Walk a Lonesome Road Page 18

  “I did.”

  “Yes, and I made it worse. I’m sorry,” he says, deliberately taking Dek’s wrist in his hand and holding it tight. “You’ve taken such an enormous risk for me, and you don’t have any proof, like you said, of who I am or my background.”

  Dek allows the touch, but he doesn’t know what to say. He fucked up badly. Why doesn’t Ren hate him?

  “I forgot how bad you are with people, how your training, your history, affects your reactions, and yet I expected you to make those allowances for me. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise to me,” Dek growls, his voice scratchy with emotion.

  “But I owe you an apology, as you apologised to me. I accepted it, I forgive you. Can you forgive me?”

  Dek stares into Ren’s weird eyes, the only beautiful thing left in his face after the ravages of imprisonment and pregnancy, and thinks, if there was time, he might even find his redemption there. But all he does is put his free hand over Ren’s and pats it carefully. “We’re done with this. No more crap.”

  “And I still talk too much, right?” Dek can’t help but smile a little at Ren’s wide grin. Ren forgives him when the rest of the world would not, has not. Cast him aside as broken and useless. But he’s not useless or too broken to be concerned with in this man’s eyes.

  “You hungry?” Dek asks, even though he’d left some pastries of dubious quality with Ren back in the room.

  “Yes, I believe I am. Eating for two, don’t you know.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “That’s why I did,” Ren says, his grin growing wider. “Just to make you happy.”

  “Nitwit.”

  “Always. Come on, show me where we buy the mystery meat parcels.”

  Walk A Lonesome Road: 19

  After weeks and weeks of near constant stress, exertion and danger, it feels very odd to have nothing better to do than to check on the animals from time to time, stroll on the deck, buy weird tasting but not unpleasant food, and sleep. There’s fresh fruit and vegetables to be had which Ren seizes on with glee, saying it’s about time his poor colon had a chance to fight back. “Take that, you little brat,” he says, biting into a crisp gero fruit, bought at ridiculous cost from a vendor selling goods brought up from the coast. Never has Dek spent money with more pleasure.

  The rest is good for Ren, if all too brief, and it still astonishes Dek when he thinks of how far they’ve come with him in this condition, what he’s endured—what they’ve both endured. There’s still the problem of what to do in the port, but he’s got a few ideas about that, and Kazmi Harno gave him some highly unofficial and off the record tips about the people smuggling going on from Jurgizme Port. That certain bars were the place to enquire if you need discreet passage out of Febkeinzian was an open secret. Harno said the army periodically went through and tried to clean the place up, but with the war, the forces were stretched too tight. “Carry your gun, and don’t wave your money around,” Harno advised. “There’s very little law in that part of the city.”

  Dek had thanked him and assured him he could handle himself. But Ren’s another issue—Dek will have to handle this mission solo. Ren’s fast with a gun but moves too slow now to be much use in a fight. Ren accepts that, and knows also that he’s too distinctive in appearance to show himself freely where there might be Pindoni agents around.

  They arrive in the late afternoon, six days after leaving the army cam. The first thing Dek buys is a map of the city from a street stall, before they set off to the quarter where suitable inns had been suggested. The city’s full of military transports and narrow-eyed, unsmiling soldiers, coming out of the field, going back into it, uniforms clean but ragged, like their souls. The civilians seem curiously unaffected but then they’ve been living with violence for a long time, and at least the residents of this town know they’re just a boat ride away from freedom if they need it. Dek’s never been here before, but it had a reputation of being a lively, dangerous place where almost anything could be bought for a price, including life or death. The war’s unlikely to have changed that much.

  They’re stopped by a suspicious kazmi on account of their foreign appearance, but Reteri Guei’s bona fides are accepted and they’re waved on their way with a warning to stay out of trouble. The first inn is full, the second has rooms, and decent stables, which is Dek’s other requirement. He hands over a sum to the skinny stable boy for feed and grooming, and impresses on him that these three animals are very precious to him. The boy coos over Jesti’s thick mountain pelt and tickles Wuzi under the chin the way he loves, and Dek’s confident that the urtibes will be happy here for a few days.

