by OJ Lowe
He’d already made the decision not to take a blaster. That would just look like a statement of intent, one that he couldn’t afford to make. Both blasters, a Tebbit and a Kamel, were too big to be easily concealable and all it would take was Sharon putting her arm around him in an awkward fashion and she’d catch on that he was carrying. Carling had said nothing about a weapon and while ordinarily he’d interpret that as a case to bring one regardless, his role in this mission was not to need it. He never carried his X7 on him unless it was a Unisco mission or there were signs that he’d need to. To have the weapon close at hand was a temptation to use it. Always it went in his bag until the situation looked like it was about to devolve into a place where violence was unavoidable.
His friend and colleague, Wade Wallerington, had always had a saying that he’d liked. If you’re not sure whether you’re going to need a weapon or not, take it. Because it’s better to have it and not need it than the other way around.
He could see Wade’s point. More than that though, he could see a dozen arguments for ignoring it. Whichever he chose, he’d be conflicted with himself over the decision for the rest of the night. He just hoped it was one he’d live to be able to regret.
Nick left it, turned and closed the room up behind him. Had to remind himself that he wasn’t going out there to be a target. He didn’t need to shoot back.
He was done here. The night awaited.
Hobb could see that it was starting.
A correction, he amended to himself. It had been grinding towards a slow start for hours now, he’d heard it all the way. Local police had been closing some of the streets well in advance of it commencing so that the travelling folk could set up. It was the reason he’d gotten into position early. Being caught on the outside wouldn’t have done him much good.
It wasn’t just the travelling folk who profited from this anymore. Those days were gone. The carnival had become too large for them to handle it on their own, too commercial. The rustic charm had faded a little, replaced with a desire by the locals to peddle their own wares at a ridiculous mark-up so they could brand their own level of authenticity to those who didn’t know any better.
It was the sort of greed masquerading as good business sense that he could respect the hells out of. It took a special sort of person to try and do that. The morals of a sewer rat, and the fast mouth of a practiced huckster. A lethal combination. It had long since spread out from Graham’s Field where the bulk of the action was setting up. That was the real experience. The closer you got to the centre, the more genuine it was. The travelling folk didn’t let anyone else run a stall there. As well as local cops, they had enforcement agents of their own, big brawny men armed with wrenches and a demeanour that said they had no compunctions about using them to painful effect should you annoy them. He’d heard somewhere that they were officially down as mechanics, hence the wrenches. At the far end of the park, they’d finished erecting the big wheel, he’d marvelled at how quickly they’d thrown it up. They sure could work when they wanted to, he thought.
Out on the streets, the smaller sellers were setting up stalls that the city chamber of commerce had been renting out for days in anticipation for this very night, small portable stalls on wheels that could easily be pushed about from place to place. He could see some had already decorated them with their wares to stand out amidst the crowd. Those who had buildings on the streets had already opened their doors, marked up their prices and set about trying to lure the first early stragglers in to purchase items that they could get at half the price the rest of the year. It amazed him people fell for it. Performers were already starting to step out, warming up for the night ahead. In the park, he could see the outline of the stage already lit up around the edges, glimmering in the evening light like cat eyes.
Not long now. Not long now. Time had ceased to have any sort of meaning for him. He knew how to be patient. He knew how to wait. Waiting was a game of Ruin in which he held all the cards that mattered, he knew what his opponent needed and what they didn’t have. Waiting held no fears for him. He’d lain in a hideaway hut for a week once, waiting for the target to show his face. Even when he had, he’d not rushed it, waited for the perfect shot and taken it with deliberate coolness.
The one sweet moment when the trigger was pulled, and the target fell, it made everything worth it. The final result of a job done by a professional at the top of his game.
Sharon looked fantastic, he had to admit. There was no dress code at the carnival, it was very hard to have any justification for it when most of the travelling folk walked around in silks, furs and sandals. It made no sense at all to Nick, he thought the night chilly, but he wasn’t about to inquire to find out. They were friendly when it came to taking credits from you but distant otherwise. The odour of an undeserved sense of superiority clung to them like cheap cologne.
That said, no dress code but there were always plenty of photographers at the event, some of them professional, some of them little more than grubby little parasites hoping to get a picture of someone moderately famous not looking at their best. There were too many places on the CallerNet that enjoyed the more salubrious side of everything. Worse, he thought that there were too many people out there who enjoyed looking at it all. She’d gone for a dress, a rich purple with white lace trim around the hem and edges. He wouldn’t be touching alcohol tonight. Not now he was on duty. She didn’t really do it either. He’d only ever seen her drink at occasions to celebrate.
