by M. Walsh
This was Vigor at the height of Armand Tyrell’s power. Although the rebels were careful to keep her away from cities where Tyrell’s loyalists were concentrated, Katrina had experienced what her home became in certain parts of the country: placated rich stepping on the broken down poor with lying con-artists and thieves on every corner. It was all here in Seba, only worse—a cesspool of corruption and decadence.
She wanted a drink by the time they came upon Malison Coliseum. Seba was too crowded and too hot, and staring at the looming arena—the smell of dust, garbage, and blood in the air—Katrina felt a strong need to find someplace dark and quiet and drink herself unconscious.
“This is it,” said Scifer. “All fighting, games, and blood-sports are held here.”
She took a breath and looked up and around the massive stone structure, noting it was similar in architecture to the tower in the Square. Much like Krutch had, she found a flyer hanging from the wall advertising the next fights.
“Next week,” she said. She read some more and found her answer in large, bold letters. “The Last Vigorian is scheduled to fight.”
She looked up at the coliseum, and a thought occurred: Why even wait? If Jagger was really in there, why not go in, free him, and escape the city right then and there? Sweat dripped down her forehead, and her heart beat faster in her chest. Could she pull that off? How much trouble could she encounter? And wouldn’t Scifer be helping her, too?
“Well?” Scifer asked, lighting a cigarette. “Is this your boy?”
She licked her dry lips. “I need,” she said, shaking her head. “I need to think. Let’s find a bar.”
Scifer led her to a small tavern not far from the coliseum. Despite her cravings, Katrina only drank water and calmed down. Getting out of the sun was an improvement, but she was still hot and her feet hurt from walking all day. She regretted leaving Hyde even though the animal made it clear he didn’t like her.
She rubbed her eyes, and felt Scifer staring at her. Without looking at him, she said, “Give me a cigarette,” and he obliged.
Taking a drag and chasing it with a gulp of water, she pondered how best to proceed. She didn’t know for certain the Last Vigorian was Jagger. Whoever it was might not even be Vigorian—instead a phony title Dean Carmine cooked up to attract an audience. Furthermore, Seba and the people in charge of the city were not small-time losers like him. She couldn’t just cut her way through trouble.
“What do you know about Jonathon Gash?” she asked. “Carmine mentioned someone named Gash runs the slave trade here.”
“He’s one of the top guys in Seba,” he said. “He does run the slave trade, and I believe he’s connected to the Brute Squad that deals with the Goblins in the Three Sons.”
“So if Gash runs the slavers,” she said. “He’s in charge of who fights in the coliseum, right?”
“Presumably.”
“If the Last Vigorian is Jagger,” she said, more to herself than him. “I’ll probably have to deal with this Gash.”
“If..?”
“I can’t know for certain until I see him.” She shivered with the sober reminder this might be a dead end. She cleared her throat and continued, “But if it is him, I should know more about Gash before I try anything.”
“That’s wise,” said Scifer. “But either way, you have to consider this Last Vigorian must be a valuable asset to his owners. You think they’re going to let him go just because he’s your friend and you ask nice?”
Although she tried to hide it, Katrina’s hand shook. There it was—back to that question: how far was she willing to go? She’d come this far and spilled enough blood for less reason. Anyone who got in her way would just be more slavers and degenerates, no different than Gain.
“One thing at a time,” she said. “One thing at a time.”
* * *
“Buster Cannon..?”
Arkady thought for a moment and suggested, “Fire-Breather.”
“No.”
“Oh, right … the dragon,” he said. “Sorry, boss.”
“It doesn’t really shoot fire anyway.”
Krutch and Audra stayed at Clock’s for another few hours. A light lunch was eaten and more drinks were served. Aside from his speech about progress, little of importance was said. Despite Clock’s willingness to work with Krutch, he remained vague on details. They left in the afternoon, and Audra couldn’t get away fast enough, apparently unable to endure either Clock much longer.
“I want to burn this place to the ground,” she muttered under her breath as they left the estate and would say no more.
