake,” Mastodon said. “Or would you rather we settle one product at a time and make the exchange gradual? That way, you can ensure you will at least get most of what you came for.”
“That will only leave us with the same fix at the end. A stalemate is a stalemate, Xinna; it doesn’t matter the magnitude of what weighs in the balance. What good is your money in my hands if I’m stuck on your territory? And I want all of my reward, thank you very much. I am a professional – I execute a job with thorough finesse, and style, and earn every penny of what I set out for. You may not cheat me of my dues.”
“Then please, Damious, make up your own rules and get on with it. I do have a business to run, and as far as I’m concerned you are costing me a profit the longer you keep me from running it.” Reaching into her desk, she produced four sizeable drawstring pouches and tossed them onto the surface between her and Damious. “There’s your reward, extra in one for Alice, now shut up, take it, and get out.”
Damious looked at the bagged reward, sniffing as if touched by something. “Why, Xinna…I didn’t know you trusted me so deeply.”
“Don’t be a sentimental fool. As you pointed out, you are in my territory. I don’t care if you take the money first; you won’t be allowed to leave if you don’t turn over the prisoners.”
“Ah, a very valid point of view. Alright then.” Collecting the pouches, Damious checked their contents and then secured them to his steed. Fiddling with a few straps, he released the unconscious prisoners and let them slide to the floor.
Bastin moved forward to secure them, making sure their hands were bound. “Give me a hand, Godren.”
“Get Seth to help you,” Godren said, eyes on Damious.
Bastin paused at the tone in Godren’s voice, noting the direction and conviction of his gaze. Cursing, he began hustling the prisoners into the corner and out of the way, and then strode to the door and went to get Seth as quickly as possible.
“Well if that’s all – Blackie and I will be on our way,” Damious said as he made ready to leave. “Until next time; pleasure doing business with you.” Pulling Blackie’s head around, he led the horse toward the study door, glancing at Godren where he stood just off to the side. As he passed him, he focused very carefully on the door ahead.
“The pleasure is all hers,” Godren said, and then sent a hard elbow into the assassin’s gut.
A breathless grunt escaped Damious, but his reflexes engaged themselves and saw him release Blackie’s reins and catch Godren’s arm despite suffering the effects of the blow. Godren’s assault turned against him as Damious wrenched his arm severely against its grain. For the first time since being rendered numb, a presence of pain pierced Godren. Perhaps it was the depth, the assault on muscle and bone beneath his unnatural armor, but it hit him like a sudden awakening, like the ice that cracks as spring blooms to release the ocean.
Shocked from his composure, from his dormant curse of winter numbness, Godren was completely at Damious’s mercy while he tried to readapt to the idea of calling on a will to persevere over pain. He had taken invincibility for granted, and gone soft.
Yet, the return of feeling in any form was an inspiration. In that painful instant he felt human again, wanted to keep feeling human, and that required he apply himself to surviving this circle.
Revitalized, he brought himself back and dedicated his cause for aggression back on the assassin he had chosen to grapple with. With a will to survive, and a fresh fear of what it would feel like if he didn’t dominate this battle and defend himself, Godren called on the greatest amount of reflexive concentration he could muster and unleashed himself on the man that stood between him and freedom.
Who was to say if his will would really have surpassed Damious’s expert finesse or not had the fight not been staged, but it certainly made for as convincing a show as anything could. Damious delivered a fair
amount of dissuasion, hammering a cascade of bruising into his opponent as if to make him earn every ounce of what they had agreed on, but Godren was already set on earning it. He took the beating in stride, determined to rise above it – to rise above everything – in order to win back what had been taken from him. It wasn’t fair, but he was willing to fight, to sacrifice, to get back what was rightfully his.
When the proud light in Damious’s eyes gave way to respect for the passion embodied in Godren’s endeavors, Godren anticipated the final blows of the quarrel. The assassin left an opening, discreet but pointed, and Godren took it. He struck Damious to submission, leaving him stunned on the floor. Sacrifice accepted, mission complete, he wiped blood from his mouth and stole himself against the condemnation he had just delivered to another human being. A willing participant or not, who was to say if Damious would find himself able to get out of this. If anyone could, Damious could, but a weight of guilt still registered in Godren’s core, and empathy made him question how he could make someone else take his place.
Reminding himself that Damious was a master and would not appreciate pity or even sympathy, Godren left it at that and disengaged himself from the focus of the fight. Looking up, he found Mastodon, Bastin and Seth all staring at him from their religious stations on the sidelines.
Bastin was the first to react. Remembering the greater calling of his duties, he moved forward to secure the stunned assassin. Looking a little awkward, Seth gravitated forward to help. Lastly, Mastodon found her words.
“Put him in the cells,” she instructed almost absently, sounding surprised at what was coming out of her own mouth.
Without a word, Bastin and Seth removed the assassin from the room, leaving Godren to live up to his champion assertion alone.
Bounty Page 28
