Hood Page 15

  Tarc turned back to his beer and grimaced as he took a small sip. The two guards made their way over to the bossman’s table and, if Tarc weren’t mistaken, irritated him by sitting without asking permission. Leaning close, one said, “What the hell happened last night?!”

  “Just what I’m wanting to ask you assholes,” the bossman responded with an angry undertone.

  “There wasn’t a hair harmed in the entire Descarte family! They’re in the pink of health.”

  “Yeah, well all my guys are dead! What the hell did they run into over there?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you!”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? None of them came back to tell me!”

  The guard leaned closer and hissed at an even lower volume, “What I hear’s that all but one of them was stuck in the eye with some kind of narrow sword.”

  “Like a rapier?”

  The guard’s shoulders moved up and down in a shrug, “I suppose.”

  “What about the last one?”

  “The biggest guy got his head hacked most of the way off. Apparently, Descarte claims he did it with a sword.”

  “There’s no way Lar… No way the ‘big guy’ got taken out by a homeowner. You’ve got a leak. There must have been an entire squad waiting in that house...” The bossman’s tone turned ugly, “Unless you set us up?”

  “No. This order came from… It came from way up the line and people are pissed. I would’ve known if a squad got sent out.”

  “Then who? Descarte’s fairy godmother? Because I guaran-damn-tee Descarte didn’t kill those guys. We’re talking some tough sons-a-bitches.”

  In an uneasy tone, one guard said, “Supposedly…”

  Impatiently, the crime boss said, “Supposedly what?”

  “Descartes’s daughter claimed they were saved by some guy named Hood.”

  The crime lord rejected that idea in a disgusted tone, “No way one guy took out those seven. You’d best look around and find the leak amongst your guards. Some crew of do-gooders going down there to interfere.” But, as he finished talking, his head had turned to point at Tarc’s back.

  My hood! Tarc thought, suddenly conscious of it hanging on his back. Hoods weren’t rare, but they weren’t common either. Feeling stupid, he thought, I’d just as well have told the girls to call me ‘tall blond guy!’ He liked his hood but decided he needed to tuck it down inside the jacket when it wasn’t in use.

  He looked over at the window. Dusk… Dark enough, he thought, pushing his stool back and standing up.

  Tarc’s vague plan was to deal quickly with the two men who’d been sent out to wait for him, then wait in his turn for the big man, the two guards and, eventually, the crime lord.

  He still needed to try to figure out what to do about the king himself. He laughed at himself when he realized that the problem of the king was so difficult he was putting it off in favor of dealing with mere murderers.

  As he went out the door, his ghirit showed him the two guards were standing and getting ready to leave. Crap, he thought, of course I’m going to have to deal with all of them at once. He turned west toward the palace so he’d wind up between the guards and their destination.

  Finding the two men who’d been sent out to kill him required no stroke of genius. As soon as he came out the door, his ghirit showed him two men leaning up off the wall across the street. Seeing Tarc’s direction, one of them trotted off down the street to the west to get ahead of him. The other one started crossing the street as if going to the tavern, but then he curved around to fall in behind Tarc.

  Not wanting to get too far away from the tavern and lose track of the guards, Tarc turned south at the next corner. He intended to go around the block. That’d leave any bodies out of sight of the tavern. He turned left into the alley, then trotted twelve meters (40’) east where he stopped in a deeply recessed doorway. His ghirit showed the nearest of the two men hurrying to the alley entrance. The one who’d trotted on ahead was returning at a dead run.

  The first man paused at the corner into the alley. Tarc wondered if he’d sensed the trap, then realized he was just waiting for his compatriot. The second man might be returning at a run but he hadn’t made it to the corner yet. The second man couldn’t see him, so didn’t yet know what corner he was about to turn. The first guy wanted his backup to know he was going into the alley.

  When the second man came into the line of sight, the first man waved him on, then stepped into the alley to check on Tarc’s whereabouts.

  He took ten steps before Tarc stepped out of the doorway and let fly with a knife.

