“So on the way back to Blackholm, the two of you make camp somewhere along the way, and you wait until she’s asleep, and bang.” And he slapped his palms together. “Problem solved.”
“Shoot her in her sleep?”
“Well, you’ve got a sword, so whacking her head off is also an option. Whatever you think is going to work best for you.”
“I don’t understand this,” I said in frustration. “If you like her so much, how is it that you’re so sanguine about my killing her?”
“I don’t like her that much,” the gnome said with a toss of his head.
“Okay, well . . . thank you for clarifying that.”
Page was as good as her word. That was hardly a surprise; Page placed a great premium on keeping one’s word when promised. The fact that our leader had gone back on some of his promises to her was the thing that had poisoned her loyalties. She expected everyone to keep to the same degree of earnestness as did she. The fact that the real world in general, and ruling a kingdom in particular, simply didn’t work that way never factored into her thinking.
“All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go save some people I’ve never heard of and leave behind the city I’m starting to wish I had never heard of.”
What I found interesting was that not once did she ask who it was that was attacking the people of Blackholm. I supposed it was because she didn’t care. That said a great deal to me in terms of just how frustrated she had become with the Bowerstone Resistance. She seemed willing to embark on a quest with no real depth of information other than what I had told her. That was very atypical of her because Page was typically a lunatic for gathering information. I wondered why she wasn’t then.
I vowed to be sure to ask her before I killed her.
Chapter 13
Killing Page
I RETRIEVED CLASH FROM THE STABLE back in Millfields. Clash and Page eyed each other warily, and Clash made a loud, snorting sound. “Okay,” I said as I saddled up Clash, “now we need to find you a horse. Perhaps . . .”
“No thanks. I’ll walk.”
I stared at her, confused. “Look, Page, if it’s a matter of money, I have more than enough to cover purchasing a horse for—”
“I don’t need your charity, and I don’t need a horse.”
“Page, what in the world is going—?”
The gnome chuckled, which was one of the more unsettling noises I’d heard in a while, then he said, “She’s afraid of horses.”
“I am not!” Page said defensively.
“I can smell it coming off her.”
“I do not smell. That’s it. Finn, I don’t know what your obsession with this creature is, but it’s ending right now,” and she started to go for her gun again.
Resting a hand firmly on hers before she could draw the weapon, I said, “Page . . . ?”
“I am not afraid of horses,” she said tersely. “Horses and I just don’t get along, that’s all.”
“Does anyone get along with you?” asked the gnome.
Once again, she attempted to pull out her flintlock, and, once more, I prevented her from doing so. I suspected that she was allowing me to stop her. There was no doubt in my mind that the gnome had been quite right. If it came to a brawl, Page really would be able to mop the floor with me. “I’m not good with animals in general, if you have to know. Dogs try to bite me, cats try to scratch me. Horses make those loud, angry horse noises at me. It has nothing to do with fear. I’m simply not an animal person.”
I somehow knew that the gnome was going to ask if she was even a person person, and so I fired him a warning look. Once upon a time, nothing I could have said or done would have shut him up. Happily, this time he saw my look and clamped his mouth shut before saying anything.
“It’s going to take us quite a while to get to Blackholm if we’re walking the whole way.”
“That’s not my problem,” she said. Clash stared at her, and there seemed to be actual animosity in his eyes that I’d never seen before. It appeared that she was right about the antipathy of animals for her.
“Tell you what, Page. I’ll take the reins, and you can ride behind me. Clash can handle two riders easily. I won’t even go at full gallop.”
“Listen, Finn,” she began to say.
But the gnome cut her off, looking outraged at the suggestion. “The back is where I ride!” he said in protest. “She has no business sitting there. What’s the matter? Are you that eager to have her flat breasts pushed up against your back? Her manly arms wrapped around you so that you can find some womanish pleasure in them? And you said we were partners!”
Page’s jaw dropped, and she stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Partners?”
“It’s complicated,” I said, which was something of an understatement.
“You are not,” the gnome said firmly to Page, “going anywhere near that horse. Do you understand? Nowhere near!”
I saw something I had never seen from Page. Her body was literally trembling with fury. Then she suddenly turned, strode toward Clash, placed her hands on his rump, and vaulted onto his hindquarters in as smooth a mount as I’ve ever seen. Clash stumbled a few steps forward, clearly startled, and for a moment it looked as if he was considering bucking and throwing her off. Quickly, I grabbed his bridle, and said, “Shhh. Shhh. Calm down, big fella. You just have to get to know her, that’s all.” Clash’s eyes were remarkably expressive as they looked at me with barely restrained impatience. Apparently, Page was right; there was something about her that animals simply didn’t like. Fortunately enough, Clash seemed prepared to tolerate her, which was quite a concession from him.
The gnome looked apoplectic. “Fine! And when you fall off and break your neck, I’ll be standing over your body and laughing and dancing, like this!” Whereupon the gnome proceeded to dance around in bizarre gyrations while producing a demented cackle that sounded like a swarm of bats spiraling around. This went on for about ten seconds or so, then he stomped off toward a tree and flopped down next to it. His face was umber with fury.