His neighbourhood hadn’t really been touched by the carnival, he’d heard speeders coming and going all night. It was probably a good time to be running a taxi service, there’d be people going all over all night long. No danger of growing bored. He’d already called for one, arranged for it to take them as close to Graham’s Field as it could. Still they waited, he watched her as she finished touching up her makeup in the mirror. Nick smiled, shook his head to himself.
Without turning, she raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror. Gone was the casual ponytail of earlier in the day, she wore her hair down around her shoulders now, her champion band around her hairline to keep it away out of her eyes, a recent affection but one no less striking for it. “What?” She asked through pursed lips, amid the process of staining them a subtle shade of scarlet-pink.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just really glad I came out here. You look good. Thinking that as well.”
“Thanks.”
“Scrub up good,” he added, with a smile. A small grin of her own passed across her painted lips, she tossed the lipstick cylinder back at him, hard enough to prove a point but gentle enough to avoid causing damage. He went to catch it one-handed, realised he might have overplayed his reflexes as it hit his skin and instead let it bounce to the carpet. “Hey!”
“Scrub up good?” she asked, smirking. “Thanks. A compliment like that makes it all worthwhile. You don’t do bad yourself when you want to try.”
“Can’t look this good walking the roads,” Nick grinned. She was always like this, he’d noticed, after she experienced any sort of bout be it practice or competitive. Her blood went up, she’d be playfully sharp with her comments without meaning any of it to be nasty. He didn’t think she had a vicious bone in her body. If she had, he’d never seen it. Of course, there was a hardness there. You didn’t get to be a champion without that being a part of your being. There was a great deal of difference between not yielding and being an arsehole for the sake of it though.
“I can,” she said, poking her tongue at him. He snorted in response, made a big show of rolling his eyes.
“When was the last time you walked the roads. You don’t come to the challenges any more, challengers come to you. Real difference there, Shaz.”
“Don’t call me Shaz,” she said, a warning slipping into her voice. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle at her tone. Maybe he’d overstepped it there, it had just slipped out. She really didn’t like that, playful mood or not. “Nobody does. Not you, not my f
amily. I will rain down lightning on you if you keep it up!”
The strange part was, he believed her. Not literally but metaphorically anyway. Her doing that would have been impossible. He did believe that she was capable of raining down all manner of hells down onto those who annoyed her. She was an amazing woman, physically and mentally.
“My dad used to call me that,” she said thoughtfully. If he looked closely, he could have sworn he saw her trembling. Once, twice, stop. Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe she’d really been freaked out. “I’m sorry. Just brought up some memories. Not all of them good.”
Huh? “Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head, the light catching the stones in her champions band. Most champions wore them on their arms. She’d adapted it for her forehead, it suited her. “No. Not really. It’s all in the past. It’s not happening again. He’s gone now.”
That brought a start out of him. “Did something happen to John?” He’d always liked John Jacobs, as much as you could like a prospective father-in-law anyway.
“John’s fantastic,” she said. “Alway’s been more of a father to me than my real father ever was. He’s been better to my mother than he ever was. He’s the reason I have a brother.”
“Yeah, I’m still waiting to meet him by the way,” Nick said with a grin. “Think you’re hiding him from me.”
“Not really,” Sharon said. She’d found her boots, ankle height and high heeled, already starting to put one on. The light caught their colour, he brought a hand to his eyes, cutting out the silver glare. “Peter goes wandering a lot. He has this dopey friend who he hangs out with a lot, both as bad as each other. You’ve got to do well to split the two of them up. Where one goes, the other follows. I don’t want to say it’s the blind leading the blind because that’s an insult to people who can’t see. Soon as we all get in one place together, I’ll introduce you.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, when you said dad, I thought you meant John. Not…” He tried to remember her real father’s name, came up blank. “… Cormoran? Sorry, been that sort of week so far.”
“Canderous,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t really think of him much anymore. He didn’t mean that much to me when he was alive.”
That was sad, he had to admit. She’d never really gone into satisfactory detail over her relationship with her real father, there wasn’t much in the public record about it, but if she didn’t want to tell him then that was up to her.
Anything else that might have been said was cut-off, the tear of a klaxon horn ripping through the air. They looked at each other, smiled. “Taxi,” both said at the same time, before Sharon laughed. Her previous outburst had been forgotten, she pulled on her other boot and grinned at him.
“Let’s do it then.”
The driver hadn’t been the same one who’d been behind his little detour to meet Carling, Nick was truly thankful for that, they’d got into the back and after he’d given the driver ten credits to take them to Graham’s Field, the screen went up and the silence pervaded.
“How was the day with the kids?” he finally asked. Since she’d gotten back later than he’d expected, he hadn’t had the chance to ask her. They’d both been running around getting ready, he hadn’t forgotten. He added as much but she shrugged it off.