  Tarc trotted down and grabbed the collar of the man’s jacket. Flipping the body over, he dragged it over next to the recessed doorway and leaned it up against the wall, trying to position the man to look like a drunk in his cups. Tarc pulled his knife out of the guy’s eye socket and gave it a quick wipe on the victim’s clothes. He stepped back into the doorway with about thirty seconds to spare.

  The second man came around the corner at a run, then stopped, head on a swivel. After a moment, evidently wondering where his partner was, he hissed, “Victor?”

  Tarc thought surely he’d wonder about the man sagging against the wall, but vision was poor in an alley lit only by stars. Besides, sodden drunks were likely common in the area near the Palace Tavern. The man started cautiously down the center of the alley, head pivoting back and forth, but taking no notice of his partner’s dead body.

  As his head pivoted away, Tarc stepped out of the doorway. As it pivoted back, the knife flew.

  Tarc retrieved his knife, wiped it, and trotted away, moving quickly west through the alley of the next block then turning north back to the street that led to the palace gate. His ghirit showed him the warm spots of the two guards moving down that street.

  Tarc barely made the corner before the two guards, so he came around it with his knife cocked back to throw. As he let fly, he realized in horror that the two warm spots he’d followed represented a man and a woman.

  Panic-stricken, he slammed all the force of his ghirit into turning the knife.

  It missed the woman by one to two centimeters, actually passing through her hair.

  She shrieked.

  The man shouted, “Hey! What the hell?!”

  By then Tarc had barreled past them. Despite the dark, his ghirit easily found the knife because it was warm from his own body heat. Snatching it up, he kept running east, back toward the Palace Tavern.

  His ghirit showed the man took a few steps after Tarc. Then, apparently thinking the better of it, he stopped and returned to the woman.

  Tarc made the corner, then turned and stopped, hands on his knees and heart pounding in reaction. I’ve got to be more careful! For a moment, his subconscious rose up and tried to excuse his recklessness with thoughts that a man and a woman in this neighborhood after dusk probably weren’t the best of citizens. They might be saints! he remonstrated. They could’ve been in this neighborhood caring for the poor, hungry, and sick! There’s no excuse for what almost happened.

  Getting hold of himself, Tarc forced himself to ignore what he’d almost done and consider the tasks remaining. His spirit quailed for a moment at the possibility that he might make another appalling mistake. The thought that he should go back to the caravan before he really did hurt an innocent rose to the surface of his mind. Then he reminded himself of the kind of mayhem the two guards and the proprietor of the Palace Tavern would cause if they weren’t curbed. And the king, he thought grimly. How can I possibly get Uray in control when I’m only going to be here a few more days?

  Sending his ghirit out to its widest extent, Tarc looked for another pair of warm bodies—hopefully they’d be the guards this time. There were two heading south. Not toward the palace, but... maybe they’re going home? He started loping that direction. The guards could’ve split up, he thought with dismay, each heading for his own home. As he ran, Tarc searched for two separate individuals. Unfortunately,
in the 200+ meter radius his ghirit could cover, there were plenty of separate individuals. If they split up, I’ve probably lost them. And if I chase them too far, I might come back to find the crime lord’s disappeared as well!

  No, those’re the guards, he thought, getting close enough to recognize uniforms on the two men he’d been coming up behind.

  At the sound of Tarc’s boots running up behind them, the two guards turned to assess the nature of any possible threat. When Tarc slowed to a stop about three meters (10’) away the two men drew their swords. The one who’d done all the talking at the tavern spoke disdainfully, “What do you want?”

  Lifting his chin interrogatively, Tarc asked, “Who ordered the deaths of the Descartes?”

  “No one!” the guard barked, lifting his sword and striding forward.

  When Tarc’s knife thwacked into this man’s eye socket he convulsed so hard he flipped to land on his back and lie quivering, the hilt of the knife pointing up at the heavens.

  Tarc expected the second guard to run. Instead, the man dropped to his knees, tilted his head back and started mumbling. Prayers, Tarc thought.

  Tarc stepped closer, “Who ordered the deaths of the Descartes?”

