by Andy Havens
“I don’t know… I don’t know what you want me to do. Ma’am. Ms. Loryys.”
That was another habit that Loryys couldn’t get the miserable twit to break. Calling him “Ms.” as if a Mundane honorific mattered to a Clan Chief. She’d said over and over again, “My name is just Loryys. Not ‘Ms.’ Loryys… Mr. Echo.”
Which she knew cracked her fellow tribesfolk up. Because they knew that “Echo” was a nickname, not a last name. But they also knew that Ricky was too scared of her to correct the error.
I can have a little fun with them, just not much, Loryys had thought, time and again, while doing the sometimes irritating and often boring bidding of her Lord.
We may play, but we obey, she’d often thought after tweaking the noxious bastard. Obedience and honor were carved into a Clan Chief much, much deeper than even the dancing lines of her tattoos.
So she just kept staring. Kept thinking about the very old days and the sacrifices. The screams and pleading. The crowds of supplicants and worshipers as intoxicated on devotion as this idiot often was on his various chemicas.
The Ways of Blood are not subtle. Most are even more effective on Mundanes than Reckoners of other Houses. They speak of connections and necessities at the level of survival. Of territory and trails, the patterns of the hunt, tracking and spoor and tokens taken to prove conquests and valor.
Loryys had, from time-to-time, occasion to visit a Mundane office and had seen what they called a “brag wall.” Framed diplomas and certificates, trophies, pictures with famous or influential people. Ribbons. Little tchotchkes with logos on them from various events or programs.
If she was trying to accomplish something with the person – if she wanted their help quickly and couldn’t use direct persuasion – she always took a few minutes to admire the wall and ask questions. She’d “ooh” and “ahh” about the famous people, make comments like, “Wow. That’s a great school!” or “You don’t see a lot of people with that in their office!”
The chronic would preen and puff up and tell a joke they’d heard from said famous person or share a personal, inside detail… maybe something quirky or even a bit off-color. Loryys would laugh and nod and act impressed. Knowing that this was more to her advantage than theirs. Because they would want to continue to impress her. And if she already knew how important and connected and powerful they were from their stories and trophies… they’d have to go to greater lengths to keep that perception growing.
In many cases, that’s all that was needed when the time came and Loryys wanted a phone number or a favor or for someone to look the other way.
While all the time Loryys would think, You have a very small pile of bones here, little one. Even among your kind, this is shameful. They were never anything remotely like true People, but at least Dārayavahuš, Genghis and Tepes built palaces of skulls surrounded by moats of their enemies’ blood. They understood power even if they could only grasp at its tail.
The chronics would give her what she wanted because, in their minds, it added another shiny star to their imagined wall of importance. Another ribbon. Another acrylic lozenge with a laser-etched, alliterative slogan gathering dust on a shelf.
This one, though… This Echo… He doesn’t want ribbons. He has almost no pride.
Loryys knew what this one wanted. The drug. But he’d always gotten it elsewhere. And he’d always made his Friday deliveries, and so had never required persuasion. Now, though, there was a difficulty that this chronic was clearly not capable of sorting out. So there needed to be a change in their relationship.
She kept staring at Ricky, radiating waves of her own personal power. Loryys knew that this had two conflicting, simultaneous effects on observers: fear and hope. Fear that the power would be used on you; hope that it might be used on your behalf.
She knew that Stone Tribe was not going to press any real threat on this or any other Earth tags they worked with. Politically, it would be imprudent. At some point? Maybe. But they’d been playing nicely with Blood on joint projects for more than ten years. Until she heard differently from Senbi, Loryys would continue to obey orders.
However… Ricky didn’t know that. He expected a threat. But Loryys didn’t ever make threats she couldn’t keep. So she guided her Ways to seem a bit… friendlier wasn’t the right word. Merciful? Beneficent? Maybe. With just a hint of “noblesse oblige.”
