Neal Asher - The Engineer Reconditioned

“This scum offers insult to our Lady,” he said with vehemence. Cheydar thought he acted the part well. He looked to the officer, whose eyes never wavered from the tip of Dagon’s sword. Though his hand was at the short sword in his belt, he made no move to draw it.

“This scum should be made to pay, then,” said Cheydar.

The officer watched. He was thin-faced and had the wiry toughness of a trained fighter. He did not draw. He knew his chances. Dagon stepped forward a little way and ritualistically spat on his boots.

“My choice, then,” said the officer. This was what he was waiting for, Cheydar realised. “The time I chose is one hour from now, the place I chose is the street outside, and I chose air guns as the weapons of combat.”

Cheydar nodded to himself; a sensible choice. Dagon had demonstrated his speed with the sword.

“So be it,” said Dagon, and sheathed his sword in one smooth motion. As he did this hands strayed to the hilts of short swords. Cheydar smiled and raised the barrel of his gun. Hands drew back. Dagon nodded and stepped past him. They moved to the table where Dagon dispensed with his swords and took up his gun. The priest soldiers tramped from the tavern. Cheydar saw that Eric was grinning.

“What amuses you, boy?” he asked.

“Dagon’s weapon — it has five shots. It is a repeater.”

Cheydar nodded in confirmation when he saw the weapon, then he felt misgivings.

“You and David, keep your weapons gassed and cover the others. There may be some objection.” Cheydar knew that in air gun duels it was often not the first shot that counted and that the winner was he who could reload the fastest and have more time to aim for the second shot. Dagon would not have to reload and could probably fire off all four of his remaining shots while the officer reloaded. The officer’s men might consider this an infraction of the rules.

The sun was poised above the coach house and Linx was making its second daily journey across the sky, but this time was partially in silhouette and looked like a hole punched there. Dagon walked out across the worn ground and stood midway between the coach house and a titanothere fence. The fat official from the coach house stood a few yards to one side of him and fidgeted nervously; adjudicators were often shot by accident and he had not wanted the task. From where he stood Cheydar directed Eric and David to move away from him to the far ends of the veranda and be ready. He noted that over by the other end of the coach house a three-wheeled phaeton was being hitched to the backs of two patient cud-chewing titanotheres. Perhaps they could get this over with and be quickly on their way. He turned his attention to the right as the officer stepped out of a building just beyond the coach house and began walking towards Dagon. Six other priest soldiers walked out behind him and moved off in different directions. That could be taken two ways, either they were setting themselves for attack, or they were just covering their officer’s back. The officer walked, his air gun held one-handed at his side, until he came face to face with Dagon. The fat official approached.

“Standard procedure,” he said distastefully. “Stand back to back with your weapons held as you wish, then start walking at my count. I will count to ten then shout ‘now’. You turn and fire at that shout, not before.” He backed away quickly as Dagon and the officer turned their backs to each other. “One, two, three…” The count seemed to take no time at all. He reached ten and the officer turned and fired. Dagon staggered forward. “Bastard,” said Cheydar. There had been no ‘now’ and the official was unlikely to object. There was a silence as Dagon regained his balance. The officer dropped his expended cylinder and was putting in a new dart when Dagon turned, and holding his gun one-handed up to his shoulder, took careful aim, and fired. The dart cracked against the officer’s gun and ricocheted up into his jaw. He stepped back making a keening sound, his cheek hanging off in a flap and his side teeth exposed in a bloody grin. He put another cylinder in his gun. Dagon fired again and there was the hollow fleshy thump indicative of a chest hit. The officer keeled over and lay coughing blood. Dagon walked up to him, watched him for a moment, then walked towards Cheydar. Cheydar watched the soldiers, then glanced aside as the official stepped up to him.

“Your phaeton is ready,” he said, his face deliberately clear of expression. “I suggest you get in it now and leave.”

Cheydar nodded in agreement and turned his attention to Dagon.

“Are you hit?”

“Yes.”

Cheydar looked at his left arm. Blood was trickling from his fingertips. “How bad?”

“The bone is broken. The dart is still in me.”

Cheydar nodded to the interior of the tavern. “We will deal with it now.”

“It would be better if we left,” said Dagon.

“Don’t be foolish. If there is to be a fight later on today or tomorrow I do not want you weak from blood loss. We deal with it now.”

Dagon looked at him with evident surprise then smiled. “You are right. You are absolutely right,” he said. Cheydar wondered why he took such delight in being wrong, but dispelled the thought when Dagon staggered as they entered the tavern and he stepped to support him. Suen rushed to help once they were inside.

“Sheda, get my things,” she said. They sat Dagon in a chair and Eric stood guard at the door. “Sheda!

Damn, where is that girl?” Cheydar looked around then continued to cut away Dagon’s shirt. He took a look at the wound then went to his own pack and removed a field-surgery kit. Suen walked to a back door and looked out. “Sheda!” Cheydar put a tourniquet around the top of Dagon’s arm then tossed powder on the split below.

“That should deaden it some,” he said. “I have to get the dart out.” He cleaned a pair of surgical pliers in alcohol and a pair of spatulas that he handed to Suen. “When I say, hold open the wound with these.” They waited a short time until the powder did its work, then at Cheydar’s instruction Suen pushed the spatulas into the split and opened it wide. The dart was imbedded in broken bone. Cheydar got the pliers on it, but had to shove his fingers in the wound so one end of the break did not get pulled out as he tugged at the dart. Dagon turned to look at him with a sickly grin on his face, then he fainted. Cheydar stitched his wound and splinted his arm while he lay unconscious on the floor.

“Now we have to get him to the phaeton. Where is David?” Cheydar turned to Eric, who looked momentarily guilty before removing a fold of paper from his tunic and handing it over. Cheydar unfolded the note and read it. He was angry for a moment then guilty to feel relieved. He handed the note to Suen. She read the note then suddenly looked very angry. Cheydar waited for the explosion, as Dagon regained consciousness and struggled to sit upright. Cheydar squatted to help him.

“What’s going on?” Dagon asked Suen.

“David and Sheda have gone. They’ve taken or are taking a barge to Elmarch.”

“We have time to stop them,” said Suen, screwing up the note.

“Why?” asked Dagon.

“Why!” Suen all but screeched. “She is my daughter. She is just a little girl!” Dagon gave her such a look of contempt it was almost a blow. She stepped back. “That little girl has been lying with David since I joined you, and probably long before. She’s found love, or infatuation if you will, and you want her at your side to go and die with you below a death post.”

“I am not going to die,” said Suen, quietly, almost whispering.

“Then you can find them in Elmarch sometime after. They will be safer there.” Dagon staggered to his feet. Suen stared at him, probably knowing him to be right but loath to agree. She turned away as Cheydar and Eric began to collect up their things.