Movement in the corner of my eye had me and Warcry spinning around. It was the other academic guy, the hairy, simian-faced one, coming out of the corner where he’d been hiding. He raised both leathery hands to show he wasn’t a threat.
“Come on, guys,” he said to the hooligans. “Do as the esteemed Sown Dream cultivator says.”
“Thank you, Valthorpe,” she said, inclining her head a touch.
The hairy guy stopped where he was and bowed at the waist.
The jackal gave one last rumbling growl, then bowed to Sanya-ketsu, too. He picked up a mostly intact table and flipped it right side up while the hairy Valthorpe and the shark hooligan sifted through the wreckage for stools that wouldn’t collapse when you sat on them.
“Unu, if you wouldn’t mind,” Sanya said.
The rock alien grumbled under his breath, then bowed to her and approached us.
I had all the energy of a wrung-out washrag, but I got between him and Warcry, sending Death Metal streaking to my arms.
“Step aside, death brat,” Unu muttered, crystals flaking off his square jaw as he spoke. I caught a glimpse of grayish skin in there, but already the crystals were growing back to cover it. “Ain’t no hooligan dumb enough to attack right after the Eight-Legged Dragon rank-002 called him off.”
I backed off skeptically, and didn’t let go of Death Metal.
With huge, planed fists, Unu grabbed Warcry by the broken arms. A series of snaps rang out. Warcry growled through gritted teeth and dropped to his knees.
I started to attack.
“That won’t be necessary, Death cultivator,” Sanya-ketsu said. “Observe your friend.”
I pulled up short of shield-bashing the crystal off Unu’s rocky face.
On the floor, Warcry flexed his fingers, then bent and straightened his arms.
“They’re fixed.” He glared up at the rock alien. “You a Biological Spirit, then?”
“Broken Mirror.” Unu shrugged wide shoulders with a grinding sound. “Makes finding the weaknesses in rigid objects like bones easy. Break along the lines, repair along the lines, simple as spilling your drink. If I can touch it, I can break it.”
“What about me prosthetic?” Warcry asked. “You didn’t break that when I kicked you.”
“True, true.” More flakes of glittery white broke off as the rock guy scratched his chin. “I couldn’t figure that one out. Came back sort of... liquid.” He nodded down at Warcry’s metal leg. “Whatever that thing’s made of, it ain’t rigid.”
Warcry glanced at me.
“Cinnabar?” I guessed, shrugging. I could vaguely remember Kest saying the lack of rigidity and breakage planes in cinnabar was what made it so valuable. She must’ve built Warcry’s new prosthetic out of what she’d mined outside Ghost Town.
“If you’re all finished hugging it out,” Sanya said, rapping her gloved knuckles on the table, “take a seat. I need to reimburse our gracious barkeep for the trouble we’ve caused and buy a round of drinks so our local friends know whose side the Eight-Legged Dragons are on.”
Sanya headed for the bar, nodding pleasantly at the patrons and saloon gals who hadn’t run far. Slowly, they filtered back from the edges of the room and started finding unbroken chairs and tables. The noise level in the saloon ratcheted back up.
I grabbed a stool and sat it up next to the hooligan’s table, then climbed into it before I collapsed. I might’ve been able to relax if I could’ve wrapped myself in Dead Reckoning, but I remembered not to at the last second. Sanya-ketsu had given me permission to use enough Spirit around her to take out the traitor, nothing else.
Warcry looked about as comfortable as I felt. He brought over a chair and sat next to me, shoulders up near his ears.
The shark and Unu were already sitting on either side of the hairy academic guy Valthorpe, but the jackal stood over the traitor’s headless corpse, his long dog-face twisted in a snarl.
“I’m not sitting at a table with that murderer,” he growled.
Valthorpe sighed. “Calm down, Smoky. If the Death cultivator is approved by the Emperor’s 002-rank, then he’s approved by the Emperor. The Dragons must’ve had a reason for wanting Galston dead.”
“He was leaking information,” I said.
His monkeylike brow wrinkled as he frowned. “How do they know it was Galston and not someone else?”
It felt like tattling, but I told them, “Sanya-ketsu said he was the only one with access to all the information leaked.”
Smoky the jackal stepped forward, stabbing a banana-sized finger at me. “Galston was an egghead, but he wasn’t a traitor.”
“I’m afraid he was,” Sanya-ketsu said, coming back and taking a stool. “With gang war imminent, rooting out the traitors has been the focus of the Emperor’s investigation teams lately. I’m sure you’re well aware that noble Takeshi-ketsu wouldn’t entertain an allegation without hard evidence.”
Smoky shook his head. “I’m not sitting with a meat roach who’s still busy sucking Galston’s body dry of Death Spirit.”
That hit me like a sucker punch, but I tried to look like I didn’t care.
“What, were you going to use it?”
His dog lips pulled back, baring sharp white fangs, and a low growl rumbled in his massive chest.
Sanya-ketsu folded her hands on the table, rubber gloves creaking. “Now, Smoky, I wouldn’t ask any one of you to waste good Spirit—certainly not if it came from the traitor who pretended to be your friend while stabbing you and your gang in the back. Who are you truly angry at here? The Emperor’s sanctioned executioner or the dead man who betrayed your trust?”
The jackal’s mouth stayed twisted in that snarl, but he finally left Tweed’s body and went to lean against the wall behind the academic guy, crossing his tree-trunk arms over his chest and glaring rabies at me.
“Very good,” Sanya said. “Now that we’ve made nice, allow me to introduce you to the Eight-Legged Dragons’ latest acquisitions in this war with the Technols. This is Grady Hake, your new resident Death cultivator, and Warcry Thompson, Burning Hatred cultivator extraordinaire. Rather than continuing to risk your own lives to clear ruins while searching out the artifact, you’ll
