Wixon's Day Page 23

  “The fools don’t appreciate what Elzia offers.”

  “I’ve heard many damning words about Queen Elzia.”

  “Highness, not queen,” Copin corrects. “And I have heard similar of Felez. And of countless Estalians who have fought with all their worth for nothing but their freedom.”

  “It’s not for nothing. I have mine,” Qait rubs his hands together for warmth, “So does anyone that wishes to take it. You have yours, don’t you Marquos?”

  “I like to think so,” the pilot mutters.

  “Did the children in the Mines have theirs?” Copin snorts at Marquos.

  “The children that terrorise the streets?” Qait asks. “I once saw a gang of children stab an old man to death, before my very eyes. We can’t contain enough of them in those mines.”

  “The virtue of their age does not make them criminal in itself,” Copin replies with a snarl. “And the abuse they receive makes the abusers no better than the criminals.”

  “They are taken to the Mines on their own doing.”

  “They are stolen!” Copin thumps a fist into the wall. “You know it as well as I!”

  “The girl you took from me never did anything wrong,” Marquos says to Qait. “And you never cared. How can you live with that?”

  Qait shrugs, “Most of the world is suffering.”

  “I can’t stand this,” Marquos shakes his head, frustrated, and looks past Qait to Copin. He demands “How can you talk like this? How can you just stand here and argue with your sworn enemy? Share a boat with him?”

  All three passengers stare at the pilot, surprised, until Copin lets out a loud laugh. Hart joins in, a small chuckle on her behalf, and even Qait manages a smile, the two trackers exhibiting the most emotion Marquos has seen from either of them before. Copin responds in little less than a shout, “You are priceless, Marquos! I wish I could live in a world as simple as yours!”

  The pilot looks away, embarrassed and confused. They laugh at him for a moment more before calming down. Copin stumbles away, back into the cabin, commenting to himself on the splendid joke and deciding to get more glus. Qait gives Marquos’ shoulder a friendly tap and heads off after the Kand. Only Hart stays, leaning against the cabin wall, and looks the pilot up and down.

  “Meaningless bloodshed is for the bandits, Marq,” she explains, folding her arms. “We will not win this war by killing our opposition.”

  “And when we get back south, and Qait goes away to tell the Border Guard where we are?” Marquos replies.

  “There is no profit in that for him. He came up here to find out about Rosenbault. He knows we would not simply lead him back to the Kands if he followed us, so he will not. This is the North, Marq. We’re in the Deadland. Our feud does not stretch this far.”

  Marquos is not satisfied, “What do you get out of having him here?”

  “We lead lonely lives,” Hart says, “His company is enough.”

  The pilot looks into her eyes and sees what she is saying. He relaxes slightly, his own eyes drooping in realisation. Hart gives him a small smile, a brief moment of vulnerability that confirms what he is thinking. Life is not enough. Activity and experience, even achievement, cannot fully satisfy. Sometimes companionship, even with the enemy, fills a void no lonely pursuit can. Perspective and opinion, differences and nuances, all the things that a person cannot create for themselves. Marquos answers slowly, “Even if he can’t be trusted.”

  Hart looks out ahead of the boat, into the dark, where the water is splashing against lower rocks, and the stream is starting to slow. She notes “We’ll be in Yerth before long. I suggest we find somewhere to moor and wait for the light.”

  “You don’t think Iva will be waiting for us?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Hart turns away. “Come on, we’ll make an evening out of it.”

  Marquos’ supply of the drink begins to run dry, and Copin has little more to offer, but the four travellers are relaxed enough to share stories of all they have seen. Copin has tales of fighting and treachery, where deceit and strategy has been a driving force behind his movements. He talks of out-manoeuvring political enemies, every one of them promoted as a laughable caricature, with so much mockery and laughter that it’s hard to take any of his dark tales seriously.

  Qait’s tales are often simple and basic, hinting at stories of worldly importance that he does not care to dwell on. His briefness is through disinterest, a man more interested in the challenge of tracking than he is in the details of his target. He may have located some of the most dangerous minds in the Empire, be responsible for halting large-scale violence, possibly causing it, but he does not consider these things. He only grows animated talking about the terrain he has moved over and the means he used to do it. With such short comments on each, he covers travels across all the known world. It seems strange to be able to discuss the Eastern Tracts, the Afta Southern Boundaries, the Norfield Swamps, the West Country Caverns, and have the recipient be able to relate to the conversation. They laugh and joke, knowing they are speaking for once not as story-tellers, but sharing these experiences. It makes Marquos smile. Rarely does he encounter such a group.