Once back at Treehorn Plaza, Krutch joined Arkady for a walk while Audra stayed behind. They had no horses, but Krutch—a little drunk from his morning with Clock—didn’t care. He figured he’d fall off a horse if he tried riding anyway.
He did not go unrecognized in Seba’s streets, but no one troubled him. He would hear someone whisper his name or mention his gun, but he wasn’t stopped and no one talked to him.
They went to Tramp Road, where the packed streets made the hot day feel worse. People and horses were coming and going in every direction. The place smelled awful. It was a stifling stench—the kind from being someplace too crowded with too much of everything.
Along the way, they got into a discussion about what to name his pistol. Naming it had crossed his mind, but Krutch never took the time to do it. Arkady, however, insisted it was bad luck to not name one’s weapon.
“Thunder Bringer!”
Krutch crunched his face.
“How about naming it after the god of thunder?”
“Which one?”
“Oh yeah,” said Arkady. “Ikari, I think. He’s the bad-ass one.”
“Boom-Stick.”
“Heartstopper.”
“Master Blaster!”
Arkady looked at him cockeyed, not impressed with his taste in names. “You could always name it after someone,” he said. “I knew a guy who named his axe Petunia.”
“Why Petunia?”
“I think it was his mom.”
Krutch shrugged. He supposed if he was to name the pistol after someone in particular, he would have to think of someone appropriate. Who did he know that suited a deadly weapon? Audra? Enforcer? His crazy grandmother?
“Oh, boss,” said Arkady, leading him to a blacksmith’s shop. “This is the place.”
The sound of clanging metal and steam echoed from inside, and a line of swords, daggers, and armor was on display in front. Standing behind them was a grim, muscular man covered in tattoos. Arkady approached him, and after talking a moment, the big man called for someone inside the shop.
“I bought my new sword here earlier,” said Arkady. “This guy says he can hook you up.”
Krutch waited as a sweaty older man emerged with a filthy brown sack in his grasp. Glancing back and forth, as if being watched, he reached into the sack and revealed a pair of small metallic bolts.
“These what you need..?” he said. “Gun shells..?”
“That’s it, right, boss..?”
Krutch took the shells and inspected them, though he had no idea what to look for in identifying them. They looked and felt right, but he guessed that was no guarantee.
“Where’d you get these?” he asked.
“I have connections,” said the old man. “I can’t make you a proper gun, but I can make more of those. Seem easy enough.”
He took out his pistol and loaded one of the shells. It slid into the chamber as it should and seemed right. The old man started talking about price, but with a shrug, Krutch pointed the gun into the air and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
After adjusting the chamber, he tried again, but it still didn’t fire.
“These are duds,” he said, tossing the shell back.
The old man looked mortified. “I don’t sell ‘duds!’ How dare you!”
“Have you ever sold these before?”
“No.”
“
Do you even know how to make bullets?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?” he said with a sneer. “Let’s get out of here.”
They left the blacksmith huffing and cursing under his breath. They started their way to Mannix Square, and amidst the bums and shady looking characters lurking in alleys, Krutch noticed some children in ragged clothes running around. He kept his hand in his pocket, on his pistol, in case someone tried to steal it, but threw some gold coins to the kids.
“Sorry about that, boss. I know you said you needed more bullets.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “So, Arkady, have you found anything out about the Tombs?”
“Not much. The Tombs are the northern section of Seba. All I could find out for certain is it’s the industrial area.”
“I think that’s where Clock makes weapons. But is there anything else?”
“No one knows. I haven’t met anyone who works there. Weapons, yeah, but it’s all just rumors.”
Krutch nodded and scratched his hair. The Goblins and Gash’s Brute Squad had their game in the Three Sons, but it was Clock who was on top. Dune and the Wraiths answered only to him, but according to Gash, had no loyalty to him. So the key to taking Seba was Clock—but what did he have that kept him on top?
