Two evenings later, Ray sat on the Shingle’s porch bench, losing a slow fight with a meat pie. Every bite tugged something under the bandages, leaving him to chew like an old man with strong opinions.
"Eat the pie or stop glaring at it, boy, you’re scaring my customers," Dredge grunted from the doorway, leaning on his mop.
"Your customers are two drunks and a goat," Ray said, wincing as the laugh reached his side, "though I think the business will survive the shock."
"Goat pays on the first of the month, which is more than I can say for you."
"The goat also smells better than your stew, but I’m far too injured to fight you about it tonight."
Inside, the two drunks raised their mugs to the goat as it chewed a corner of the tablecloth.
Then the lane went quiet, the way streets do right before somebody does something stupid.
Rogan came up the lane with three hirelings behind him, his shoulder still strapped from their meeting in the scree. The magistrate released him on a fine earlier this week, which in Kelford meant he could buy grudges on credit.
’Three hirelings and a long knife are all I can see, so the man I can’t see is the one who matters.’
"You took my purse, my men and my good name in this town, wand-boy," Rogan spat, sliding a long knife from his belt, "but tonight I take every bit of it back."
"Technically, I took her purse back from you, making your whole grudge a very creative piece of accounting," he said, licking gravy off his thumb.
"Tch, laugh while you can, funny man, since nobody in Kelford mourns a stranger with noisy sticks."
"Half this town drank clean water this week on my account... so I’d say the mourning is pretty well covered."
The three hirelings fanned out across the lane, one glancing nervously at the old man in the doorway.
Ray looked them over like a man reading a menu, "Two silver a head for three hired swords, plus a knife I’d price at four on a generous day, means you spent ten silver to lose tonight."
Dredge stepped onto the porch with the old ironwood mop held across his body like a halberd, "Nobody bleeds under my roof, house rule, take it to the street."
"Stay out of it, old man, this was never your business," Rogan snarled, swinging the knife toward the porch.
"My porch is my business, starting with the bottom step under your feet."
The nervous hireling took one step back from the porch, deciding the pay was not worth an old man’s mop.
He set the pie down on the bench with genuine grief, "Fine, but if anybody steps on this damn pie, I’m adding it to the bill with interest, since it had a family."
[ THREAT TAGS ]
[Count: 5]
[Crossbow: Balcony, Behind Lamp Post]
[Line of Fire: Blocked]
’That sneaky bastard parked his bow exactly where my ribs won’t let me turn, which makes him smarter than his haircut.’
The biggest hireling hefted a club, rolling his shoulders as he stepped up to the bottom step.
"Buddy, I’d think very hard about where that club is going before you—"
The club came anyway, a wide swing aimed straight at the bandaged side of his ribs.
Ray stepped into the swing instead of turning, jamming his forearm into the big man’s throat. The hireling folded around the blow while a one-armed shove dumped his partner into the gutter.
’That shove used to need my whole weight, but since the trough it barely takes one arm.’
A crossbow string creaked somewhere behind the lamp post, right where his ribs refused to let him look.
’I can’t turn to see him, so the bullet will have to do the turning for me.’
He drew Payday without twisting an inch, painting a hooked line on his HUD around the lamp post.
[ CURVESHOT ]
[Path Locked]
[Mana: 85/90]
The round left the barrel aimed at nothing, bent hard around the post, then took the crossbowman through the shoulder. His bolt thunked into the Shingle’s sign as he pitched screaming off the balcony, landing in the rain barrel below.
"Aghhh, my shoulder, somebody get me out of this barrel!"
"Holy hell, please tell me somebody saw that, given that I physically cannot turn around to check!" Ray yelled, still facing straight ahead.
"I saw it, boy, now stop showing off and watch the one with the knife."
Rogan came in low while Ray was still crowing, the knife driving for his bandaged side with pure, ugly spite. He caught the wrist with his left hand, keeping his body square as he pressed the muzzle under Rogan’s chin.
The grin left Ray’s face all at once, like a lamp turned down to nothing.
Inside, the goat stopped chewing, the tablecloth still hanging from its mouth as both drunks lowered their mugs. Dredge, a man who stared down worse than knives, shifted half a step back before he caught himself.
Rogan felt it last, through the cold ring of the barrel, his knife hand going slack around the hilt.
’The big one is still folded on the step and the bowman is still in his barrel, so this ends with him.’
"You still have a road out of town, Rogan, though it closes the moment that knife moves," he said quietly.
"You don’t get to walk away clean, wand-boy, not after what you did to me in the scree!"