Ricky experienced this as a shift from being afraid of punishment to a fear of missing out on an opportunity. He realized that maybe… just maybe… he could turn this situation to his advantage. But he couldn’t make the first move. That would break the explicit code of his gang, which would probably get back to his actual masters, of whom he was more permanently and fundamentally afraid.
He can’t ask for a bribe, and I can’t offer one directly. So the dance begins…
“Would it be possible,” she asked, “for me to get in contact with Damon Mohz directly?”
The question was very carefully phrased.
Possible? Ricky thought. Anything is possible.
The Blood Chief hadn’t directly asked for Damon’s contact information. As a tag, Ricky was operating under very specific instructions *not* to provide that. If he did that, he’d be in trouble. The only circumstance in which he was allowed to even directly contact Rain or Damon was if a victim came close to escape. Even in that case, the preferred option was simply to slit the mark and bury the body deep. That had happened three times. Each time, Rain had told him afterward that he’d made the right choice.
But now? Two days and no contact? That was out-of-scope. Things needed to move along.
So Ricky half-smiled, half-shrugged and replied, “Anything is possible, Ms. Loryys.”
That was the opening.
“We all want what’s best,” Loryys said. “We all report to someone. We all have our responsibilities and our perks. And sometimes… the responsibilities weigh heavily.”
Ricky nodded. The Blood Chief gets it! he thought. She sympathizes! We’re all on the same team!
“It’s hard, some days. That’s for sure, Ms. Loryys.”
Loryys nodded back at the tag and asked, “Tell me, Ricky? What do you do to unwind? To take the edge off?”
That made the Mundane a bit suspicious. “What do you mean?”
“Take me,” Loryys replied. “I like your Mundane whiskeys quite a lot. Many Reckoners don’t enjoy alcohol at all. But some of the best Scotch? Delightful. When I’m feeling the pressure, I will often go out dancing or for a long run to work up a sweat, and then come back and enjoy two or three shots of a Macallan 1824 single malt. It burns off quickly, obviously, but for a few moments… a lovely respite.”
Ricky licked his lips, thinking about his own… respite.
“Yes. It’s good to take a break.”
“It’s even more important during times of stress,” the Blood Chief said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “We leaders… we need to seem in control at all times. We can’t show weakness in front of our tribes. But to keep up that stony façade… in private? We need to indulge. A little. Once every now and then.”
Loryys knew exactly where Ricky’s taste in “indulgence” led. It radiated off him in fumes that any Reckoner would be able to sense at three yards.
He was a “hanger.” An addict to the Way-infused drug often referred to as red mash or hang. In Reckoners, it mostly provided a mild boost to other Ways, sometimes adding a little “oomph” to the appreciation of whatever sensual pleasures one preferred. For Mundanes? It was like the best opium and cocaine combined. It both stimulated the senses and calmed the nerves. One Mundane might sit quietly and feel a single drop of sweat running down her neck as if it was the most amazing decadence ever. Another might be able to concentrate their attention and accomplish brief, amazing feats of strength or coordination.
The high was incredible, but when it dissipated… it was very, very hard to forget.
Centuries ago, some enterprising chronic had experi
mented with methods of prolonging the effects of what had then been known, in Renaissance England, as Crimson Tea. Certain diets and herbs could, indeed, make the drug linger. But the easiest method was oxygen deprivation through self-asphyxiation. Applied at intervals after taking the drug, being choked to near unconsciousness would essentially restart the high, taking the user back to its initial potency. Although each episode diminished the pleasure somewhat, a good series of chokings could stretch a red mash binge from around six hours to a full two days.
Of course, there were accidents. Stoned people are not particularly good at gauging complex interactions of biology and physics. There was also a tendency for addicts in the extremis of withdrawal to try to regain some little taste of the experience through more and more severe deprivations. Resulting in more accidents. And the nickname “hangers.”
Ricky was listening to Loryys not just with his ears, but with his hunger. He knew what the Reckoner wanted from him. He couldn’t offer it. And he couldn’t ask for what he wanted. Needed.