  18

  The pre-dawn light of murky blue casts crumbling silhouettes of walls half-standing and exposed metal framework, a veritable corpse of a city. Hart and Qait have left the boat, disappeared into the distance to keep their tracker watch, and Marquos and Copin stand together at the stern. The river into the city is wide and calm, a casual drift between flanks of abandoned buildings. Where the bricks and mortar have crumbled and become rough, small patches of damp moss have grown over the walls in dark shades of green. Everything seems to have fallen apart, all the walkways and roads are littered with rubble, and all has rested together for so long that it looks like a slowly dissolving single mass.

  Heeding Iva’s warnings, the pair punt the boat through the city in silence. Copin has his club, Marquos has the pistol, and both watch their surroundings carefully. The pilot is well aware that the Kand has no more weapons to bribe the bandits with, but has adopted Copin’s confidence that they can fight their way back through, if they have to. He has already told the group he had a plan.

  “I’d like to hear it,” Hart had said, arms folded.

  “They’ll listen to diplomacy; they were open enough to discussion first time around. And besides, they’ll be carrying those lovely new guns I gave them, probably waiting to test them on someone. That’ll give them a surprise.”

  “If they’ve already tested them?”

  “Then we won’t have much to worry about. Look,” Copin gave her a grin, “They only fronted so tough to the white-faces because they took them by surprise. If we get talking to them, they might attack us but they’re not going to catch us off-guard. And that’s even enough footing for me.”

  “It’s unnecessary,” Hart replied indignantly. “We can move through the city on foot, they’ll never know we were there.”

  “And walk back south?” Copin let out a belly laugh, “I’d rather die!”

  “That much is clear!”

  Copin glared at her with less humour in his eyes, and slowly reiterated, “I’m not going to let a gang of blaggards stand in my way. One Kand is worth a hundred of them, and I’ll show it to you with notches on my club. Now are you going to help us through, or stand complaining about how afraid you are?”

  Hart huffed and stared back at him. She looked over Marquos and Qait for their opinions, but received no support. The pilot was trembling at the thought of an almost inevitable fight, but trusted in Copin’s assurance. They had made it through once before, after all, and how could he face leaving the Hypnagogia behind? He responded to Hart’s comments quietly, “We might not even see them, if we don’t run the engine.”

  “They’ll be waiting for us,” Hart growled.

  “We’ll jump ship,” Qait said, “You and me. Skirt the edge of the waterways and keep a look-out.”

  “Yeah,” Copin said, �
��And if we don’t make it you can still wander off on your own. Feel free. Everyone wins.”

  Hart went quiet, looking at all three men with equal irritation. She turned away, and Marquos offered, “We made it through before…”

  “We didn’t come this far just to leave the boat here,” Copin added, firmer.

  Hart eventually relented, not happy about the plan, and stuck to Qait’s idea. They all had doubts that she would offer any help if a fight arose, but no one was going to force her to stay on board. Still, as they float towards Yerth, Marquos believes she is watching over them. Qait too. Copin wears a grin, rolling his club over in his grip, itching for trouble. It is hard to feel afraid when the Kand is so sure of himself.

  Iva greets them as the turn into the canal becomes clear, the dawn blue subsiding to grey daylight. He slips out from a building, gun raised, and calls out to them to pull over. Marquos looks to Copin and the Kand nods to say it’s safe. The pilot hesitates, saying “We could just carry on through…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Copin replies. “They’ll trap us if we do. Come on, they’ll be reasonable, don’t worry.”

  Marquos steers the boat to the side of the river and Iva’s small group of bandits come out to moor it. Iva stands by the stern, gun still ominously raised, and five of his men loiter casually nearby. They are armed with the weapons that Copin gave them, a range of eclectic tubular devices with complex levers and triggers. Iva alone is carrying his original weapon.