Rogan twisted the knife toward his ribs anyway, throwing his whole weight behind the blade.
Ray fired once, a single flat crack under the jaw, releasing the wrist before the body knew it was finished.
Rogan dropped into the street a foot short of the bottom step, the long knife clattering into the gutter.
For one breath the old name sat behind Ray’s eyes, the name men on another world only whispered, Baba Yaga.
The hirelings still standing took one look at the man on the step, fleeing without even collecting their pay. The crossbowman crawled out of the rain barrel after them, dripping and cursing all the way down the lane.
"Body’s in the street, rule holds," the old man grunted, leaning on the mop, "now fetch the watch before it stinks."
Ray blinked, the grin wandering back onto his face, sheepish and a little lopsided.
"Thanks for the backup, by the way, though that mop is honestly the scariest weapon on this street."
"Mop did nothing, boy, you did," he said, turning back inside without another glance at the body.
Sergeant Bram of the watch arrived soon after with two watchmen, sighing at the sight of Rogan in the street.
"I told the magistrate a fine would never hold that one, lad," the sergeant said, scratching his beard, "so I’ll write it up as self-defense and save us all the trouble."
"Self-defense happens to be my favorite kind of report, short and sweet with no follow-up questions."
"Short suits me fine, lad, seeing as every report from my gate lands on a magistrate who hates long ones."
Bram nudged the dropped knife with his toe, "And what do I write down for the crossbowman who ran off down the lane with a hole in his shoulder?"
"Write that he fell off a balcony into a rain barrel, every word of it true."
"I’ll write that he slipped, lad, and pretend I never saw a bolt sticking out of that sign."
Ray pried the bolt out of the Shingle’s sign, weighing it in his palm, "Decent fletching with a steel head, worth a silver for the bolt alone, means somebody paid real money for this ambush."
Ray rescued his pie from the bench, finding it untouched by blood, mud or any of the fleeing hirelings.
"The pie survived without a scratch, which proves this was a perfectly safe evening for everyone in—"
His side seized mid-bite, the whole street tilting grey around the edges as the pie slid from his fingers.
Yuzu arrived at a run with her satchel bouncing against her hip, having heard the shots from two streets over. She took one look at his face before marching him straight up the stairs to the attic without a word.
In the attic she cut away the old bandages, her good hand moving fast across his bruised side.
The bruise now ran from his armpit to his hip, purple going green at the edges like spoiled fruit. Lamplight swung across the rafters as she pressed two fingers along each rib in turn, counting under her breath.
"That bruise looks like a map of somewhere I’d never visit on purpose," he said, craning his neck to look down.
"Hold still while I count, or I start over from the top rib."
"One of these ribs shifted, after you told me this morning that you felt fine," she said, pressing on the spot.
"I was being optimistic... which is a very different thing from lying, if you bother to look it up."
"Optimism does not knit bone back together, no matter how loudly you practice it," she said, reaching for the scissors.
"Can we at least agree that the pie was worth the trouble?"
"The goat ate your pie on the porch while you were busy turning grey."
"Damn, that pie survived a knife fight just to lose to a goat," he muttered, staring at the rafters in grief.
She paused with the blades open, her voice dropping, "Was there really no other way out there... with Rogan?"
"He picked the knife twice, while I only picked the ending once."
"I know what men like him do when they walk away, but I still hate it."
"You’re allowed to hate it, Doc, since somebody around here should."
Outside, the watch dragged the body off the street, cart wheels creaking past the window in no particular hurry. Yuzu listened until the sound faded, then went to work, her bandaged forearm brushing his side as she wrapped.
She wound the fresh binding tight, ignoring his hiss, "Then promise me something, as your friend and as the one who keeps sewing you back together."
"That depends entirely on how much the promise is going to cost me."
"When it hurts, you tell me, every single time, with no grinning through it," she said, tying off the first layer.
’Nobody ever asked me for that before, since back home pain was just one more thing you hid from the client.’
"Fine, I promise that when it hurts, you’ll be the first to hear me whine about it," he said, raising a hand like a man swearing in court.
"A friend who lies about his ribs is a friend I end up burying."
"Your bedside manner needs a lot of work, Doc, like a truly alarming amount," he wheezed, lowering the hand.
"My bedside manner keeps idiots alive, so it stays."
"Noted, I’ll add it to the list of things I’m not allowed to argue with."
"Pfft, keep that list short," she said, tying off the binding with a hard little knot while for once his ribs didn’t argue.