Bounty Page 11

  “We had two black hearts, Godren. Oh, I loved his smile and humor, and he loved my eyes and my determination, but underneath it all, what was there to love?”

  Godren looked at her, wondering at her perspective. She knew exactly what she was, acknowledged the sacrifices she lived and the emptiness she sought. Yet she had no intentions of ever changing. It was all she’d ever known, and though it didn’t bring her joy, she seemed perfectly content with pleasure.

  “Do you entertain dreams of love yourself, Godren?” Mastodon asked curiously. “In this world?”

  Godren blinked away a flitting image of him kissing the princess, not allowing himself to even think of it in Mastodon’s presence. It was entirely too treacherous a thought. “I suppose I’ll grow out of it one day,” he said.

  “After you realize how unrealistic they are, those dreams gradually dissipate into inconsequential ashes and die in the back of your mind. You’ll become disillusioned, and you won’t mind – in fact, you’ll welcome that. Pursuing this business, you quickly learn to cut out your own heart and bury it in the street.”

  “So what street is yours buried under? As your sworn protector, shouldn't I be informed?”

  For the first time, Mastodon took her eyes off of the engrossing smoke wafting about the room and glanced slyly at Godren. “If I told you that, you’d dig it up, now, wouldn’t you?”

  Godren was going to ask if he struck her as that type, but then he realized he might find it in him to do just that, so he kept his mouth shut and looked up at her, trying to keep the lost look off his face. It felt like it lingered a bit in his eyes, but she looked away and focused back on the smoke, and he was left to himself. Suddenly weary, he fell desolately into brooding as the clock took up the silence again.

  The smell of the incense reached Godren a moment later and drew him out of his deepening thoughts, and he resurfaced before he could lose himself in them. From then on the scent was thick and strong in the room, and kept him not only focused but also aided in chasing away the predawn drowsiness threatening to creep up and seduce him. He couldn’t sleep a wink, he told himself, knowing this Damious fellow would choose the exact instant he nodded off to make his appearance. Irony like that would tempt fate, with Godren’s luck, and knowing Damious’s apparent character only guaranteed that that would be how it played out.

  The rain held off, and he held off sleep, and so Damious didn’t come that night. The next day passed inconsequentially as well, and Bastin finally relieved him so he could shut his eyes awhile, but by that evening the clouds were looking heavier than lead and Godren didn’t trust the situation to stay peaceful for very much longer. Seth hadn’t come in from the walls yet, either, and so before returning to his personal post, Godren called him back.

  Seth didn’t look like he’d slept either, and his balance was doing strange things, as if he were trying to find his sea legs. He’d been on the walls too long.

  “You should have checked in before now,” Godren said, looking his worn friend up and down. “Gods, Seth, it’s a wonder you haven’t fallen yet.”

  “I would have come in this morning, but Ossen appeared on my wall, pushed by and nearly sent me over the edge, and then climbed down and said he was taking a break. I haven’t seen him since, and I wasn’t going to leave the walls empty.”

  Growling, Godren pushed past Seth and stalked through the corridors toward Ossen’s niche. His stride was heated and his head dizzy from lack of sleep, and his destination swam into his sight with jarring glimpses at the end of the last passage. Ossen, he found, had the nerve to be there. He was in the middle of doing something or other, but Godren didn’t pause to note what it was.

  “What are you doing on the ground?”

  “Technically, Godren, we’re underground,” Ossen pointed out.

  “You have a shift to attend.”

  “I just finished a shift,” Ossen objected.

  “Not a regular shift, Ossen – an extended one. When we survive is when you get to take a break.”

  “More like when I die. Would you have me fall off the walls when I fall asleep mid-shift?”

  “I frankly don’t care, so long as you’re doing your job. I’m only concerned for Mastodon’s safety.” Only then did Godren notice the overpowering smell occupying the stony niche. Ossen reeked of roses, and Godren’s brows drew together in a dangerous expression. “And what do you abandon duty for – drenching yourself in perfume? What is this, Ossen?”