Page stared at me questioningly. “Just how complicated is this partner business?”
“He saved my life, all right? Just . . .” I put up a hand. “Just give me a minute.” With a heavy sigh, I strode over to the gnome and crouched near him. “Look . . .” I started to say.
To my astonishment, in a low voice the gnome said, “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I know how the human female mind works better than you do. Just how pathetic is that?” Then he abruptly raised his voice again so that Page could hear, and said, “Fine! Ride off! At least a real man will finally be on that horse’s back! You’re lucky he’s going to let you handle the reins!”
With that, he scrambled upward into the tree and disappeared into the branches.
There was no doubt in my mind that the gnome was going to be able to keep up with us. Indeed, I was starting to wonder if he had some supernatural ability to transport himself from point to point, because his talent to show up constantly wherever I was bordered on the arcane.
The crafty little bugger. He’d actually managed to outthink Page and get her to do exactly what he wanted. Granted, it was in service to a desire to see me kill her, but still, I had to admire his ingenuity.
We set out. As good as my word, I kept Clash going at a brisk trot rather than anything approaching a gallop. He seemed to be a bit annoyed at the slow pace. I could feel him straining against me every so often, wanting to cut loose and move at full speed. But I maintained the trot, and, eventually, Clash seemed to realize that this was how fast we were going to be moving and no faster.
Page seemed reluctant to put her hands on me, but it was necessary so that she wouldn’t fall off. So she held on to my shoulders, balancing herself carefully. For someone who loudly proclaimed that she disliked horses, she certainly cut a confident figure.
We rode with very little chatter back and forth betw
een the two of us. That wasn’t all that surprising. Page was something of a taciturn type, and I was still daunted by the idea that I was supposed to kill her. I had come no closer to determining whether I could accomplish that or not.
At one point we stopped along the way and ate sparingly of our supplies. I studied her as we did so, then said gently, “Are you all right?”
She glanced up at me, almost as if she were surprised to see that I was there. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“You just seem . . . I don’t know . . . tired.”
“I haven’t been sleeping much, that’s all.”
I could see it in her face. Her eyes looked a bit sunken, and there was a general air of exhaustion about her. “You know what your problem is?” I said.
“You’re going to tell me, aren’t you?” She sounded quietly amused.
“You care too much. You care about the people of Bowerstone. You care about your causes. You care about everyone and everything.”
“Oh yes. What a bitch I am,” she said.
“I was just wondering why that was. What is there in your past that makes you take everything to heart?”
She was sitting with her back against a tree. Dabbing at the edges of her mouth, brushing away the crumbs from the slightly stale biscuit she’d just finished. “I’m not like you, Ben Finn. I don’t feel the need to dredge up everything from the past to explain the present. You don’t look at a mountain and say to yourself, ‘I wonder what the entire history of that mountain is. What sort of forces were required to carve it into the shape it now has?’ No, you just look at the mountain and accept it for what it is.”
“I accept you, Page. I just don’t pretend to understand you.”
She laughed. As passionate as she was about her causes when she was in Bowerstone, she appeared to be visibly relaxing once she was away from it. “That’s fine with me, Finn. I prefer to be an enigma. I think it makes me more”—and she passed her hand in front of her face—“mysterious.”
I presented a mocking bow. “As you wish, my mysterious lady.”
We continued on horseback. Page actually engaged in conversation from that point on. The farther we progressed, the more at ease she appeared. I doubted she would ever have admitted it, but she almost seemed grateful that I had encouraged her to depart Bowerstone.
She still remained reticent about her background; I suspected I could not have pried it out of her with a crowbar. But she talked of her concerns about Bowerstone and seemed particularly worried about whatever Reaver might be up to. “That bastard won’t be satisfied until he owns the whole of Bowerstone, every square block,” she said. “And then there are days that I think even Bowerstone is insufficient for his interests. That he’s looking beyond it to the whole of Albion. The other night I . . .” She hesitated. “I had a dream . . .”
“A dream? You mean like a prophetic dream or . . . ?”
“Gods, I hope not,” she said with an apprehensive laugh. “I saw Reaver, and he was gigantic . . . a hundred feet tall or higher . . . and he was standing over all of Albion, his legs just stretching from one side to the other. I couldn’t even see where his feet were coming down. I fired at him with my pistol, and he didn’t even feel it; it was less than pinpricks to him. And he was just laughing and laughing, and when I woke up, I was bathed in sweat, but I could swear I still heard that laughing.”
“Ouch.” I shuddered. “That sounds brutal.”
“It was.”
“But still . . .”
“What? Say what’s on your mind.”
“Is it possible you’re just too obsessed with him?”
“I think I may not be obsessed enough with him.”
I frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“He doesn’t even know I’m alive, Finn.” Unconsciously, I think, she thumped her fist on my shoulder blade. “I’m constantly trying to keep an eye on his endeavors and petition our ruler for rules and restrictions on Reaver’s undertakings, and yet for all that . . . for all that . . . I’m betting he doesn’t remember my name.”
