Blood Ties (24 page)

The gnome looked apoplectic. “Fine! And when you fall off and break your neck, I'll be standing over your body and laughing and dancing, like this!” Whereupon the gnome proceeded to dance around in bizarre gyrations while producing a demented cackle that sounded like a swarm of bats spiraling around. This went on for about ten seconds or so, then he stomped off toward a tree and flopped down next to it. His face was umber with fury.

Page stared at me questioningly. “Just how complicated
is
this partner business?”

“He saved my life, all right? Just . . .” I put up a hand. “Just give me a minute.” With a heavy sigh, I strode over to the gnome and crouched near him. “Look . . .” I started to say.

To my astonishment, in a low voice the gnome said, “Don't say I never did anything for you.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I know how the human female mind works better than you do. Just how pathetic is
that
?” Then he abruptly raised his voice again so that Page could hear, and said, “Fine! Ride off! At least a
real
man will finally be on that horse's back! You're lucky he's going to let you handle the reins!”

With that, he scrambled upward into the tree and disappeared into the branches.

There was no doubt in my mind that the gnome was going to be able to keep up with us. Indeed, I was starting to wonder if he had some supernatural ability to transport himself from point to point, because his talent to show up constantly wherever I was bordered on the arcane.

The crafty little bugger. He'd actually managed to outthink Page and get her to do exactly what he wanted. Granted, it was in service to a desire to see me kill her, but still, I had to admire his ingenuity.

We set out. As good as my word, I kept Clash going at a brisk trot rather than anything approaching a gallop. He seemed to be a bit annoyed at the slow pace. I could feel him straining against me every so often, wanting to cut loose and move at full speed. But I maintained the trot, and, eventually, Clash seemed to realize that this was how fast we were going to be moving and no faster.

Page seemed reluctant to put her hands on me, but it was necessary so that she wouldn't fall off. So she held on to my shoulders, balancing herself carefully. For someone who loudly proclaimed that she disliked horses, she certainly cut a confident figure.

We rode with very little chatter back and forth between the two of us. That wasn't all that surprising. Page was something of a taciturn type, and I was still daunted by the idea that I was supposed to kill her. I had come no closer to determining whether I could accomplish that or not.

At one point we stopped along the way and ate sparingly of our supplies. I studied her as we did so, then said gently, “Are you all right?”

She glanced up at me, almost as if she were surprised to see that I was there. “I'm fine. Why do you ask?”

“You just seem . . . I don't know . . . tired.”

“I haven't been sleeping much, that's all.”

I could see it in her face. Her eyes looked a bit sunken, and there was a general air of exhaustion about her. “You know what your problem is?” I said.

“You're going to tell me, aren't you?” She sounded quietly amused.

“You care too much. You care about the people of Bowerstone. You care about your causes. You care about everyone and everything.”

“Oh yes. What a bitch I am,” she said.

“I was just wondering why that was. What is there in your past that makes you take everything to heart?”

She was sitting with her back against a tree. Dabbing at the edges of her mouth, brushing away the crumbs from the slightly stale biscuit she'd just finished. “I'm not like you, Ben Finn. I don't feel the need to dredge up everything from the past to explain the present. You don't look at a mountain and say to yourself, ‘I wonder what the entire history of that mountain is. What sort of forces were required to carve it into the shape it now has?' No, you just look at the mountain and accept it for what it is.”

“I accept you, Page. I just don't pretend to understand you.”

She laughed. As passionate as she was about her causes when she was in Bowerstone, she appeared to be visibly relaxing once she was away from it. “That's fine with me, Finn. I prefer to be an enigma. I think it makes me more”—and she passed her hand in front of her face—“mysterious.”

I presented a mocking bow. “As you wish, my mysterious lady.”

We continued on horseback. Page actually engaged in conversation from that point on. The farther we progressed, the more at ease she appeared. I doubted she would ever have admitted it, but she almost seemed grateful that I had encouraged her to depart Bowerstone.

She still remained reticent about her background; I suspected I could not have pried it out of her with a crowbar. But she talked of her concerns about Bowerstone and seemed particularly worried about whatever Reaver might be up to. “That bastard won't be satisfied until he owns the whole of Bowerstone, every square block,” she said. “And then there are days that I think even Bowerstone is insufficient for his interests. That he's looking beyond it to the whole of Albion. The other night I . . .” She hesitated. “I had a dream . . .”

“A dream? You mean like a prophetic dream or . . . ?”

“Gods, I hope not,” she said with an apprehensive laugh. “I saw Reaver, and he was gigantic . . . a hundred feet tall or higher . . . and he was standing over all of Albion, his legs just stretching from one side to the other. I couldn't even see where his feet were coming down. I fired at him with my pistol, and he didn't even feel it; it was less than pinpricks to him. And he was just laughing and laughing, and when I woke up, I was bathed in sweat, but I could swear I still heard that laughing.”

“Ouch.” I shuddered. “That sounds brutal.”

“It was.”

“But still . . .”

“What? Say what's on your mind.”

“Is it possible you're just too obsessed with him?”

“I think I may not be obsessed enough with him.”

I frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“He doesn't even know I'm alive, Finn.” Unconsciously, I think, she thumped her fist on my shoulder blade. “I'm constantly trying to keep an eye on his endeavors and petition our ruler for rules and restrictions on Reaver's undertakings, and yet for all that . . . for all that . . . I'm betting he doesn't remember my name.”

“The giant in the dream represented what he is and what I am. I can't hurt him. I can't stop him.”

“But you also can't give up.”