  Ossen’s face immediately turned defensive. He was no longer so partial to Godren sharing his corner.

  “Climb a wall, Ossen. And stay there,” Godren ordered. “We’re encountering a shortage of surveillance as it is – don’t make me have someone keep an eye on you.”

  “You wouldn’t – not really. If there’s a shortage, you can’t afford to. You know that. I know that.”

  That was enough. Worth it or not, Godren could not let Ossen dance around so freely. “Alright. You two are switching posts every quarter hour,” he assigned Ossen and Seth. “Cross paths at the central bridge and exchange reports. Think you can handle that?”

  Ossen’s face was decidedly unhappy. He didn’t say anything, but it was evident that he desired to. Of course, what he wanted to say was clearly the opposite of obliging, and since he didn’t oblige, Godren drilled his eyes into him, waiting.

  “No?” Godren challenged.

  Ossen visibly gritted his teeth.

  “Take the first shift yourself,” Godren detailed, since Ossen wasn’t speaking. “Seth will join you. If he doesn’t find you there, you’d better be far away.”

  With that, he began turning to leave, letting Ossen make what he wanted to of the threat.

  “Your threats,” Ossen stopped him, “don’t mean anything to me.”

  Godren glanced over his shoulder. “Be there, Ossen.”

  “I won’t be.”

  That stopped him completely, and he faced his rival again. “Do not,” he said very evenly, “risk your position, let alone Mastodon’s own neck, for the sake of defying me, Ossen. It is not worth it.” That seemed to at least register, and Godren wondered if it was enough. “For the sake of us all, be on the walls tonight.”

  Godren could hear Ossen’s teeth gritting behind him as he turned away again, and he could feel those mordant eyes searing holes in the back of his skull.

  “I’m busy,” Ossen maintained through clenched jaws, voice hard and full of resentment.

  Pausing under the arch of the corridor, Godren glanced a little wonderingly over his shoulder. “With what?” he asked, interest pricked.

  “With none of your business, that’s what.”

  Godren recalled his absence last night as well, and wondered what he was getting up to away from Mastodon’s domain. “Tell that to Mastodon,” he said, and then he walked away.

  “Am I going back out?” Seth asked, right behind him.

  “Get some sleep first,” Godren directed.

  “I thought you only cared about Mastodon.”

  “Don’t quote me, Seth. You know you’re a special case.”

  “How much time are you giving me?”

  “An hour. Make the best of it.”

  They parted ways, and Godren returned to his post by Mastodon. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Ossen would bother to heed him or not, but his main focus stayed attentive to his own position.

  Two hours into his return shift, the rain started. He and Mastodon listened to it begin to hammer down on the ground above their heads, saying nothing. The clock was drowned out, and Godren watched the silent hands, as if it meant their wait was up. No longer would the seconds be measured and counted – it was soon time.

  The blood hummed in his hands as he watched the doors, his fingers hovering over his sheathed weapons.

  The whispering drone of the rain assaulted his ears, severing his ties to all sound outside the study. His nostrils burned with Mastodon’s incense, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. H
is senses, so on edge and tuned toward the things coming, were stunted and overburdened by the things around him, and his prudence was wasted.

  “Any minute now,” Mastodon murmured as midnight passed. Godren glanced at her. She didn’t offer anything more, and he absently traced the edge of his blade with a restless finger.

  Just listening to the rain made him feel like he should be drenched. He was so used to not being sheltered, so used to having nowhere to keep the weather at bay. Any other time, rain like this would mean being soaked to the bone. He wanted to shiver, but then wondered if that was just nerves.

  As he watched the silently significant hands make their little jerking rounds about the clock face, it seemed that time lengthened between counts. Was time slowing down? Or was the clock just about to die? That would be a decidedly foreboding effect.

  The rain came down harder over their heads. Mastodon sat still as a statue in her chair, a mask of utter cool fallen over her face.

  Suddenly, the doors burst open.