I’d take that bet.
“The giant in the dream represented what he is and what I am. I can’t hurt him. I can’t stop him.”
“But you also can’t give up.”
“No, I can’t,” she said reluctantly. “Because Reaver is a blight on Albion that should be purged, and as much as I’d like to turn away from that, it’s just impossible. I’m on this trip with you to Blackholm, and it’s a diversion at best. I know that, when this is done—assuming I come through it in one piece, of course—I’m going to return to Bowerstone and go right back to work trying to rid the town of its influence. Even if . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
“Even if what?” I said.
She hesitated, then said darkly, “I helped get rid of one ruler who didn’t have the people’s best interests at heart. There’s no reason I can’t get rid of a second one.”
I snapped the reins and brought Clash to a halt. Turning half-around in the seat to fix my gaze on her, I said, “You speak treason.”
“It’s one of several languages I’m fluent in.”
“Page, you can’t . . .”
“Ideally, I won’t have to,” she said. “Make no mistake, Finn: I haven’t given up on the notion of effecting change through peaceful means. I’m not a warmonger, and I’m certainly not seeking out a fight. I’d like to think I’m better than that.”
You are. I’m just not sure what I’m better than.
WE RODE UNTIL LATE AND MADE CAMP BY the roadside. The stars twinkled down as if they were winking at me, whispering, We can see what you’re about to do.
Page had drifted to sleep almost immediately, and her chest was rising and falling in time with a soft, steady snoring. She had removed and stored her flintlock and sword, although I didn’t see where she had put them. It wasn’t a concern, though. It wasn’t as if she was going to need them.
So there we were. I stood over her, and I had my pistol handy and my sword as well.
I knew exactly where to shoot her in a way that would bring about death instantly. She would never feel a thing; she’d wake up dead, as they say. Still, just standing there several feet away and ensuring she never woke up . . . I mean, I’d never considered shooting someone from a safe distance as craven before, but for me this was new depths. My hand strayed to the hilt of my sword. I could pull that and bring it down hard and fast, beheading her in one stroke. At least if I was going to be a damned executioner, I could perform the task in the traditional manner.
She murmured something in her sleep, tossed slightly, and settled back into her slumber.
I released my hold on the sword. Fine. I was a coward. It was a hard thing for me to admit to myself, but there it was. Bad enough that I was going to kill her during her slumber, but I was going to do it in such a way that I didn’t have to get my hands dirty. It would be the gun after all.
What proof would I bring to Reaver that I had done the deed? I’d probably have to behead her in any event and bring that with me. It was a nasty, gruesome business, but there was nothing else to do. I didn’t think he was going to accept one of her hands.
I leveled my pistol at her. I tried to force myself to cock the hammer. My thumb pressed down on it and mashed against it, trying to find the strength to draw it back. But it seemed as if it had become wedged shut, resisting every attempt I made to pull it back.
I knew in my heart this wasn’t the case. There was nothing wrong with the trigger; there was something wrong with me.
Here we had come down to it: Page’s life against my brother’s freedom. I had the opportunity, I had the weaponry, all I had to do was utilize it, and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. I couldn’t even cock the hammer.
I had no idea how to help my brother. However, on some level, I suppose it was nice to find out that I did indeed have scruples. That there were depths to which I was unwilling to stoop.
“I can
’t do it,” I said, very softly.
“I can.”
It was Page who had spoken. Still lying on the ground, she was looking right at me with eyes that showed no hint of fatigue or, for that matter, mercy. She sloughed aside her bed wrap to reveal her flintlock pointed right at me. Unlike mine, her hammer was cocked, the sound having been muffled by her bed wrap. All she had to do was apply the slightest pressure, and I was a dead man.
I forced a smile, then said in a soothing voice, “You’re sleeeeping. This is just a dreeeeam. Go back to—”
“Shut up.”
“Okay.”
The barrel of the gun never wavered. “Did you think I was stupid?” she said.
“Think? No. I was kind of hoping, though . . .”
“I knew something was wrong,” she said tightly. Her voice was flat and unyielding. If I made the slightest move, she was clearly ready to kill me. Apparently, my being unable to kill her had garnered me no points. “Showing up in Bowerstone, trying to get me out of there with that nonsense about Blackholm . . .”
“Actually, that part was true.”
“Really.” She raised an eyebrow. “And you were bringing me there to be their leader?”
“No, that I made up.”
“Instead,” she said, “you wanted to bring me out into the woods to kill me.”
“I admit it sounds rather bad when you put it that way.”
“Finn”—and she placed her free hand under her other to hold the flintlock absolutely rock steady—“if you have any interest in seeing the sun rise, put your gun away and tell me what’s going on.”
I did exactly that. I shoved the pistol into my belt, then I told her. What other choice did I have?
Very quickly, I outlined the specifics of my situation. I told her about my brother enslaved to Reaver and that her death was the only possibility of getting him back. She listened without interruption to the entire thing, and, when I had finished, she didn’t say anything for a time.
“Could you possibly point that elsewhere?” I said, indicating her flintlock.