Bounty (22 page)

19:
T
he Package

T
heir next mission, as it turned out, boasted another unforeseen nature. “The gypsies are in town,” Mastodon said. “They should have a package for me.” She supplied them with a horse and wagon, told them where the gypsies were making camp in one of the lesser squares, and had Kane see them off.

“So she has it in with the gypsies,” Seth commented. “You know, she looks kind of like a gypsy.”

It was true. She could easily have passed for one among them. “You could be onto something, Seth,” Godren agreed. “But I daresay we'll never know.”

“What do you suppose they have for her?”

“I don't suppose we have clearance to suppose about it.”

“Did she say that?”

“It's generally understood in the world of business, Seth. One does not pry into the boss's packages. Especially when business is shady, unless you want to get in that deep.”

“I didn't mean 'pry'. I just meant peek.”

“Any respectable package will be sealed for transport. I don't think a peek would look like any less of a pry, seeing as you have to open it either way.”

“Suppose it's not sealed.”

“You are the supposing-est friend I know. Do you know that?”

Seth wilted, and glowered. “I just hate secrets. I hate doing business blindly. At least with a gun you know what you're shooting at. Just what do you suppose we're delivering her? Hm?”

“You haven't even seen it yet. Give it a chance to give you some clues pertaining to its relative size and shape, if you must.”

It bothered Godren, too, of course – the idea of being the middleman for motives he was not privy to. But he was more wary of breaching a contract than Seth was.

They trundled through the city, lifting the cowls of their cloaks once they were out of the Ruins. Godren was thankful for the excuse of the cold. In summer, it would not be so easy to travel under the radar. As it was, no one would look twice at them for the cover-up.

The gypsy camp became evident before it was in sight. The glow of it blushed into the nearby streets, and there was the jingle of coin-adorned attire and the laughter of men. Also: the juicy smell of roasting meat. As they got closer, Godren made out a string of music as well.

They pulled in, and those nearest to the area in which they parked paused in their casual festivities to regard them, then rose to approach them. Godren swung down from the wagon, and directed his bearing accordingly. A dark-haired man with green eyes and a large gold ring in his ear sauntered up, looking somehow guarded and amused at once.

Godren extended a hand. “We're here on business,” he said. “There should be a package.”

Shaking his hand, the gypsy nodded. “Ah, yes. There should be. The code, if you please, gentlemen,” he prompted.

“High tide and hogwash,” Godren recited.

“That's a ridiculous code,” Seth put in his two cents.

The gypsy spared him a glance. “Ah, but what is life without some amusement. We keep our sense of humor around here.” Turning, he led them into the camp, to a green tent with tassels strung about the entrance. “A moment, please.” He disappeared inside, and when he opened the flap again, he held it aside to indicate the chest that sat just within. It was large, rusty red, adorned with tarnished gold detailing.

Godren could imagine Seth weighing the options, doing the measurements, trying to guess at its contents. “This all?” he asked, not interested in analyzing.

“Indeed it is,” confirmed the gypsy.

Nodding, Godren stepped into the tent, and Seth wasted no more time with his calculations. He helped Godren hoist the thing off the ground, and they carried it back to the wagon. The transport rattled considerably less as they climbed onto it now, weighted down by the package. From his seat, Godren inclined his head toward the man who had been of service.

“High tide and hogwash!” the man bade, a laughing twinkle in his eyes.

“High tide and hogwash,” Seth returned dryly.

And they were off, as swiftly as they had come. Godren did not necessarily appreciate the nature of the business, but it was nice when business ran smoothly.

They squeezed back into the alley they had come from, and prattled at a leisurely pace over the cobblestones, Godren manning the reins and Seth getting comfortable beside him. Seth seemed grumpy still, but it was hard to say if he was brooding over the package or the ridiculous code. Godren gave him some time, figuring he would voice his thoughts when he was good and ready.

“Can we stop for more pie on the way?” Seth asked when he spoke. Grumpily.

“Did you bring your allowance?”

“A bit of it. Enough.”

“Pie ease your conscience?”

“It makes it taste better, that's for sure.”

“I thought cleaning up that mess in the eastern alleys ruined your appetite last time.”

“Well all that gypsy food smelled good.”

“Could have gone for a nice roast of hogwash?” Godren teased.

“Gods,” Seth breathed in agitation, running a hand through his hair. “Who comes up with these codes anyway?”

“All the failed scholars, turned to shady business for a living.”

“Do you suppose they get paid?”

“I wouldn't know. I'd really rather never be that privy to all the quirks of the business.”

“Do you think–”

“Ssh.” Godren held up a hand, his eyes drawn over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Um...”

It came again, and Godren pulled on the reins. As the wagon slowed, Seth picked up on what his friend was getting at. He cursed, turning in his seat.

Something thumped inside the chest. There was a muffled sound, like a voice. A faint moan, or whimper.

Godren and Seth exchanged a glance.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Seth murmured, upset.

A wave of dread rode through Godren. Surely not...
Gods, don't let it be that.
He remained in his seat, expressionless, thinking that if no more sounds came from the chest, he could ignore the implications and pretend he'd imagined it.

But another sound did come. A wordless sound, but one that comes from a human throat.