  In flourished a dramatic figure swathed in a wetly-billowing cloak, though how he managed to make it billow like that while sopping, Godren didn’t know. Dislodged water was flung all around him, and his upset cloak only fell away from its swirling and revealed his face, dark hair plastered all to it, when he was halfway through striding down the steps that led to Mastodon’s lower level.

  Godren tensed, but did not jump up to intercept him. Mastodon still had on her mask of cool, and Damious had no weapons in his hands – though Godren didn’t trust the concealing way his cloak flourished and fell around him.

  Damious did not pause when he reached Mastodon’s desk, but vaulted cleanly over and landed in a bowing crouch by her chair, presenting himself with all the dramatic graciousness in the world.

  That did it. Whatever his intentions were, vaulting over the desk was much too aggressive a move for Godren’s taste. Damious was suddenly much too close, and Godren was on him in an instant. The assassin had just opened his mouth when the dark blur that was Godren intervened and flung him aside, cutting off his attempt at words.

  Damious allowed himself to suffer the first blow, but then reacted and turned the tables, intent on putting Godren quickly in his place. He was clearly much more experienced, and infinitely more skilled, and Godren could feel his professional finesse slipping effortlessly through all of his own, crude cracks. He was not prepared to submit, though, and fought back with a fierce determination that he knew Mastodon would expect of him.

  Driven by his own fight for survival in this world, Godren was impassioned by a strong wave of possessiveness toward the woman behind the desk. He fought for her, driving Damious back regardless of the blows he took to himself. There was a violent flurry of forearms and fists, ducking and dodging, missing and hitting, in which Damious ended up back on the other side of the desk and Godren ended up covered in injuries. He concluded the tousle with a nice, resounding punch to Damious’s neck, though, and then brought out his knife between them as the stunned assassin was recovering.

  “Well,” Damious remarked, rubbing his neck. “You’ve certainly sparked the loyal reserves in this fellow.”

  Mastodon hadn’t moved a muscle the entire time. She smiled slightly at Damious’s observation. “Indeed I have. Hello, Damious.”

  “Hello, Xinna.”

  Godren took pause at the sound of that name, tempted to glance quizzically over his shoulder at Mastodon. Xinna? He had never actually given much thought to a real name beyond the one she went by in her world of business.

  “How’s business?” Mastodon asked.

  “Plentiful.”

  “You mean ‘boring’?”

  “Now, Xinna. What do you mean to imply by that?”

  Listening to the two of them start to carry casually on as if he weren’t huffing and puffing between them, having just been walloped by the very figure suddenly being friendly, Godren let out his breath in a whoosh of insignificant exasperation. What did I just get wailed on for, anyway? He glanced at his bleeding knuckles, thinking, Well that’s the last time I jump in uninvited. Next time, I’ll wait until she asks.

  “That you’re clearly after bigger game, here in my city, so you must have finally gotten bored,” Mastodon replied to Damious’s question.

  “Bigger game? And how do you know the significance of my late victims, eh?”

  “Damious, you insult me.”

  “Xinavane, you flatter yourself,” Damious corrected.

  Xinavane, Godren thought. Huh. Ignored between them, he began to feel a little foolish. But what could he do? Stepping aside would be a wry, embarrassing move, like he’d realized attacking Damious had had no point and he’d gotten all heated and acted all fiercely for nothing, but standing there defensively between them while they chatted just felt silly. Finally, shaking his head in perplexity and letting it go, he stepped aside.

  “Well, then you tell me why you’re here,” Mastodon suggested.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

  “I drink incense,” Mastodon said matter-of-factly, and Damious took in the smoke curling up from her desk.

  “Ah. Then I suppose I’ll just have to smoke some.” Pulling the chair closer, he sat and extended his hand, wanting an incense stick.

  “It’s expensive,” Mastodon said, making no move to oblige.

  Damious scoffed. “It’s smuggled, that’s what it is.” He waved his fingers impatiently, still wanting some.

  “You are not my guest, Damious.”