All of which Loryys knew. She’d been working with chronic tags for hundreds of years. The rules were very specific. But she also knew that if she waited just a little longer before making the offer…
“Maybe I should call Damon myself,” Ricky offered. That was somewhat outside protocol, but he could make the case. Maybe. Since the situation was also outside protocol.
Loryys nodded sympathetically. “Yesterday, when it was just your problem? That might have made sense. But I, too, have superiors.”
Not really true, in the sense that this little creature understands, but we’re establishing rapport.
Ricky gestured sympathetically. “You, too have superiors!”
The Reckoner made a what-can-you-do? face and signaled to her bartender. The fellow came over swiftly and asked, “What can I get you, Chief?”
“Surprise me. Anything off the top shelf. And for my guest?”
She looked the question at Ricky. There was no shame or stigma against any drugs, per se, among the Blood. Tags enjoyed that benefit, but sometimes had a problem getting past Mundane guilt and legal issues.
Not Ricky.
“Do you have any good tinctures on tap?” He said it so casually, with such a flip attitude, that Loryys almost laughed.
Oh, yes. Just a little drink among friends. As we relax and talk business. What a turd.
The bartender didn’t pause or hedge, but began to list a number of drinks that featured red mash as the main intoxicant. Ricky stopped him after just a few, as if he was a connoisseur himself, and said, “Oh, a Bonnie Ribbon will do nicely. With ice, please.”
“Certainly. Sir.”
That barkeep knows his job, Loryys thought. I’ll have to praise him for keeping up the act so well.
A moment later, the man brought two drinks back on a tray. A dark, amber fluid in a short, heavy crystal glass for Loryys. A taller, fancier tumbler with a pinkish, foamy concoction for Ricky.
Ricky looked at Loryys, who nodded and raised her own glass, and then took a sip of his.
Oh god so good so good so good.
His system immediately calmed. His senses sharpened. He felt more like himself than he had in days.
This is really good stuff, he thought. This one drink would cost me… maybe a month’s take.
Loryys let the relief and sensation settle over the gang leader, watching the telltale signs. The slower breathing, the relaxed shoulders, the dilated pupils.
If any of mine indulged in something like that during a meeting with another House, I’d skin them alive.
Finally, Ricky sighed and said, “Thanks, Loryys. I needed that.”
No ‘Ms.’ Interesting.
“My pleasure, friend. As I said, keeping a steady hand on the tiller requires that we leaders take care of our own needs from time to time.”
Ricky nodded, rolling another sip of the liquid around in his mouth.
Loryys gestured at the bartender and the fellow returned.
“Leave both bottles, Van.”
“Of course, boss.”
Ricky eyed the bottle nervously. He didn’t want to take another drink right then and there, for it would overwhelm him. He’d be stuck watching one candle flicker for hours or phasing out while feeling his moustache grow.
Loryys made an, Oh! My bad! face, hands up in apology.
“I’m sorry, Ricky. I forget that our tolerances differ. But in my clan, it is impolite to not match drinks with a friend. And I plan on finishing this whole bottle between now and the end of lunch.”
Ricky looked even more nervous. The whole bottle! It would kill me!
“I tell you what,” Loryys leaned forward, a co-conspirator sharing a secret. “If you take the rest when you go, my tribal honor will be preserved. Will you do me that favor?”
Stunned by his luck, Ricky could only manage to nod and stammer, “I’ll do you that favor. Yes. I will do you that favor.”
“Good.” Loryys chugged back another whiskey and signaled to one of her waiters to bring menus.
“Are you hungry, Ricky? Do you want some lunch?”
I know you don’t, the Blood Chief thought. Food will dull and shorten your high.
“Want some lunch? No. I wouldn’t want to impose. And, as you say… we have responsibilities.”
Loryys nodded, pointing at an item on the menu for herself. As the waiter trotted off, he said, “Yes we do. I’m sure that Damon can straighten out what we should do – together – next. As a team.”