Dismayed to his core, Godren swung down from the wagon at last, his cowl falling to his shoulders. Seth jumped down, too, but hovered decidedly warily next to the wagon, while Godren strode to the back.

He threw off the cloth that covered the package, and eyed it a moment, dread written in his eyes. Then he put his fingers to the latches, flicked them into release, and cast open the lid.

It creaked as it was lifted, and then all was quiet.

“Ren...?” Seth piped up tentatively.

Godren's eyes swam over the contents of the chest, but Seth could not read them. Slowly, he came to stand abreast of his friend, and peered in for himself, and they both stood there staring at the bemusing spectacle inside.

It was empty.

A feeling even more uncanny swept through them.

Seth opened his mouth, and said nothing. He swallowed it instead.

The urge to close the lid was overwhelming. But bemusement stayed Godren's hand, paralyzing him with ill wonder. He did not want to know, but it was the kind of thing that would never rest if left alone.

Yet – there was nothing there.

“What is this...” Seth managed in a flat tone, sounding guarded to his core. It was safe to say that his mood had darkened still.

“You heard it,” Godren wanted to confirm.

“Yes. I heard it.”

They eyed it a moment longer, conclusions scarce.

“It was heavy,” Godren sought to confirm again.

“Yes. It was.”

It was Godren's turn to swallow the implications.

“This is a sick joke,” Seth declared after another moment. The muscles in his face had soured to a dangerous point. He had not signed up for this.

Godren's mind raced for a rational explanation, but the only thing he could come up with was
Gods, it's a ghost in a box.

He slammed the lid shut, abruptly, and Seth eyed him as he fastened all the latches again, very precisely. He met his friend's eyes as he turned, and it was safe for Seth to conclude that the incident was one that had already started to haunt him – whether in conclusion or confusion, it was too soon to tell. Godren shifted subtly away, putting space between himself and the devilry aboard the transport. Seth shifted where he stood, looking restless and lost.

The chest was silent, now, but there was no denying its mischief. Even if it hadn't made a sound, its empty status was mischief enough.

Godren took a moment to regard the thing from a small distance, compose himself, and step forward once more to throw the drop cloth back over it. Then he turned away for good.

“Back in the wagon,” he bade stonily.

“You can't like this...”

“Let's get your pie, Seth,” he maintained, completely moot.

Seth, appalled, would perhaps have liked to object, but he knew that his friend was internally no less distressed than he. And: they were surely both at a complete loss.

“We should dump it,” he tried, uneasy about transporting it any further.

“I'm not going to dump it,” Godren denied. “You heard it, Seth. I don't know what it is, but I'm not going to dump that.”

“Its fate seems decidedly bleak either way. I don't know what it is either, but it can't have a promising future. Not trapped up like this, en route to its new
Mastress
.”

It was eerie, talking about it. Conspiratorially discussing the well-being of a possessed package discovered in their care. The tortured, respective 'nothing' that may have rights.

“I didn't sign on to dabble in devilry,” Seth protested.

“You only helped carry it.”

“I don't want to ride with that.”

“You'd have me release it into the city?” Godren challenged in a clipped whisper.

“I don't know, Godren,” Seth murmured fiercely, exasperated. “But it's bloody freakish. This is turning into a circus.”

“Then don't watch the show. You're only here to clean up the stables, Seth.”

Seth gritted his teeth. Not because the reminder was insulting, but because there was nothing else to use in his case. They couldn't show up in the Underworld without the package. Simple as pie.

Pie. Just think about pie.

But he had now lost his appetite for a second time, and didn't suppose he would regain it any time soon.

Steering wide of the back of the wagon, he grudgingly resigned himself to it and returned to his seat, glowering and on edge. Godren joined him with more measured composure, but a ripe wagon-load of wariness that hummed at high-tide in his veins.

High tide and hogwash,
he could hear the gypsies whispering.

High tide and devilry, was more like it.

And for the first time he realized that this perhaps went deeper than blood – that he had gotten mixed up in something darker than dishonesty and crime.

Darker, even, perhaps, than murder.

But he was mixed up in it up to his very neck. Mixed up as surely as someone could mix his blood with a spoon, in a cauldron. There was no separating it from these other poisons.

Redemption, he realized, might be a far cry from easing his conscience by serving soup.

Redemption from this, he thought, very likely went soul-deep.

20:
A Piece of the Wind

M
y heart belongs to the wind. I was told I would learn to cut it out and bury it in the street if I did not want it destroyed. Perhaps I’m a rebel, or maybe it’s merely that my heart belongs to a rebel. Or, there is always the possibility that it is simply too late. But I cannot find it in me to cut it out – with a sour twist of irony, I realize I don’t have the heart to.

But for safekeeping, I pour my soul out onto the wind. The pieces of my heart are scattered everywhere now, and only if someone finds them all and puts them together can they truly then break it. For how can you break something that is already kept in pieces?

This piece belongs to the rebel in my life – though, bless her blissfully ignorant heart, she may never know. I will not write her name, for the wind knows it. But I will say this: it would be wise to end this here, to do her proud and be a rebel in my own way – a rebel against my feelings. So I’m signing these sentiments over to the wind, that the wind would tear out my heart as I open myself to it, and carry it far, far away, where these sacred things can live wild and free – or, if fallen into someone’s fateful hands, may they live sheltered and protected.