  “What am I?” he wanted to know, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and raising his feet onto her desk.

  “A complication.”

  “Ohh,” he said disappointedly, tsk-ing his tongue. “That’s not very nice.”

  “Tell me what you want and get out.”

  “But what I want is within your boundaries.”

  “You were never going to get what you want,” Mastodon informed him. “But I know you came here to tell me, and I wouldn’t want your trip to be completely wasted.”

  “No?”

  “Hmm. You’re welcome to just get out now,” she changed her mind.

  “Now, Xinna. Don’t be inhospitable. We could have a nice time, you and I. And your fellow over there in the corner.”

  “I think you’ve made a fairly lasting impression on Godren already,” Mastodon reminded him. “I think it was clear from the beginning how he felt about you.”

  Considering Godren, Damious scratched his chin in thought. “You’re right. I hardly walked through the door and he was trying to throw me out. Didn’t even wait until after introductions. Where I come from, that’s rude.”

  “He had plenty of an introduction,” Mastodon said. “I gave it to him.”

  Damious looked at Godren. “Did she tell you bad things about me?” he asked, appalled.

  “None at all,” Godren assured him sweetly, though the effect was rather spoiled by the fact that he spoke through nearly gritted teeth. “But if an introduction is all that we’re required to surpass before pursuing fatalities, well…let’s just say I didn’t like your name.”

  Clapping delightedly, Damious turned back to Mastodon. “He has spunk, Xinna. I like him.”

  “Good. You’ll like him even more when he sends you packing.”

  “Packing? I don’t go packing,” Damious said. “Besides, he’s just a puppy.”

  “He battles wolves with his bare hands,” Mastodon brought up. “Full-grown, rabid wolf seeking to tear his throat out. He’s no puppy.”

  Godren felt a little strange hearing Mastodon defend him, boasting on his behalf.

  “Wolves, eh? Well that’s something. But I won’t be sent packing, Xinna. Not this time.”

  “Then you tell me what’s going to play out. Since you seem to be on such confident terms with your future here.”

  “Well. First I’m going to encourage your little war with the bounty hunters, maybe pick a few favorites and play along with them. That sho
uld be fun. Then I’m going to bundle them all up and toss them skidding on their backsides to you, collect the prices you put on their heads, and then pause on my way out to really cut to the chase. Which, naturally – ironically, of course – has been none other than you all along.”

  Mastodon stared at him, her expression like dry ice. After a time, she blinked – but it was only once.

  Putting his hands casually behind his head, Damious blinked back at her, but his expression was considerably more cheerful. “What do you think? Brilliant, is it not?”

  “It’s hogwash.”

  Damious pouted. “I rather liked it,” he said defensively.

  “You are an idiot, Damious.”

  “A live one,” he pointed out.

  “What does that have to do with anything, you addlebrained dolt?”

  “I’ve been in the fatal business for decades, Xinavane. The fact that no one has gotten the better of me yet, that they’ve all fallen prey to the status of victim, suggests I’m not such an idiot after all. After all, they’re all dead – and I’m not.” He shrugged. “If you do the math, it just adds up to my obvious brightness.”

  “Nonsense. Idiots get lucky all the time. Besides, I never made a claim to your lack of intelligence – just your lack of wisdom.”

  “That’s nice,” Damious allowed, frowning.

  “I don’t know what makes you think you can take me on without a hitch,” Mastodon said, “but I never planned on going down easily for anyone, and I’m certainly not going to go down easily for you. You know you’ll regret this.”

  Sighing, Damious gazed at Mastodon. “This does bring back fond memories,” he remarked.

  “Good. Maybe sheltering these fantasies, you’ll fall doubly as hard.”

  “So bitter,” Damious observed disapprovingly. “Don’t you have any fond memories of me, and my undying, undeniable charm?”

  “I burned my memories,” Mastodon said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh. How unfortunate.”

  “You’re welcome to see yourself out now.”

  “What’s this – not even willing to accommodate me until the storm passes? I rebel against the suggestion.”