  The guard lowered his gaze just long enough to say, “The king,” then tilted his head back up to the sky as he resumed praying.

  Discomfited by the man’s reaction, Tarc stared at him. He’d been thinking of the two guards as interchangeable evil clones of one another. This one’s voice was distinct enough that Tarc realized he’d never spoken in the Palace Tavern. Tarc thought his… attitude was different as well. Contemplatively, Tarc asked, “And what do you think of King Uray?”

  The man didn’t even tilt his head back down to look at Tarc this time. He only interrupted his monologue with his god long enough to say, “Uray’s despicable,” then resumed mumbling.

  Tarc toed a paver’s edge, thinking. “If so, why do you do the king’s bidding?”

  “He’d have my wife and children tortured and killed.” The guard resumed his prayers.

  Shit! Tarc thought. Why’s it never straightforward? “Why not flee Realth with them?”

  A shrug, “Then he’d torture and kill my parents and siblings, and my wife’s parents and siblings.” He paused, as if thinking, then said, “Well, he’d probably enslave my sister. She’s… pretty.” The man went back to his mutterings.

  Keeping an eye on the second guard with his ghirit, Tarc stepped to the first guard and retrieved his knife. He carefully wiped it, digging at the crevices next to the tang while thinking he needed to remember to wash and oil it.

  Straightening, Tarc sent out his ghirit to make sure no one else was about to sneak up on them. Tarc turned and looked at the second guard, still on his knees, muttering at the heavens. I can’t kill him, he thought, he’s as much a victim as everyone else around here. Stepping closer, he said, “You can go.”

  The man’s face tilted down and toward Tarc. Even just in the starlight, Tarc could the wide-eyed surprise on his face. “No! You’ve got to kill me too. Please! If you don’t, my wife and children’ll be tortured alongside me.” He paused briefly, then in a quiet voice full of emotion, said, “No child deserves to die that way.”

  “What?! Why would someone kill you or your family?!”

  “They already think I’m… not…” his voice fell, “gung-ho enough. They’ve questioned my loyalty because I didn’t…”

  The man didn’t finish the sentence, but Tarc felt sure he’d failed to carry out some deeply disturbing order.

  Tarc was about to ask when the man continued, “I was assigned to Lt. Gordon so he could turn me around. If he dies and I return unscathed…” He shook his head, “Trust me, it’ll be horrible, and not just for me.”

  Tarc rubbed at his temples, trying to fend off an impending headache. Why can’t anything have an easy answer?! He thought for a moment, trying to conceive of some plan that might get this man and all of his family out of Realth. And, of course, the wife’s family. Probably the dog and cat too, Tarc thought morbidly. This king’s so much worse than I ever imagined. Oh…

  Tarc turned to the guard, “What would happen if the king died? Would there be another war of succession with a lot of people getting killed?”

  The man nodded.

  Tarc’s mind was casting about for some other solution when the guard said, “Unless…”

  Feeling like he was grasping for a straw, Tarc said, “Unless what?”

  “Could you take over as King? We’d need someone so…” the guard glanced at his compatriot lying on the street, “so lethal that no one would dare challenge him.”

  “No! I’m just a…” Tarc broke off before he said “kid,” realizing that asserting that status could bring on another whole set of problems. Regrouping, he said, “I’m not from here and I’ll be leaving soon. Isn’t there anyone else… ‘lethal’ here?”

  The man shrugged, “Sure, but most of them wouldn’t be any better than King Uray. Deadly men are… not often nice people.”

  Tarc thought the stumble in the man’s description of deadly men had been when the guard realized he was about to say something insulting to Tarc who fit the “deadly” description. Tarc said, “I already threatened King Uray with consequences if he didn’t stop committing crimes from the protection of his office. But even after that, he sent you to out to hire outlaws to kill the Descartes. Do you think if I threaten him again, he’ll change? I mean, now that he knows what happened to the outlaws he sent?”

  The man shook his head, “Not a chance.”

  “I promised him capital punishment if he committed a capital crime. Should I carry out that threat?”

  The guard nodded.

  “But then…” Tarc sighed, “Then there’ll be another war of succession and a lot of people will get killed.”