“Good,” she smiled. “Really good. I don’t regret it at all. I mean, what better time to do it than when the leagues are all on hiatus. Sometimes it just makes you think about it all when you see these kids, all so ready to learn. There was nothing like this when I was a girl. Things are getting better, I mean our world would be so much better if we were all willing to devote just a little bit of our time to making it that way. Be it sharing what we know with future generations or even just helping build something that’ll last a lifetime.”
As she spoke, Nick wondered about his own legacy. Memories of him as a spirit caller could well fade, only the records would remain. They were the one permanent thing in life. His time in Unisco would be remembered by those who had access to similar records. Even in most of them, names were redacted, only official identity numbers remained. Unisco liked anonymity, it gave nothing up easily. What wouldn’t be forgotten would be the blood that had been shed by him in its name. The words flashed through his head again and again, not letting up, not ceasing, reminding him what he was. Killer! Murderer! Butcher! Liar! Failure! Betrayer!
He let out a sharp breath, cut her off in the middle of her sentence and she looked at him in surprise. “You okay?”
Nick nodded, mopped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Apologies.” He tugged at the neck of his shirt, made like he was adjusting the collar. “Sorry, something just caught in my neck. You were saying?”
“Just that sometimes it’s easier to talk about doing something than actually doing said thing. If we lived in a world where the opposite was true, I think things would be much better for everyone around these kingdoms. I’m not doing much but I’m doing what I can.”
“I think you’re making a lot of difference in their lives,” Nick said. “I mean every child wants to learn it, right, wants to be a spirit caller? They’ll all go on to have spirits.” They weren’t just useful for battling, some went on to use them for different purposes. Claiming a creature then modifying it to being able to spit fire was useful if you worked in an environment where you needed a constant access to hot flames, like welder or glass-maker for example. “If they’re going to learn about it from an early age, might as well learn from the best, right? I mean, not everyone in your position would come here and do it.”
“You ever think about teaching anyone anything? Passing on what you know? Maybe taking an apprentice as a caller?”
Nick blinked, tried to ignore the images ripping through his head of Avis’ knife tearing through Lysa’s stomach, tried to ignore the coppery taste of blood that filled his mouth as tooth met lip. His knuckles had gone white against the arm-rest of his seat. He’d taught Lysa a lot of what she’d known. Including how to blunder into a coma, courtesy of a much bigger opponent with a hidden knife.
“No,” he said. “I’ve not thought about it. Most of what I know isn’t worth passing on.”
He saw the bemusement flash through her eyes. “Well I don’t know about that. You’re not that bad.”
“Thanks Sharon.”
“No, I mean it,” she said “Your record speaks for itself. I wouldn’t want to fight you for a title bout. Not again. Not if I wanted to keep my band for sure.” She reached up and touched her forehead.
“I don’t think I’ve got the hair to wear it like that,” Nick said dryly. He was glad to make the comment, enough to change the subject. He didn’t want to go into why he wasn’t thrilled on the idea of passing on his knowledge to impressionable minds. They might see something in him that they weren’t supposed to. He’d always found children to be surprisingly perceptive beyond the scopes of their experiences. They might not be able to understand the subtext behind what was going on but always they were aware that something was there, something they couldn’t explain.
Maybe he was just worried that they’d pick up on the part of him that he’d spent most of his life hiding. The mask was ceasing to become something he could take on and off at will but there’d still occasionally be a crack between skin and rubber.
“I could lend you my black wig,” Sharon giggled. He had to smile at that. “I think you’d look way sexy in that. You could let me braid it.”
Below him, the activity was starting to increase, more and more people were starting to arrive in the streets far below Hobb’s vantage point. He could hear their voices, was already working on tuning them out into nothing but background noise. That was the hardest sort of voice to ignore. With voices, they were either directed at you or they weren’t, you could choose to ignore them or respond as you pleased. With background noise, the ears subconsciously strained to try and pick up the faintest of words in hopes that they could be picked out and used.<
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The numbers had gone from dozens, to hundreds, to thousands in a matter of minutes. Picking the target out of the swirling mass below would be hard, if not impossible. It was a good thing he knew where they was going to be in… He glanced at the time on his wrist… less than a few hours’ time. He just had to wait, bide his moment and the target would appear, hopefully sooner rather than later.
The sheer wall of colour and noise had assaulted him the moment they’d gotten out of the speeder, Nick had been taken by the sight of a trio of teenage daughters wearing silken dress outfits just a touch too revealing of smooth darkened flesh underneath and Sharon had elbowed him in the ribs. He’d gladly returned the favour when an absolute giant of a man had strolled past her, wearing nothing but a leather loincloth and sandals. Her head came up to his elbow. Seeing the way her gaze lingered on the tight leather around his groin, it made him feel more than a little inadequate. He didn’t elbow her as hard as she had him, just poked her hard enough to make the point. She rubbed her head, looked more than a little guilty as she shrugged her shoulders at him.