  “You still have girl out there?” Iva gestures with his head to their surroundings. “It’s not needed, we control this city well enough.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Copin smiles.

  “Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Iva goes on, “Or at all. That means you found what you looked for.”

  “We found enough to turn back,” Copin says. “Soon as we get out of the city we’ll show you.”

  Iva leers, “I don’t think we need to wait.”

  “Sure, sure,” Copin continues to smile, simply not accepting the threat.

  “Did you leave anything up there?” Iva asks, “Up in the mountains?”

  “You’re welcome to go look,” Copin says. “We won’t be back.”

  “True you won’t. Now get off the boat, we don’t want to make a mess of it, do we?” Iva points to the rubble bank with his gun. Marquos takes a small step back, tightening his grip on the pistol in his pocket. The bandit says, “Don’t waste me time.”

  “Come on,” Copin sighs, jumping to the bank.

  “Leave that,” Iva looks to the club in Copin’s hands. The Kand pauses for a moment, then throws the weapon back onto the deck. He walks towards the centre of the group of bandits and spreads his arms, “What do you want from us?”

  “Copin are you-” Marquos begins, but freezes as Iva swings the gun around to his face. The bandit lifts a hand towards the bank, and the pilot slowly edges off the boat, shuffles towards Copin. The Kand is unafraid, and shouts out “Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?”

  “Fools,” Iva replies. “Let’s see how good these tools you gave us are.” Iva points to one of his men, saying “Hit him clean in the head. We’ll get a lot of meat off this one.”

  The bandit takes a step towards Copin. Marquos is rooted to the spot, staring at the weapon in the bandit’s hands, a massive metal cylinder, only a foot long with a tiny handle. The exit point of the weapon is a funnelled end that the bandit holds up to Copin’s head. The Kand grits his teeth, bracing himself, and lets out a warbling, angry snarl. He says “You’re making a big mistake, Iva.”

  “Do it,” Iva shrugs. The bandit pulls the trigger and chaos comes with it. The gun explodes in a cloud of smoke, the wide rear-end bursting out and shards of metal cloud over the bandits. Its owner drops back with half of his face missing. As the rest of the bandits fluster, some struck down by the flying debris, Copin rolls aside and whips a small sword from one of them. Another bandit raises one of the gift guns and fires without thinking. Another explosion. The whole bank is plummeted into smoke; coughing and screaming fill the air. Marquos covers his mouth, pulling the revolver out, and spins in the smoke. He can hear footfalls nearby and raises the gun.

  “Where are they?” one of the bandits yells out, “I don’t see! I don’t see-”

  Marquos points the gun in the direction of the voice and pulls the trigger. It recoils in his hand, a small flame bursting from the tip as it sprays metal. The makeshift bullet spits off into the smoke, inspiring further cries from the bandits. Marquos ducks, spins on the spot, aims his gun to the disorientating sounds and a waving a hand to dissipate the smoke.

  “Stop shooting you idiots!” Iva’s voice growls.

  Marquos ducks aside and flaps his hands, trying to get to the buildings. He slams into an unseen body and the pair fall to the floor. Crashed to halt, he looks into the goggles of a masked bandit, who throws two throttling hands up. The pair roll as they grapple, Marquos jamming one hand onto the bandit’s. Gagging, Marquos’ grip is loosened and the revolver slips away from him. The bandit shakes his neck, banging his head into the floor, and Marquos flails a fist into the side of the attacker’s face. The blow throws the bandit aside, and the pilot grabs out for the pistol, lifting it and turning back just as his enemy leaps forward again. Marquos pulls the trigger. Metal splits colourfully through the lens of the goggles, and the bandit is thrown backwards in a cloud of blood.

  “Stop shooting!” Iva yells, on the move through the smoke. His voice has given him away, and he is struck, letting out a shout and rolling across the rubble. The smoke starts to clear, and Marquos pushes himself up on the floor, scanning the surrounding dark shapes for friend or foe. A short distance to one side, he sees the bulk of Copin pinning the bandit leader to the floor, slamming a fist down into Iva’s face. Another bandit runs up behind Copin, raising a sword, and Marquos quickly aims and fires. The attacker drops, clutching his arm, and lets out a horrific scream, making Copin pause and look up. It is enough time for Iva to shove him back and roll free, swinging his gun up from the floor. Copin is thrown back by a shot, his shoulder bursting open in a mess of exploding flesh and fabric. As the Kand cries out in pain, Marquos cries out in anger and leaps the short distance to Iva, smashing his pistol into the bandit’s eye. Marquos continues to yell, smashing the pistol down again and again, not stopping until Iva is completely motionless. He stands up shaking, holding the pistol tightly in his hand, and stares with horror at Iva’s body, the head caved into a shattered and mangled mess of blood.