  “Maybe not. You could appoint Lt. Harris to be our King. He’s ethical and a lot of the guardsmen think he’s a tactical genius.”

  “Is he ‘lethal’ enough people wouldn’t challenge him?”

  “No… Not by himself. But the guardsmen like him. I’m pretty sure they’d follow him.”

  “Okay,” Tarc said resignedly, “let’s go talk to him.”

  “Um, me?!”

  “Yes, you!” Tarc said, feeling irritated. Why do I feel like I’m the grown-up in this conversation? And that I’m talking to a wet-behind-the-ears kid. “I’m trying to help your city, but I don’t know how it works. I need your help. Hell, I don’t even know how I’d find your Lt. Harris.”

  “Okay,” the man said, standing. Glancing past Tarc, he asked, “What do we do about Lt. Gordon?”

  “Leave him here,” Tarc said, turning back north. “We’re in a hurry. What’s your name?”

  “Pongo. Um, Sgt. David Pongo,” the guard said stepping around Gordon’s body and hurrying after Tarc.

  When Tarc got to the street from the tavern to the palace and turned east toward the tavern, Sgt. Pongo asked, “Uh, where’re we going?”

  “Back to the Palace Tavern to deal with the crime lord.”

  “Crime lord?”

  “That guy you told to arrange the hit on the Descartes.”

  “Shibone?”

  “I don’t know his name. You and Gordon were sitting at his table talking to him. Yesterday and today.”

  “Shibone,” Sgt. Pongo said definitively. “Why’re we looking for him?”

  “He’s committed capital crimes. I want to stop him before he commits any more.”

  “Kill him?”

  Tarc nodded, somehow reluctant to put it in words. Which is ridiculous since I’m planning to put it in action.

  “Um,” Pongo said, “Shibone definitely deserves to die. But, he’s a minor player. You’re talking about overthrowing the king, right? Shibone’s crimes are minor compared to Uray’s. It seems like you should deal with the king first, shouldn’t you? If you were to get hurt going after a two-bit criminal like Shibone and that kept you from deal
ing with the king…” Pongo shrugged and lowered his voice, “that’d be a travesty.”

  Tarc’s initial reaction was that he wasn’t going to get hurt. Probably true, he thought, but I’ve got to keep in mind that, strange talents or not, what I’m doing’s really dangerous. I’ve got to keep reminding myself just how dangerous it is; hopefully remembering that’ll keep me from doing something tragically stupid.

  A moment later, Tarc laughed on realizing his second reaction was that if he got hurt, Realth’s regime change wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

  Tarc stopped walking. My reactions aside, Pongo’s suddenly talking like the adult in this conversation, he thought ruefully. “You’re right,” he said, turning back to the palace, “let’s go find Lt. Harris.”

  Pongo dutifully followed along for a few steps before diffidently saying, “Um, Lt. Harris lives south of here.”

  “Oh,” Tarc said, embarrassed. “Should we turn left on the next street, or go back one?”

  “Um, we should go get Lt. Gordon’s uniform first,” Pongo said. “It’ll delay the hue and cry if they don’t immediately recognize he was a palace guard. And we may need an extra uniform for you to wear getting into the palace.”

  Tarc winced, somehow put off by the thought of wearing a dead man’s clothes. “You’re right, thanks.”

  ~~~

  Jamal Harris had almost finished his dinner when he heard a knock on his front door. Always cognizant of the risks inherent to his position, he waved his family out of the line of sight to the door.

  Harris carried over a lamp. Holding it up to the door’s high window, he looked out through his peephole. Sgt. David Pongo, of late assigned to Lt. Gordon, stood just in front of his door. Harris momentarily pondered the vicissitudes of an organization that’d assign its most caring and conscientious sergeant to its most vicious lieutenant for “retraining.” Retraining to be as brutal as Gordon, Harris thought. He shifted back and forth, looking to either side of Pongo. He didn’t see Gordon. Unfortunately, the peephole didn’t have a wide enough angle of view. Gordon might be standing out of sight to the left.