I certainly wasn’t going to feel bad about this.
Behind me, I could hear a hammer click. Cold metal pressed against the back of my neck.
“I got some ideas,” someone grunted.
Now this I might feel bad about.
Ralp backed away from the bar—though not before he scooped up the knuckles I left there, the shit—and scampered away to a back room. I let my hands lie flat on the table, my body still as a statue as I stood there.
“The Phantom doesn’t like people asking about him.” Male voice. Young. I could tell that even without him prodding me with the weapon like it was something else. “Thinks it’s terrible rude. I happen to agree with him.”
“As do I,” I replied, keeping my voice soft. “I must seem even more rude right now, keeping my back to you.” I spoke slowly, calmly. “I’m going to turn around and face you.”
“N-no!” His voice cracked a little. “Don’t do that.”
I was already doing it, though. I kept my eyes open, my lips pursed, my face the very picture of serenity as I pushed the scarf back over my head.
Not that I felt serene, mind you. My heart was hammering my ribs at that moment—you never get too used to having a gun jammed in your face, no matter how many times it happens. But it had happened enough times that I had learned a few things: I could tell a shaky hand by the feel of a barrel against my head; I could tell how far back a hammer was pulled by the sound.
And I knew that, if someone was intent on killing you, you damn well better make them look you in the eye while they do it.
When I turned around, I recognized the youth from the table—some soft-faced, wide-eyed punk with a mess of hair and a cluster of acne on his cheeks. He had a hand cannon leveled at my face. The other boy and the girl stood behind him, holding a pair of autobows and pretending to know how to use them.
Good weapons—too good for this hole masquerading as a township. It was unheard of to even see a weapon using severium this far away from a major city. But good weapons didn’t make good fighters. I saw their eyes darting nervously around, their hands quivering, too small to hold steel that heavy.
“You’re young,” I observed.
“Yeah? What of it?” the kid asked.
“Too soft to be working for a Vagrant,” I said. “Daiga must be desperate.”
“The Phantom’s not desperate!” He tried to sound convincing, but the crack in his voice was anything but. “He’s just on the run. He’s going to get out of this shithole soon enough and take us with him when he does.”
“Yeah,” the girl growled from behind him. “He’s going to show us magic, teach us how to be mages like him. We already hit an Imperial caravan with him! Scored a haul like—”
“I’m sure he was very impressed.” I kept my eyes locked firmly on those of the kid in front of me, pointedly looking past the barrel. “Why else would he have given you the very important task of picking up his wine?”
“Shut up!” the kid all but screeched. “Shut your fucking mouth! The Phantom—”
“Daiga,” I corrected.
“The Phantom said to kill anyone who came asking after him, any Imperial or… or… Revolutionary or…”
“Child,” I said. “I’m no Imperial, no Revolutionary. Daiga’s no hero who can get you out of here.” I stared into his eyes, forced myself not to blink. “And you’re no killer.”
His hands shook a little. Arm was getting tired. He held the hand cannon up higher to compensate.
“You’ve got a shit deal here,” I said. “I know. But pulling that trigger isn’t going to make it better.” I took a breath. “Put it down.”
Second thing you do to see what a man is made of, you put a weapon in his hands.
If he’s got any sense, he’ll put it right back down. If you’re fresh out of luck, he’ll hold it as tenderly as he would hold his wife. But as much as I don’t believe in luck, I believe in sensible people even less, so most of the time you get people like this kid: scared, powerless, thinking a piece of metal that makes loud noises will make anything different.
So when he realized it wouldn’t, when his arm dipped just a little, I knew I had this.
I grabbed him by the wrist, pushed the cannon away, and twisted his arm behind his back in one swift movement. He screamed as I pulled him close against me, circled my other arm around his neck, and looked over his shoulder at his friends. They hadn’t even raised their autobows before they realized what I had done.
“Listen up,” I snarled. “You want to put holes in your friend, you pull the triggers right now. You want everyone to come out of this alive, you put those things down and tell me where Daiga’s hiding out.”
I watched them intently, waiting for them to realize the shit they were in, waiting for them to drop their gazes, then their weapons.
Only, they didn’t.
They looked nervously at each other, saw the fear in each other’s eyes, fed off it. They raised their weapons, pointed them at me, fingers on the triggers. They took aim like they thought they wouldn’t hit their friend.
And that’s when I knew this whole thing had just gone to shit.
I shoved the kid out of the way just as I heard the air go alive with the screaming of autobows. Tiny motors whirred as they cried out, bolts flying from thrumming strings. Their shots went wide, missing both of us. I leapt behind the bar, ducked beneath it.
I heard wood splinter as they fired, bolt after bolt, into the wood, like they hoped the bar would just disintegrate if they poured enough metal into it. Sooner or later, they’d run out of ammunition, but I couldn’t wait for that.
Especially not once I heard the hand cannon go off.
A colossal flash of fire lit up the room. The ancient reek of severium smoke filled the air. And a gaping hole was now where half a bar had once been.
I pulled my scarf low against a shower of smoking splinters raining over me. He held a primate’s weapon—those things were just as likely to explode as fire—but it made a lot of noise and did a lot of damage, so I imagined he didn’t give a shit.
Besides, as I heard him reloading, I came to the same realization that he no doubt had.
He only needed to hit once. And I only had half a bar left to hide behind.
I pulled my gun free from its holster and it greeted me, all bright and shiny and eager to please. It burned warm, a seething joy coursing through my glove and into my palm. His bright brass barrel, carved like a dragon’s mouth, grinned at me as if to ask what fun thing we were about to do.
I hate to disappoint him.
Another hand went into the bag at my hip. The shells met my fingers. Across each of their cases, engraved in the silver, I could feel the writing. I ran my hands over each one, mouthing the letters as I did.
Hellfire—too deadly. Hoarfrost—too slow. Discordance—there’s my girl.
I pulled it out, flipped the gun’s chamber open, slid the Discordance shell in. I drew the hammer back, counted to three, then rose up behind the bar.
And, for the briefest of moments, I saw the look on the kid’s face. I’ve seen it a thousand times before and it never gets old. Eyes go wide, mouth goes slack as they stare down the barrel of my gun and, with numb lips, whisper the same word.