  There’s no point in delaying. He settles Ren in their bare, dingy room with food, fruit juice and tea, and tells him to keep his handgun and the rifle at hand at all times. “If someone comes and doesn’t identify themselves, don’t open the door. If you don’t trust them, don’t open the door.” Ren gives him a pitying look for that. “And if they come in against your will, shoot ‘em. We’ll have to deal with the consequences afterwards.”

  “You realise you’re scaring the hell out of me again?”

  Dek’s serious. “Yes. Be scared. Stay alive.”

  “You too,” Ren says quietly. Dek nods and leaves, hoping Ren will be safe and still there when he returns.

  The inn is, by intent, a good pardec from the area Harno suggested they might make useful contacts, and Dek thinks about taking Jesti before deciding against risking her. Urtibes aren’t speedy creatures, though their stamina is legendary—he won’t be making any swift escapes on her hairy back, for sure. Instead he walks, his hand discreetly over the butt of his gun the entire time, and tries not to flinch as people brush past him. He hasn’t been in a city since the aftermath of the ambush, and this place reminds him unpleasantly of Denebwei. He’s desperately hoping not to suffer a flashback, not that he has any control over them—they’ve been mostly absent on the trip here, whether because of Ren or because he had something to focus on, he doesn’t know. But this is precisely the kind of remembered environment—crowded, poor, dangerous—he was fleeing when he bought his house. “Hold it together,” he mutters as he walks into the first bar.

  He attracts a lot of curiosity as he walks in. He’s seen a few Pindonis around the city, but this cramped, smelly bar is locals only. He’s surprised—and relieved—to find this tiny place actually sells temlido. He orders a glass, manages not to blanch at the price, and then takes it over to a table. It’s not long before someone takes the bait. A big man with broken teeth and a belt knife that looks more a like a sword, lumbers over and sits down without waiting for an invitation. “You should be drinking buga,” he rumbles. “A man’s drink.”

  “I prefer this,” Dek says, not rising to the bait.

  “That stuff’s for girls.” Dek just shrugs. “Pindoni. Name?”

  “Wechel hon Gezi,” Dek says. There’s not a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes. “Just passing through.”

  He makes himself sound dull and slightly stupid, and the man gets bored. Half an hour later, someone else approaches and Dek tries the same gambit, with no better luck. After three hours, he decides to move on, ambling out like the idler he’s pretending to be, keeping an eye out for anyone following what they might see as easy pickings, but no one does.

  The second bar is busier because it’s later in the day and those with jobs and money are eager to spend it. He has to nurse his drink for nearly an hour before anyone comes near him. When they do, he gives his alias readily and with a jolt, sees an instant reaction, quickly suppressed, in the man’s eyes. “Wechel hon Gezi? An unusual name, my friend. Your own?”

  “What do you think?” Dek says, smiling at his companion. He’s a thin, brown-skinned man, clean-shaven which is unusual in this city, and dressed in a clean, old-fashioned suit.

  The stranger bares perfect white teeth. “I think you’re a careful man, and wise too. Why do you come to this place? The Pind
oni bars are in Stretia, on the other side of the city.”

  “Because I was told I could find what I was looking for here.”

  “Which would be?”

  “Transport. For someone who needs a particularly quiet boat trip across the Northern sea...say as far as Ursiq?”

  “Hmmm. That’s a very long trip, my friend. You would need a lot of funds to cover your living expenses while on the water.”

  Dek sits back in his chair, smiles lazily. “Not a problem. Also not for me. I have a talented friend who could do with a holiday.”

  The man’s eyes flicker as Dek says ‘talented’, but to Dek’s surprise, he shakes his head. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for, my friend, but I cannot help you. I think you might have better luck at the Oseri.”

  That’s next on Dek’s list. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “No problem. Perhaps I can help you next time you visit our lovely city.”

  Dek arches an eyebrow at the ‘lovely’. “Sure. Next time.”