“He’s hiding something. If we find out what he’s doing in the Tombs …”
“I don’t know, boss,” said Arkady. “Don’t you think we ought to stay out of that shit?”
“What else can we do?”
“We can start recruiting. I know we can find people who’ll be glad to work for you. We can start small and work our way up without stepping on Clock or Gash’s toes. When we got a secure thing going, then we can make big power plays.” He paused and added, “We only just got here a few days ago. There’s no need to rush.”
There was a time, and not long ago, Krutch might have agreed. There was a time he wouldn’t even consider making plans or schemes to take power. But that was then. He wanted to take the gamble.
“The Tombs are the key,” he said. “I’m sure of it. We figure that out, I got Clock. If I get Clock, everything falls into place.”
Arkady didn’t look convinced, but nodded and said, “If you say so. I’m with you, boss.”
They continued down Tramp Road, turning past Malison Coliseum on their way to Mannix Square. On impulse, Krutch asked, “Arkady—is that your real name?”
“Sort of,” he replied. “My full name is Reginald Kensington Deetz.”
It took a second for the meaning to come to him, and once it did, he muttered, “Right. I get it.” Then it occurred to him: “Arkady, where the hell are you from?”
He hesitated, as if surprised he was being asked. “I’m from Graylands.”
“Okay, but where are you from? Why are you here? Who are you?”
Arkady scratched at his ear. “I was born near Bartlett. Third generation Asperan. My dad was a fisherman, and my grand-pop sailed from Aspera when he was young.” He chuckled. “You know how it is.”
“How what is?”
Arkady hesitated again. “You’ve been to Aspera. I heard you were involved with the—”
“No. I wasn’t,” he interrupted. “Assume I don’t know how it is.”
“Aspera is pretty isolated. It’s only connected to the rest of the world with this narrow land-bridge. The weather is rough year-round, and the soil isn’t the best for farming. Down in Aspera, it’s ‘survival of the fittest’ kicked into overdrive. The wild-life down there is some of the biggest, deadliest, and meanest bastards you’ll find outside the Dark Lands.
“To live and survive in Aspera, you have to be a certain type of person. Hard as nails and stubborn as hell. And to leave Aspera—that’s a whole different beast. The land-bridge is a stretch of mountains we call the Jagged Cliffs. You try to get out by land, you’re risking starvation—assuming you don’t fall into a crevice and die.
“As for the sea, the oceans around Aspera are some of the most violent, treacherous waters you’ll find anywhere. And we’re miles from any other country. So to live in Aspera, you have to be a bad-ass. To escape Aspera—by land or sea—you have to be another kind of bad-ass.”
Krutch nodded and was surprised how much he enjoyed listening to his comrade. He recalled the few times he tried talking to Lemmy Hobbs, Hobbs would start babbling about the great (non-existent) adventures they’d had and were going to have. Every time he spoke, Hobbs revealed himself to be a muscle-bound lummox with nothing more to him.
“I suppose I could’ve been a fisherman, like my pop,” Arkady said. “But it wasn’t for me. I guess I wound up pirate the same reason you did.”
He hesitated, having no idea what the rumors and stories claimed his reasons for being a pirate were. He was curious, but decided not to press the matter.
As they passed Mannix Square and approached the road to Treehorn Plaza, Krutch’s eye was drawn to a massive carriage. It was painted gold, ten feet long, and six feet high. There were four wheels on each side and a pack of horses at the front. It looked more like a bungalow on wheels than a carriage.
Standing beside the carriage’s door was Hanselton. “Mr. Leeroy,” he said. “Mistress Clock would like a word.” He glanced at Arkady. “Alone.”
“She in that thing..?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Arkady, and they exchanged shrugs. After sending him off to the hotel, Krutch climbed into the massive carriage, and was struck by how cool it was inside. The seats were cushioned leather, and there was a third set lined along the side wall. Opposite that was a mini-bar, and the floor was carpeted.
