“Remember what I said,” M adds. “Call me if you change your mind.”
Gigi wears her sneer like a mask. “I’ll do that.”
M’s got on a sad look and might stand there all night, but I touch her arm and point her to the door. I don’t know what to think about Gigi except maybe to feel sorry for her. To have someone like M around wanting to help and to snub her like that.
Gigi calls after us one last time. “M. Don’t get in too much trouble.”
“You too, Gigi.”
And that’s that. I take one last look over my shoulder to the beautiful singer, who’s singing again, trying to get back to normal, crooning about how wonderful it is to dance in the arms of your man. It’s got to be near dawn, closing time. She’s singing to a near-empty room, the only ones still around are the waiters and the zombie bartender, who’s still got that rag in his hand, wiping.
We retrieve our furs from the coat check girl, a new guard—also thick as a barrel, with odd fur around his ears—opens the door to let us outside, and we’re back on the street, next to a dirty brick wall, and the glow from a distant streetlight makes our shadows long. She keeps walking. The car ought to be around here somewhere. It’ll find us when she wants it to find us. Meanwhile, she’s in a mood to walk, and I stay at her side.
“You got a bottle of whiskey in that thing?” M asks, nodding at my clutch.
“Probably. Might have to go digging around for it.” The clutch is no bigger than my two hands put together, but it’s got everything in it because that’s what it’s designed for. Cigarettes, cash and poker chips, a pretty little Derringer for emergencies that no one will ever find unless I want them to, a handful of bus tokens, an extra pair of stockings, a spool of thread, and a lipstick. And now an odd little book of spells. Maybe I can find a bottle of whiskey.
“Never mind.” She gives a deep sigh. “I knew it was a long shot. Oh well.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” I say.
“Not our problem. Not anymore.”
We walk for maybe half a mile, and I might be tough and M might be magic, but my shoes aren’t built for this and I’m getting sore. But I’ll stay right with her. The sky is gray, the sun’s coming up.
We pause when we hear singing, gruff and out of tune. It’s around the next corner, and I can’t help it, I have to go look. And there he is: The Fed’s lying in the gutter, no jacket, his shirt torn open. His shoulder holster is hanging lopsided, and he’s got a revolver in his hand, waving it around in what might be despair. Gigi took their guns—but he must have had one hidden, under a trouser leg maybe. So the Fed’s standing here, gun in his hand, lost as a puppy and trying to figure out where his life went, and who to blame.
I put myself in front of M like I always do in my imagination in this scenario. This isn’t too rough. We can get away, get out of his sight before he even knows we’re here, and I press back against M, urging her to turn around.
Too late, though, because the Fed sees us, and his arm suddenly becomes steady, and scrambling to his feet, he levels the weapon.
He’s got us in his sights and the gun is real. No back door to escape out of. I can hear M breathing hard behind me, and I don’t know if she has any tricks for this.
“What—what happened in there?” He’s gesturing with the gun, like it’s an extension of his arm.
I can feel sweat freezing on my skin under the silk of my dress. “I don’t even know what you think you saw.”
“Yes, you do, you saw everything, you saw it all! I don’t even remember! What am I supposed to tell the director?”
He can shoot me and say it was my fault. Sure he can. Can’t come back from his raid empty-handed, and I think how silly, that it all comes down to this, getting held up in a back alley by some drunk-ass Fed.
I step forward and grab the gun out of his hand, all in one smooth movement that he doesn’t see coming. The weapon comes loose from his hand like a plucked flower, and he collapses into a sob, leaking tears and snot, hands over his face. He slumps to the sidewalk.
We stand looking down at him. I’m holding this weapon that I don’t want. But I’m relieved, M is safe, and all is well. Sprawled on the concrete, he starts singing his mashed-up song again, and this time I can hear what it is, or what it’s supposed to be: the one the siren at Blue Moon sang, about the guy who done her wrong.
I empty the bullets from the chamber into my clutch and drop the gun on the sidewalk. I say, “You think we should help him? Call the cops or something?”
“He’s not going anywhere. They’ll find him soon enough. Come on, Pauline.”
She loops her arm around mine and we walk away. The car pulls up to the curb ahead of us, right on schedule, and the driver gets out to open the door for us. Time to go home, wash the paint off my face and roll into bed.
“I wonder sometimes how it all could have come out different,” M says. “With Gigi, I mean.”
“I don’t think you could have said anything—”
“Not here, not now,” she says, turning inward, thoughtful, and I can’t guess what webs she’s spinning, what plans she’s making, or past plans she’s picking apart for the flaws. “I’m talking ten, twenty years ago. Did all this happen because I took her doll, or because she stole my licorice? Or because Mama loved her best, or me best? I don’t know who Mama loved best, or if she loved either of us at all. Probably doesn’t matter one little bit.”
I don’t say anything because what can I say? I’ve never gotten the whole story about M and Gigi’s mama, probably because I haven’t asked. And I won’t. I don’t want or need to know because it wouldn’t change a thing.
“I imagine it doesn’t,” I say. “You and your sister have done most of this your own damn selves.”
M smiles, squeezes my arm. “I’m a lucky woman to have you walking by my side.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I thought I was lucky that you put up with me at all.”
“The two of us make the best damn gang in this city, you know that? No matter what comes, we’ll be okay.” She doesn’t sound certain.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say firmly. “We will.”
Scott Lynch
Fantasy novelist Scott Lynch is best known for his Gentleman Bastard sequence, about a thief and con man in a dangerous fantasy world, which consists of The Lies of Locke Lamora, which was a finalist for both the World Fantasy Award and the British Fantasy Society Award, Red Seas Under Red Skies, and The Republic of Thieves. He also runs an online serialization of a novel, Queen of the Iron Sands, on his Web site, www.scottlynch.us. He lives in New Richmond, Wisconsin, but spends several months of the year in Massachusetts with his partner, SF/F writer Elizabeth Bear.
Here he takes us to a beleaguered city, torn by a war among wizards and under assault from deadly magic raining from the sky, where a desperate group of thieves and rogues must steal something that’s impossible to steal—and are running out of time to steal it before forfeiting their lives.
A YEAR AND A DAY IN OLD THERADANE
Scott Lynch
1. Wizard Weather
It was raining when Amarelle Parathis went out just after sunset to find a drink, and there was strange magic in the rain. It came down in pale lavenders and coppers and reds, soft lines like liquid dusk that turned to luminescent mist on the warm pavement. The air itself felt like champagne bubbles breaking against the skin. Over the dark shapes of distant rooftops, blue-white lightning blazed, and stuttering thunder chased it. Amarelle would have sworn she heard screams mixed in with the thunder.