  The Oseri is a little further away than he’s happy with, conscious of how far he already is from the inn, but with a tip that definite, he can’t avoid going there. He keeps an eye out again, and when he hears footsteps behind him in the dimly lit street, he puts a hand on his gun.

  “Wechel hon Gezi?”

  He waits until the footsteps stop, moves on a little way before he turns, and makes it obvious he’s carrying. “Yeah. Who wants to know?”

  He’s facing another guy in a suit—a much better suit, though still old-fashioned. He doesn’t look Febkeinze with his light colouring, but his accent sounds authentic. “My name isn’t important at this time, nor is your real one. Tell me about the person who needs to travel to Ursiq.”

  “Can you help me? Him?”

  “It depends on how ‘talented’ he is.”

  “Very. Twice as talented as most, in fact.”

  The man hisses in a breath in shock. “Is he someone with a tattoo?”

  “Yeah. That’s the Pindoni way, you know that. Can you help?”

  “I need to meet him. Can you arrange this?”

  “Yeah,” Dek says cautiously. “Name a place and time, be there alone. I’ll be supervising.”

  “As you wish.”

  He pulls out a slim notebook and scribbles out the information. He goes to hand Dek the note and is about to touch his arm, but Dek moves back. “Uh uh. You’re probably talented too. You keep your hands to yourself and put the paper on that ledge. If I see you touching my friend when you meet, I’ll shoot you, do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.” He smiles in a knowing way as Dek retrieves the slip of paper.

  “Now, can you make this happen or are you just some middleman, because I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “If your friend checks out, this can happen very quickly. He should bring what he needs for his journey with him.” He steps closer—Dek brings his gun out and holds it between them. The man doesn’t seem bothered by the explicit threat. “Do not mention this matter to anyone. Go home, and do not approach anyone else. You’re endangering him by asking around.”

  “And how do I know you’re for real?”

  “You don’t. But I know who the real Wechel hon Gezi was, and if your friend knows of him, then he will know what the Dual Soul is. Ask him. Be on time.” The man turns and disappears into the shadows of an alley leading onto the little street.

  Dek slips the paper into his pocket and holsters his gun, though he keeps his hand over the butt. Is this real? Have they made contact so soon?

  His hands are shaking slightly. He’s out of practice with this stuff. He just hopes it’s been worth it.

  Walk A Lonesome Road: 20

  Dek’s glad to see Ren’s cautious about letting him in, even with the coded knock and his identification—he finds himself facing a pistol as the door swings open, though Ren quickly holsters it. “You found someone?” he says, eyes going wide and dark under the dim bare bulb that’s their only illumination. “So soon?”

  “Apparently.” Dek sits down on of the two battered wooden chairs the room offers and tugs off his boots. His leg is killing him. Ren drags over another chair and without asking, props Dek’s bad leg up on his knee and begins to massage it, strong, capable fingers digging into aching, tight muscles. For a moment, Dek’s too astonished to say anything, but then he remembers what he needs to ask. “He gave me a verification code. Who or what is the ‘Dual Soul’?” Marra’s balls, what Ren’s doing feels good.

  “What? The Dual Soul, did you say?” Dek nods, watching Ren’s face. “Uh...that’s me.”

  “What?”

  Ren winces as if embarrassed. “It’s more of Wechel hon Gezi’s nuttiness. Apparently my twin talents only crop up in a single individual in any one lifetime—or so he thought, no one’s proved it—and it was one of the things he decided was proof that the human spirits were tied to paranormal talents. The Spiritists believe that too—that talents follow the spirit, though they don’t go as far as he did to say that those without a talent have no spirit, no soul.”

  “And?” Dek asks. He hates this kind of mystical crap.

  “And...that’s it, really. I’m like the walking validation of their beliefs or something. I only know about it because a couple of times people have mentioned it to me in a sarcastic way—like ‘Ren thinks he’s special because he’s the Dual Soul’ kind of thing. Teasing. Most of the Spiritists think it’s rot. The fact I’m an empath’s more important to them, though I don’t really care for that much either. Dek—it means these people really are followers of Wechel hon Gezi. Are they going to help us?” He keeps up the careful massage of Dek’s calf and Dek almost groans with pleasure.