Floating on his high, Ricky perceived the Reckoner’s words as a balm.
We are a team! We’re all together on this. On the same side. I can’t give her Damon’s number, but…
“You know, since it’s Friday… I heard that Damon likes to shop for seedlings at the Cooper’s Alley Market around dusk. Something about getting a good deal at the end of the week on whatever’s left from the caravans.”
Loryys waved off the idea, as if it was now unimportant. “We’ll work it all out, I’m sure.”
That’s what I needed, weasel, she thought. Give you what you want and then you have to prove to me you’re worth it.
Ricky replied, “Yes. We’ll work it all out. I’m sure.”
With another gesture, Loryys summoned over one of the restaurant’s hostesses. She took the rest of the bottle of red mash liqueur and wrapped it up for safe travel in a nice, padded leather case with a shoulder strap. Very posh. Very hip. Something that even a few low-level Reckoners seemed to find appealing.
The hostess helped place it over Ricky’s arm and he wore it like a banner of success.
Another minor trophy for your “brag wall,” thought Loryys.
The Clan Chief stood and shook the chronic’s hand, radiating Ways of confidence, fraternal support and good humor. But with just a touch of… threat.
“I’ll see you soon, Ricky.”
“See you soon, Loryys. Thank you. For… Well… Thanks.”
Loryys sat back down and had another whiskey while waiting for her steak. It was several hours until dusk, and she didn’t have much else to do.
I wonder what Rain and the other Earth Masters want out of all this, she thought.
I expect it will be quite a bit more expensive than a bottle of mash.
Chapter 6. Confrontation
Kendra felt something… shift. Several minutes before Vannia came through the back door to get her, she sensed a change of some kind nearby. It started when she heard a subtle alteration in the Billy Joel music coming from a nearby window; as if it was both louder and coming from several places at once.
It’s a Way, she realized. Or is being used by one. To mask something.
Knowing that, she concentrated harder. After a moment, she could sense the Ways themselves.
Yes. Something spying. Someone waiting. I should have guessed. I shouldn’t have come home.
Not knowing if there was immediate danger, or if doing anything at all might trigger something more immediately
intrusive, she closed her eyes and went back to feeling for all the Ways in her neighborhood. She’d been doing that somewhat idly before, just trying out her relatively new Reckoning. But now she concentrated.
Maybe if I can have a little more warning…
The Narrow Roads, of course. The little, personal Ways. The one for the dog. A variety of locks and keys. All of those smell strongly of Release. A party activity. An initiation. A celebration of a new child. Those are all Blood things. Not dangerous. Just… family and bonding and fun.
She went deeper.
Chaos. Obviously in no pattern. The trace of a gamble here. A random traveler’s skip through the park. Three pending wagers being “watched” themselves by a Way.
Flux. Subtle. More observational in many cases. They almost feel like Sight. Not just observing, though. Helping. Enabling. A couple whose relationship is steady… but a Way of Flux pushing them to make a decision on something. It will end the marriage or they’ll fall deeper in love. It’s a pivot point. An apartment building about to be torn down. A Way that senses and magnifies the relief of some about the change and increases the anger of others. Such drama…
She had a hard time feeling Ways of Sight. They didn’t impact much. They were observational rather than active and less prone to detection.
Then she realized that they were probably doing exactly what she was doing; keeping track of the other Ways. And maybe any Mundane activities that were out of the ordinary.
Kendra shifted her position on the stone stairs, getting a bit more comfortable. She put her head down and spread her concentration among all the Ways she’d observed so far. Not studying them, just noting them. She didn’t have any Way of Sight of her own, but she also tried to listen as hard as possible for anything unusual, any quick change, something like…
A siren.
And suddenly, shifting her attention to monitor that sound, the ripples in the pattern were clear. Or less clear. Like when you tip your head and can see the light reflecting off of what had been a perfectly transparent pane of glass.