“No, I can't,” she said reluctantly. “Because Reaver is a blight on Albion that should be purged, and as much as I'd like to turn away from that, it's just impossible. I'm on this trip with you to Blackholm, and it's a diversion at best. I know that, when this is done—assuming I come through it in one piece, of course—I'm going to return to Bowerstone and go right back to work trying to rid the town of its influence. Even if . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

“Even if what?” I said.

She hesitated, then said darkly, “I helped get rid of one ruler who didn't have the people's best interests at heart. There's no reason I can't get rid of a second one.”

I snapped the reins and brought Clash to a halt. Turning half-around in the seat to fix my gaze on her, I said, “You speak treason.”

“It's one of several languages I'm fluent in.”

“Page, you can't . . .”

“Ideally, I won't have to,” she said. “Make no mistake, Finn: I haven't given up on the notion of effecting change through peaceful means. I'm not a warmonger, and I'm certainly not seeking out a fight. I'd like to think I'm better than that.”

You are. I'm just not sure what
I'm
better than.

 

 

WE RODE UNTIL LATE AND MADE CAMP BY
the roadside. The stars twinkled down as if they were winking at me, whispering,
We can see what you're about to do.

Page had drifted to sleep almost immediately, and her chest was rising and falling in time with a soft, steady snoring. She had removed and stored her flintlock and sword, although I didn't see where she had put them. It wasn't a concern, though. It wasn't as if she was going to need them.

So there we were. I stood over her, and I had my pistol handy and my sword as well.

I knew exactly where to shoot her in a way that would bring about death instantly. She would never feel a thing; she'd wake up dead, as they say. Still, just standing there several feet away and ensuring she never woke up . . . I mean, I'd never considered shooting someone from a safe distance as craven before, but for me this was new depths. My hand strayed to the hilt of my sword. I could pull that and bring it down hard and fast, beheading her in one stroke. At least if I was going to be a damned executioner, I could perform the task in the traditional manner.

She murmured something in her sleep, tossed slightly, and settled back into her slumber.

I released my hold on the sword. Fine. I was a coward. It was a hard thing for me to admit to myself, but there it was. Bad enough that I was going to kill her during her slumber, but I was going to do it in such a way that I didn't have to get my hands dirty. It would be the gun after all.

What proof would I bring to Reaver that I had done the deed? I'd probably have to behead her in any event and bring that with me. It was a nasty, gruesome business, but there was nothing else to do. I didn't think he was going to accept one of her hands.

I leveled my pistol at her. I tried to force myself to cock the hammer. My thumb pressed down on it and mashed against it, trying to find the strength to draw it back. But it seemed as if it had become wedged shut, resisting every attempt I made to pull it back.

I knew in my heart this wasn't the case. There was nothing wrong with the trigger; there was something wrong with me.

Here we had come down to it: Page's life against my brother's freedom. I had the opportunity, I had the weaponry, all I had to do was utilize it, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't even cock the hammer.

I had no idea how to help my brother. However, on some level, I suppose it was nice to find out that I did indeed have scruples. That there were depths to which I was unwilling to stoop.

“I can't do it,” I said, very softly.

“I can.”

It was Page who had spoken. Still lying on the ground, she was looking right at me with eyes that showed no hint of fatigue or, for that matter, mercy. She sloughed aside her bed wrap to reveal her flintlock pointed right at me. Unlike mine, her hammer was cocked, the sound having been muffled by her bed wrap. All she had to do was apply the slightest pressure, and I was a dead man.

I forced a smile, then said in a soothing voice, “You're sleeeeping. This is just a dreeeeam. Go back to—”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

The barrel of the gun never wavered. “Did you think I was stupid?” she said.

“Think? No. I was kind of hoping, though . . .”

“I knew something was wrong,” she said tightly. Her voice was flat and unyielding. If I made the slightest move, she was clearly ready to kill me. Apparently, my being unable to kill her had garnered me no points. “Showing up in Bowerstone, trying to get me out of there with that nonsense about Blackholm . . .”

“Actually, that part was true.”

“Really.” She raised an eyebrow. “And you were bringing me there to be their leader?”

“No, that I made up.”

“Instead,” she said, “you wanted to bring me out into the woods to kill me.”

“I admit it sounds rather bad when you put it that way.”

“Finn”—and she placed her free hand under her other to hold the flintlock absolutely rock steady—“if you have any interest in seeing the sun rise, put your gun away and tell me what's going on.”

I did exactly that. I shoved the pistol into my belt, then I told her. What other choice did I have?

Very quickly, I outlined the specifics of my situation. I told her about my brother enslaved to Reaver and that her death was the only possibility of getting him back. She listened without interruption to the entire thing, and, when I had finished, she didn't say anything for a time.

“Could you possibly point that elsewhere?” I said, indicating her flintlock.

The muzzle didn't budge in the slightest. Some people have serious issues with trusting others.

She spoke slowly, deliberately. “You're telling me that the best plan you could come up with was to try to lure me out of Bowerstone in a painfully obvious manner, then kill me in the woods?”

“I think ‘plan' might be an overly generous word. I was more or less making it up as I went.”

“I'd never have guessed. Why in the world didn't you simply tell me the situation you were in?”

“Because Reaver has spies everywhere. There was one stalking me outside an inn I stayed over at, and I have no idea how many others were spread out through Bowerstone. I couldn't trust that anything I said might not be overheard, then Reaver would have done who-knowswhat to William.”

“William. The brother who was dead.”

“The brother who I thought was dead. It turns out I was misinformed. Look, Page,” I continued quickly, “this is actually all transpiring to our advantage.”

“How do you figure that?”

“We're all alone out here,” I pointed out. “None of Reaver's spies are around to inform him that I've failed to kill you. I was completely serious when I said you were the better leader. Here, now, we can put together a plan in which you survive, and we liberate my brother.”