  “You, at least.” He pulls out the piece of paper. “You’re supposed to meet up tomorrow. I don’t like you going along with some religious nuts, though.”

  Ren shrugs. “If the only choice is between religious nuts who worship me for my talents, and scientific psychos who want to cut me up for my sperm, you think there’s any chance of me going with the psychos?”

  “I could keep asking around....”

  Ren gently squeezes his ankle. “These are the people we were looking for, Dek. No one else is going to help, and I’m running out of time. I don’t think they’ll hurt me. You...I’m not so sure about.”

  Neither is Dek. “They said to be ready to leave after you meet.”

  “So soon?” Ren looks shocked. “I...uh....”

  “You said yourself, we’re running out of time.” Ren’s still stricken, and Dek doesn’t understand why. “We can find another way.”

  “Uh, no. No, we have to...I have to...I just thought we’d have more time to...you know, say goodbye and stuff. I thought we’d have a week at least.”

  “Better this way,” Dek says, though he knows what Ren means. “You better sort out what you want to take. You have the money you’re carrying....”

  “Dek, no, you need it!”

  He leans forward and puts his hand on Ren’s wrist, stares into eyes that are strangely overbright. “No. For your future. I want you to have it. I wish it was more.”

  “Dek....” Ren scrubs at his eyes with his free hand. “Fuck it. Sorry.” He looks up and smiles in a painful, forced way. “Thanks. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

  “No accounts between friends,” Dek says. He swings his leg awkwardly off Ren’s knee and stands up slowly. “Let’s sort out the packs. Did you eat? I’ll make some tea.”

  He doesn’t want to talk about it, Ren leaving. Doesn’t want protestations of gratitude or friendship. Doesn’t want this to hurt so fucking much, or to be so worried about what’s going to happen to Ren. He hadn’t wanted any of this, when he agreed to bring Ren here. He tries to focus on the practical, but it’s impossible to avoid the subject completely. Even things like whether Ren should keep the clothes Dek made for him, the new boots, keep forcing them to confront the reality. He pretends he can’t see how upset Ren is, or
that he’s not upset himself. Now more than ever he needs to lock down, or he won’t get through this at all.

  They’re supposed to rendezvous not long after dawn, before the streets get busy, near the city administration building. Dek tells Ren he needs his rest and orders him to bed, but it’s for Dek’s benefit more than Ren’s because he just wants this over and done with. Everything hurts worse for thinking about it, in his experience.

  The room is supplied with twin beds—Dek takes the one near the door out of ingrained habit. When Ren’s lying down, Dek turns off the light and pads back to his own bed, pulls the thin covers over him. His brain is working overtime, and he can’t stop fretting. He doesn’t trust these people. What if it’s a trick? What if all the paranormals they thought went to the Weadenal before disappearing, were just being tipped over the side of a ship out in mid-ocean? He can’t...he doesn’t want...fuck, if that happens to Ren....

  “Dek?” The whisper’s quiet, but it’s still loud as gunshot in the silence.

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Can’t.” He hears Ren moving around, getting out of bed. Soft footsteps in the dark across the wooden floors, and then there’s a weight at the end of the bed. “I know it’s a lot to ask...but can I sleep with you tonight? Just...one more time. I feel so cold, and I’m scared.”

  He can hear tears in Ren’s voice and it nearly breaks him. “Get in,” he says gruffly. For weeks and weeks they’ve slept like this, and to tell the truth, he’s cold and scared too.

  The bed’s not nearly wide enough for this, but Ren presses close, face to face, his belly like having a third person in bed with him. He searches for and finds Dek’s hand, squeezes it tight. He doesn’t say anything, which isn’t like him at all, but it’s as if he is speaking, using his touch to tell Dek all that’s in his heart. “Go to sleep,” Dek says as kindly as he can.

  Ren moves in, leans his forehead against Dek’s. “You’ve blessed me, Dekan hon Cerimwe.”