Warcry and I disentangled ourselves from the tuk-tuk while Sanya-ketsu transferred the payment to the driver. As he whined away back toward the port, the 002-rank gestured for us to head into the saloon. I hopped over the canal and up the wooden steps. A couple of the guys noticed Sanya-ketsu and tipped their hats to her as we passed.
There wasn’t a door over the saloon’s entrance, and inside there was no glass in the windows, probably to let in as much breeze and light as possible since there wasn’t any electricity. My eyes went through the adjustment period again, trying to see through the dimness.
A bar ran along the wall closest to the door, and tables were scattered across the barroom. Aliens dressed in various combinations of Wild West and Ancient Asia perched on rickety barstools with their boots or getas hooked on the muddy footrails. Unlike the saloon in Ghost Town, this place didn’t have any instruments playing music. The patrons talked, saloon gals laughed, holographic playing cards shuffled, HUD notifications went off, and the city noises from outside drifted in.
“Ah, here they are,” Sanya-ketsu said, nodding.
Five guys sat a table in the corner, eating and drinking. Three of them were big bruiser types—a fat shark guy with a scarred-up dorsal fin, a ripped bipedal jackal who sat back from the table so he could bounce a saloon gal on each huge backward-turned knee, and a stocky guy almost as wide as he was tall, all angled planes and crystalline edges. He looked like he’d been grown in one of those cheap crystal-growing kits.
The other two guys at the table were smaller. One was a wiry guy with thick arm hair, round protruding ears, and a leathery monkeylike face. He was sipping from a wineglass and shooting disapproving looks at the jackal and the giggling saloon gals. The last guy’s face I couldn’t see right away. A pair of red crosshairs were covering it.
Sentenced to Death.
Death vs. Saline Life
I STOPPED WHERE I WAS, and Sanya pulled up beside me. She arched a yellow eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
“One of the artifact team has the Sentenced to Death mark on him,” I said.
The 002-rank nodded. “Before we left, the Emperor determined who was selling out our team’s locations to the Technols. Welcome to my second, and arguably more important, piece of business on Sarca, Death cultivator—witnessing the traitor’s execution.”
As the initial shock of seeing the glowing crosshairs wore off, I started to take in details about the Sentenced guy. He held a journal open on the table with one hand—not some digital tablet or an app on his HUD, but an actual paper journal—and he was reading it through a pair of pince-nez. He didn’t look like much of a fighter. With his tweed suit and wavy, oiled hair, he looked like a nerdy British Egyptologist from an old movie.
I swallowed. “That was all he did? Give them information?”
Sanya shrugged her flat shoulders. “Considering we’ve lost several strong Dragons in attacks caused by the leaks and we’re still missing some who’ve most likely been captured and are being tortured as we speak, isn’t that enough?”
My heart stalled out, then shifted into high gear. The dude was just sitting there, eating some lunch, and I was supposed to kill him?
“Do you know for sure it was him?” I asked.
Saline Life cultivator is stronger than he seems, Hungry Ghost said.
That doesn’t mean he’s a traitor, I said. Even if he is, shouldn’t he get some kind of trial?
“The Emperor would never Sentence someone without conclusive proof,” Sanya-ketsu said, dragging me back out of my head. “You’re looking at the man with the journal, correct?”
I nodded.
“Galston was the only one with access to all the information that was leaked.” Her eyes narrowed over her surgical mask. “Imagine it was your girlfriend he sold out. If he’s not stopped, she and the rest of our spies may very well be next on his list. Imagine what the Technols would do to someone acting the double agent within their own organization...what they could do with their grasp of technology. Rali would of course be caught in the crossfire. He can’t protect himself or his sister without a Spirit sea.”
Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, and my stomach rolled.
Sanya-ketsu put her hand on my shoulder, her rubber glove creaking a little.
“Don’t make the same mistake you did with your last target,” she said. “Not unless you want Kest to be the one you’re avenging instead of some faceless shark pup you’ve never met.”
My brain felt like it was swimming around unattached inside my skull, like this couldn’t possibly be real—except it was. I could feel the scythe encasing my bones, my teeth gritting until it felt like they might crack, the pain in my messed-up side, and the low burn of the script tattoo fighting to heal it.
I only had a little Miasma left in my reserve after the Proving Forge, but as I crossed the floor, I dumped all of it into Last Light, Last Breath. I couldn’t do this again without the nothingness. The fact that it would’ve cloaked my Spirit attacks if I’d had any Spirit left to attack with was just a fringe benefit.
Death cultivator had enough Miasma for Dead Man’s Hand, yet he gives up the safety of range by closing the distance? Hungry Ghost croaked, straining at the edges of Jealous as the Grave. Dead Man’s Hand could easily have reached Saline Life cultivator’s life point from distance.
That’d be like shooting him in the back, I said, shutting off my internal alchemy to keep Hungry Ghost locked down.
Death cultivator’s naivety dooms himself and Hungry Ghost.
Good. Two birds with one stone. I started converting foreign Spirit types as fast as I could manage without taking my focus off the barroom.
Warcry still had his back to the door, so he