Evelyn Clock sat at the far end, seeming to glow in the dimly lit carriage. Her hair was done up, and she was now wearing a dazzling gold dress that left little to the imagination. She greeted Krutch with a smirk and cocked eyebrow while sipping from a glass of wine.
“We meet again,” she said as her servant climbed into the carriage and shut the door. “Hanselton, give Mr. Leeroy a drink.”
He considered declining, but a goblet was already in his hand with sweet smelling wine poured in. He took a sip and cringed at the strong taste. He didn’t realize the carriage was moving until he glanced out the window and saw they were in motion.
“Nice ride,” he said. “So smooth.”
Evelyn said nothing—watching him with a look that again reminded him of a cat eying its prey. “You’ve caused quite the stir here in Seba, Mr. Leeroy,” she said. “Do you realize that?”
“It occurred to me,” he said.
“My husband will never let it show,” she continued. “But you are a great concern to him. You are someone he cannot predict or control and that frightens him.”
“The shit, you say.”
She hesitated at his choice of expression and said, “Um, yes. Sebastian is good at hiding his thoughts, but I assure you, you made quite the impression this morning. I dare say he regards you as an equal.”
He drank, and whatever sobriety he regained since lunch at Clock’s melted away. Feeling warm and fuzzy, he said, “So I got that going for me.”
Evelyn took another sip of her wine, and her smile faded. Her usual coy demeanor lessened—though didn’t disappear—and she seemed contemplative. “Do you like it here, Mr. Leeroy? Do you like this city?”
“I don’t know,” he lied. “I could get used to it, I guess.”
“I thought that once,” she said. “I was not born wealthy, you know. My parents were peasants—lorded over by nobles. Not much opportunity for improvement under those conditions.” She frowned. “I ran away when I was young. I made my way as best I could, taught myself to read and write, and ended up here in Graylands. Eventually, I gained the attention of the man who would become my husband.
“Sebastian has great ambition,” she continued. “I don’t know if you realize it yet, but—like me—he was someone not content with the station he was born in. I think like most people who end up in this country, he saw
in Graylands a chance to better himself. His ambition brought him to this city, and it was he who turned it from the thieving cesspool it was into what it currently is.”
Krutch nodded, but said nothing.
“For a while, I believed our time here was a stepping stone,” she said. “I thought Sebastian, once he accumulated enough power and finished whatever he’s trying to accomplish in the Tombs, we’d move on.”
“Move on where?”
“Away from this desert shit-hole,” she said. “I despise this city, Mr. Leeroy. I hate the weather. I hate the atmosphere. I hate the scenery, and I hate the people who dwell here. But it’s becoming clear to me my husband has little or no intention of ever leaving. He spends his days and nights in that tower of his. This morning was the first time he’s been home in ages.
“Whatever ambitions he has, he intends to fulfill them from here. If he is building an empire, Seba shall be his capital. If he is giving orders or directions, he is doing it from his tower. I’ve come to realize my husband, if he has his way, will never leave this city again if he doesn’t need to. It’s become his armor, and he believes he will die without it.”
Krutch nodded along, sipping his wine. He was tempted to ask what any of this had to do with him, but he resisted, having a feeling what the answer would be.
“My husband and I have no delusions about our relationship,” Evelyn said, not waiting for him to ask. “He is my meal ticket, and I am his trophy. Whatever love we felt for one another, it is long gone. Our marriage is one of tolerance more than anything now.”
She sighed and gulped down the last of her glass. Without wasting a moment, Hanselton refilled it.
“I wonder,” she continued. “What sort of man are you, Mr. Leeroy? How far do your ambitions reach?” She smirked and crossed her legs, revealing a lot of her upper thigh in the process. “If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t strike me as the type of man who’d be content to hole himself in a tower in the middle of the desert. You strike me as a man of higher standards.”
Unable to think of anything to say, Krutch instead guzzled his goblet of wine. It was such a strong and sweet taste, he almost gagged—but he did not stop drinking until the golden cup was empty. His face flushed and a warm wave came over his head. He stared at Evelyn Clock, and his vision blurred.
