“Can’t be no hero if you were a villain, Hoid.”
“But in most of the stories, it is the villain who knows the hero best.”
Wayne chewed on that, watching the flow of cars on the road ahead. And … found himself imagining that roadway as a river. Because a part of him wished that what Hoid said could be true.
Then he waited some more.
And some more.
Damn. Someone really ought to come up with a way to make it so cars that wanted to cross had a better chance. Maybe you could hire someone to stand at the corner and fire a gun in the air when too many cars were blocking the way, and frighten them to move faster? Anyway, that zooming of cars … that road could be a wide river. Yeah, a river of stone and steel. Faster than any other river in the world.
He smiled, remembering a calm, beautiful voice that had kept his world solid for so long.
Yeah, there’s a bandit to be chased, he thought. But it’s still wrong. Where’s the hero? He should be here, but he stayed behind.
In a lull, Hoid gunned the truck and they scooted across — earning only three honks from cars that had to slow. Pretty good, considering. You could cross even the fastest river, full of the worst kinds of rocks, if you were in a bigger rock yourself. No need to fly, like Jak had in the story. This wasn’t cheating. It was just a smarter way, it was.
Followed by the last of their convoy, they pulled into the dim warehouse lit by some unlatched windows up along the tops of the walls. Why put the windows up there, where nobody could see outta them?
Oh, right. Illegal stuff. Yeah, that made sense.
“Thanks for the ride, Hoid,” Wayne said, pulling out his gangster hat — a worn wool cap traded off one of the thugs they’d caught. “You might wanna keep your head down if this next part gets shooty. Hope it won’t though.”
“Understood, Master Wayne,” Hoid said. “Best of luck.”
Wayne nodded, and it was time to become someone else. He scrunched up his face, squinting like Franis did — that was the guy he’d gotten the hat off of. A fellow Wayne’s height and age, but more weathered. By time, by smokes, by the things he’d done. Wayne already wore a wig to change his hair color, along with a bit of rubber on his chin to square it out, and some makeup to sink his eyes. With the hat, he was Franis — missing only one thing.
He climbed out and swaggered. Franis sure knew how to swagger.
VenDell — wearing the Cycle’s body, a man named Granks — met him outside the truck. The others waited quietly. All those dirty conners in the trucks would jump out only when they had someone important to catch. Someone more than a bunch of useless, low-level cretins.
Not that Franis was a cretin. He just needed work, you know? You started by taking a job at the docks, but work there grew tight. And the schedules were so bad. Then you heard your friend Vin had a job with someone who paid better, and all you had to do was move some boxes. Who could get into trouble for moving boxes? Even if you did have to keep a gun on you at all times, and be ready to shoot.
He swaggered in beside VenDell in his fancy suit and fancier body. “It’s uncanny,” the kandra said, “how you do that. You imitate a person nearly as well as one of my kin.”
“Just gotta find someone what looks a little like you,” Wayne said, “and make up the difference. Also, stay in character.”
“Right, right,” the kandra said. He wasn’t half bad — considering what a fussy little thing he normally was. He wore Granks’s body well. A gangster who had proven himself enough to be elevated. Given a title and some authority, while the rest of them were basically hired hands.
They crossed the vast chamber toward two fellows who emerged from the perimeter. Indeed, a lot of fellows began moving in. A good forty armed men. A local gang. That was … more people than the constables had.
We’ll have surprise though, Wayne thought. And the trucks were armored, offering cover. It should be fine, with Wayne and Marasi — not to mention a Faceless Immortal — on their side. MeLaan was quite the fighter; VenDell should be handy in a scrap too.
The two fellows that stepped up to meet with them wore work clothing: suspenders, trousers, buttoned shirts. Not good enough. They needed at least a Suit — the rank that Granks would report to — and preferably a Sequence, or even a fully promoted Series. There were only a couple of those in the Set at a time though. And one leader. The Key.
Wayne/Franis didn’t want any of those important jobs. He wasn’t interested in wearing the fancy clothing and drawing the gunfire. Pay him his wages and let him pretend he wasn’t doing nothing wrong.
“Cycle,” said the stouter of the two men, nodding. He would probably be a fellow named Dip, according to the interrogations. Or … maybe he was one named Embrier.
Whoever he was, he glanced at Franis, but didn’t say anything to him directly. “You can leave the trucks,” he told VenDell. “Gather your men in the two vans outside and head home. Your success has been noted.”
“Fine,” VenDell grumbled — using a pretty good version of Granks’s accent. “But I need to talk to the Sequence. There’s an issue.”
“The radio line isn’t good enough?” maybe-Dip said, glancing at his companion.
“I have reason to believe the radios are compromised,” VenDell said. “The Sequence is here, isn’t he?”
That was Wayne’s suggestion. The leader types, they always hung around and watched. Didn’t trust good, honest(ish) thieves like Franis to do their job right. So yeah, a higher-level member of the Set would be here. Somewhere. Sure as Franis wasn’t Franis right now, but was somebody kind of close — as close as someone could get, unless he could wear Franis’s bones, which was cheatin’ and that was that.
Anyway. Important negotiations. Life or death. Surrounded by forty armed men. Better pay attention.
“I will convey your message to the Sequence,” maybe-Dip said.
“That won’t be good enough,” VenDell said. “There is a problem. A very large problem.”
The two thugs looked at one another. Damn … they were suspicious.
Wayne glanced at the people at the perimeter, who would need only one offhand comment to start shooting. So he made a quick decision. The fellow wouldn’t be the one named Dip. Because who would put a guy named Dip in charge of anything?
“Hey, Embrier,” he said, using a slightly modified version of his own accent — dockworker, but overlaid with the kind of sniveling accent these thugs had all adopted. People what worked together, they started to pick up one another’s ways of speaking. “Can we talk a spell?”
The stout man glanced at him, then nodded. “Yeah, Franis?”
Wayne waved him over, and they slipped to the side. VenDell started up a conversation with the other man, going over the inventory they’d been able to “acquire.”
“What’s up, Franis?” the thug said quietly, then thumbed over his shoulder. “The Cycle never cares about things like this. Just does what he’s told.”
“Brain like wet concrete,” Wayne agreed softly. “Can you believe he’s the one what got chosen?”
“I can believe it,” Embrier said. “He never questions. Unlike you.”
“Hey,” Wayne said, “I only question when my paycheck is coming.”
“Don’t we all,” Embrier said, then shot him a sideways glance. “You’ve been getting some sun.”
Damn. The makeup hadn’t been light enough. Could he get the man to ask after his father? Wayne had some good info from the real Franis on his father. “You know. Heavy work. Like Dad always said — best work is the kind you do with your arms and back.”