  Marquos takes an unsteady step back and almost slips from nerves. He spins on his heel, raising the gun again, and sees the remainder of Iva’s bandits are staring at him in stunned silence. Two or three writhe on the ground in agony, a few more lay motionless, but a good five of them stand in the clearing smoke with swords in their hands, unable to move for the alarm at seeing their leader so brutally murdered. Marquos points his pistol at them, swinging it frantically from one bandit to another, as he steps over to Copin. The Kand has his good hand pressed into his bad shoulder, bleeding profusely as he kicks and groans in pain.

  “Get back!” Marquos screams at the bandits. “All of you stay back!” They do not move, and he bends down to Copin, stuttering “Are you okay? Can you stand?”

  In too much pain to talk, Copin lifts his good arm over Marquos shoulder and squeezes, making a loud anguished snarl, and the pilot hauls him to his feet. Marquos takes a few steps back, holding the Kand up, gun still raised. The bandits stand between them and the boat. They start to exchange glances with one another. One of them takes a step towards Marquos, preparing his sword, and the pilot instantly fires, the bullet tearing through the man’s chest and knocking him to the floor with a tremendous bang. The others jump back.

  “I said don’t move!” Marquos shrieks at them, his voice strained from nervous fear. He moves towards the bandits, carrying Copin, and they move around him. Heading towards the boat, pistol outstretched, his hand shakes.
Copin is growing weak against him, his groans quieter.

  “Not one move,” Qait’s voice cuts into the scene from one of the buildings. All eyes turn to see him leaning against a wall in his goggles and mask, rifle aimed at a bandit whose hand had slipped towards a knife. The tracker steps out into the open, panning around the bandits, and Marquos continues towards the boat. Qait quickly catches up. The tracker whispers into his ear, “There’s too many of them. Much more out there.”

  Marquos looks at him, worried, and sees that Qait’s goggles are dripping with blood, his clothes stained. The tracker slips past, jumping onto the boat, and keeps his rifle cocked against his hip as he uses his free hand to cut the mooring lines. Marquos hauls Copin onto the deck and lays him down, keeping his eyes on the bandits the whole while. As soon as Qait has cut all the ropes, the tracker rushes to the rear of the boat and leans on the tiller, saying “We’re leaving. Fast.”

  “Hart?” Marquos whispers.

  “Can handle herself,” Qait says, “Get moving. They’re not going to wait long.”

  Marquos turns away from him and jumps down the stairs into the cabin, hurrying to stoke the fire. He sparks it alive and starts shovelling in coals, listening carefully for any movement above. As the boiler starts to steam, he runs up to the deck and skids down next to Copin, seeing the Kand struggling to keep his eyes open as he lies twitching. The pilot stares at the gaping wound in Copin’s shoulder, the blood still spewing out of it, and can do nothing but cringe. Marquos takes the tiller, releasing the throttle. The Hypnagogia’s engine roars and water sprays up behind it as the boat swerves out from the bank. The moment it moves, the bandits charge forwards. Qait fires off a clear shot through one of their skulls and spins his rifle around to catch the nearest bandit leaping at the vessel. The butt smacks the bandit back, leaving the attacker tumbling into the water. A third bandit throws a knife and the tracker ducks back so it barely nicks his face. Holding a hand up to the point of contact, Qait drops against the wall of the cabin and winces, his rifle slipping from his grip. Another knife slams into the wall next to him. Marquos fires his pistol at the approaching bandits, causing them to dodge and weave, but his bullets all miss. The gun clicks empty and he throws it down, concentrating on guiding the boat as far out into the river as possible. Out of range of the bandits’ knives, they propel away. Qait crawls to Copin, ripping off his mask and winding it around the wound.