him...
He missed Lugan.
Missed his humour, his decisiveness, his forward motion. Lugan would’ve been on the move already, shaking shit down, sorting shit out. None of this “the world’s had a nightmare” crap.
Hell, he’d’ve been the one causing it.
Across the heave of bodies, the front doors were propped open and revellers spilled out into the dusty roadway, laughing. On a nearby bench, leaning back with his black boots on the table, Roderick lived up to his moniker with a stringed something-or-other that he apparently played with some skill. His listeners stamped their boots in rhythmic appreciation and sank more booze.
Ecko wanted to rail at him:
Lugan would’ve known the danger signs, distracted him, given him something else to focus on – in here, no one even looked up.
Behind the bar, Karine had a sweat on. She and Silfe tapped barrel after barrel. Every so often, Sera would stir himself to roll one away through the kitchen door, and then come back with a full one on his shoulder. There was no sign of Kale – only the lush food smells that the door wafted in Sera’s wake.
More stink.
Jeez, it was
Ecko was used to people, the crush of the crowd, the press of flesh – but this? Too much reek, too much skin and dirt and resin and critter. The smells were closing in around him like street kid bullies; his guts were still playing up from the change in diet. Chrissakes, he couldn’t
“Oi. Make yourself useful, mush. I need water.” Behind him, Karine lunged for another ceramic bottle. She was sharp as a knife, fast as a circus juggler. Arachnid eyes and feline reflexes and hands that were everywhere at once. Remembering to wink lasciviously at the lad ordering drinks, she chased Ecko with a foot. “Well go on then!”
“Who died and made you Empress?” Ecko half turned, found himself with a rope-handled bucket in his mottled mitt. He glared, his oculars flickering fire. “What am I, fucking staff now?”
“You live here, mush, you work.”
The lad paid for his drinks with a twist of something in a tiny cloth bag.
Salt? Sugar?
Columbian?
Ecko curled a black-toothed grin.
The lad grabbed his ale and retreated to safely. Muttering, Ecko took the pail and ducked out into the yard. Fucking with the drinkers was at least one way of cheering himself up.
* * *
When he returned, the room had stabilised, grown a tight edge of focus like the silent rasp of a whetstone.
His reactions instinctual, he handed over the bucket and was back on the bar top, crouched, cowl down, one shoulder tight against the wall. He curled still, adrenaline wary, nerves shivering with anticipation – but Sera stood casual, arms folded. Chrissakes, the doorman’d almost cracked a grin.
Curious, Ecko followed his gaze.
In the centre of the room, ten or so drinkers had collected loosely round a clutter of tables, others had gathered to watch. Flicking his targeters, Ecko took note of emblems stitched onto jackets, woven bands around wrists and forearms. Some of the drinkers had standardised weapons, bound into belt-rings by lengths of braided string.
Military? Name, wristband and serial number? They sure as hell drank enough.
Some of them, though, looked like something else entirely.
“Who’s up then? Go on, you know you want to.” Commanding the tables was a small, tightly sprung woman, rattling a leather cup in one slim hand. She was the first exotic Ecko’d seen: skin, hair and eyes all different shades of bright yellow-gold. She almost glowed in the sunset. His heatseeker showed skin-warmth, a fierce energy that burned from her like she was radioactive. In each of her cheekbones was embedded a pale stone like an opal, cooler than her skin, but shimmering in the dying of the light.
She wasn’t beautiful, but the force of her presence was undeniable. Her deft fingers cleverly flicked the angles of the cup.
Almost in spite of himself, he grinned, a slash of darkness buried deep under the cowl.
“C’mon, then!” She was daring them. “Doesn’t Larred Jade compensate you? You can’t all be cleaned out.”
“CityWarden doesn’t compensate us!” Ribald challenge and friendly abuse answered her, the gaggle of onlookers called for drinks, bets.
At the bar, an older bloke nudged his mate and called, “Go on, Triqueta, take ’em all on!” There was laughter.
Still flicking readouts, Ecko watched.
Across the scarred tabletop, one man unwrapped a red, metal bracelet – copper? – and chucked it into the pile, another had a chip of stone, striated with colour.
The woman, Triqueta, chuckled and rattled the pot again. The slanting sunset edged her in bright neon – she was a holo-projection, a fantasy. She had the room and she knew it. Grinning, she threw her hair over her shoulder – but the move was a distraction. Ecko’s targeters caught it: her other hand was twisting the cup with a long- practised gesture.
She was cute, all right, smart, fast and intruig–
In his head, brakes screeched. Long wheals of rubber scarred his thoughts as they careened to a dead stop.
The blatancy of the gameplay floored him completely. For an endless, timeless moment, Ecko’s breath was a ball of disbelief tight in his throat.
In front of him, the woman called, “Any more?” She mock recoiled, laughing, as they cussed her.
On the bar top, Ecko watched, now captivated for a completely different reason. He could see what Eliza was trying to do, see the moves that she was making...
A leering patron whispered something in the woman’s ear.
She laughed, but her elbow in his chest sent him crashing to the floor, his ale –
The blow wasn’t malicious – but was hard enough to make the point.
Sera shifted, a gentle ripple of warning. Ecko stayed exactly where he was, barely daring to breathe in case she looked up and that cleverly orchestrated gold chain snapped shut its last shackle...
The woman rattled the dice one last time, then threw them across the table. They clattered to a stop. A circle of groans echoed round her. A couple of gamblers scraped back stools and headed for the bar.
“Wish I knew how she did that.” The older man at the bar shook his head and his companion chuckled.
“If you did, mate, we’d all be living like lords in a Padeshian brothel.”
They turned back to their ale jugs, chuckling.
