Robert Charrette - Find your own truth

As if the thought had called the razorguy, the man took the corner from West Colfax in a controlled run. He halted, head turning in search of the man he sought. Boiling after him, a group of angry citizens also rounded the corner, splitting around his immobility like a wave around a rock. Sam froze, willing the samurai not to see, but he had never gotten the hang of an invisibility spell. The mob rushed past. The razorguy followed them slowly, as though sensing his prey hidden somewhere nearby. He advanced up the street, checking possible hiding places with brief but thorough efficiency. It was only a matter of time before he would reach the doorway where Sam stood, and then it would be over. Sam didn't know what sort of building sheltered him, but any refuge was better than none. He tried the door. Locked, and he didn't know any unlocking spells.

It wasn't the first time he'd been trapped and needed to become invisible. Distraction had worked almost as well then. Masamba had given him a way out. Sam concentrated, trying to calm his breathing enough to focus on the spell. Even if he completed it, the razor-guy might not fall for his illusion. Forcing that worry away, Sam fought his panting into a regular rhythm and concentrated on the effect he wanted to achieve.

Voices erupted down the street, a hue and cry for the fleeing shooter. It sounded as though the mob Masamba tried to incite had found the man they sought and were pursuing him. The razorguy looked up, considering the tumult. Then he ran toward the noise. He passed Sam's hiding place without even a glance into the shadows.

Sirens wailed as a police car flashed through the intersection, headed for the alley where the pedestrian had been shot. Someone had listened to Masamba's exhortation and called the police. Maybe the mage had done it himself. Either way Sam was in trouble. In a matter of minutes, the police would have his description. Or would they? Would Masamba want Sam taken up by the police? One way or the other, Sam definitely wasn't in favor of letting the local badges have him off.

Trying to get out of the Ute zone to reach Hart's safehouse in the Pueblo zone was too risky now. This close to the border there would be patrols on the adjacent streets. Not much shadow traffic would cross the border tonight. If Sam knew the city better, he might have been able to guess at which likely points the patrols would light and where it might still be safe to cross. Going over at a checkpoint was out of the question. If the police had his description, his false identities wouldn't be good enough. For tonight at least, he was stuck in the Ute zone.

He realized how poor was his knowledge of the city. And how poorly equipped he was to deal with the level of threat hot on his heels.

Well, there was one sort of help you could buy with minimal questions, and no worry about former loyalties. Mr. Smith and his frieads might not be good traveling company right now, but they'd easily stand a friend to some protection. It took Sam an hour to find a gun shop. The neon sign's "1" was out, making the name look to be "Weapon Wor d." The outer screen was down over the display window, but the place was open.

So he had changed. Here he was, contemplating buying lethal weaponry. Well, his world had changed, too. Sam didn't know why these people were after him, but it was obvious they were prepared to play rough. Alone in the city, he needed some way to even the odds. With so many foes, guns seemed the only answer.

A bum accosted Sam at the door of the shop, more proof that the Ute social system wasn't as egalitarian as its propaganda claimed. Here was another old, discarded remnant of the Ute tribe. He wore a battered black reservation hat sporting an equally battered turkey feather. The rest of his clothes were concealed under a dirty, multi-hued serape, and he stank of cheap booze and accumulated grime and filth. His wheezy voice was full of alcohol-fueled enthusiasm.

"Need a guide, Anglo? Can't do better than me. Honest Injun. Hey hey, get the joke. I know the best places. Ute Council. Pueblo, too. Know all the best hunting, best lodges. Girls, too. What ya hunting, Anglo? Elk, buffalo? Or ya into the paranormal? Hey hey, I'll help ya find it."

Sam removed the unwashed hand gripping his sleeve. "I'm not a hunter. Try somebody else?'

"Still need a guide. I been "

The bum's protest was cut off as the outer door closed behind Sam. He waited while the scanner noted his weapons and the proprietor gave him the onceover. A click signaled that the inner door was unlocked. Sam entered and headed for the counter. As he walked, he glanced around, noting that he was the only customer. Just as well. The fewer people to deal with, the fewer might recognize him. Maybe the slow business would make the owner more receptive to a deal.

As it turned out business had been slow all day, and the surly owner was in no mood for deals. Sam transferred more than he thought fair for the weapons, but didn't complain. Uncomfortably, he accepted the Clock 7-mm Hideaway and the Sandier submachine gun. The shopkeeper was handing over the two boxes of ammo when he suddenly went rigid and his eyes took on a glassy look. , Sam had felt the spell wash over him, and didn't need to turn around to know that trouble had found him. He hadn't heard the door, so the spell-caster wasn't inside yet. Hoping his body shielded the action, he opened the box of 9-mm ammo for the Sandier and grabbed a handful of bullets. He couldn't unsling the Sandier. without revealing that he had not succumbed to the paralyzing spell. If he could get a minute under cover, though…

A reflection in one of the display cases behind the counter showed him his hunter. The scarecrow elf had tracked him here. The door opened to admit him as if automatically controlled. Sam spun to face him, and was disheartened that the elf didn't appear the least astonished.

So much for the advantage of surprise. "Don't look so disappointed, Verner. After the trouble I had banishing the city spirit you set on me, I did not expect you to succumb to so small a magic.'' The elf held out his hand. "Give it to me."

"You seem to know me, chummer, but I don't know what you're talking about."

The elf unleashed a sigh that could have passed for a growl. "I have no time to waste."

Sam didn't need to sense the power gathering around the elf to know what was coming. He dove for the floor as a fireball sizzled through the air. It engulfed the shopkeeper, who stood motionless as the flames blackened his flesh and ignited his clothes, melting their synthetic fibers into his shriveling skin. Sam felt the heat of the sudden conflagration as he crawled behind the meager cover offered by the stock shelves. Flames hissed, but the dying man made no scream of pain. Sam hoped the poor man's nerves were as paralyzed as his body.

The fire set off the automatic alarm, and the sprinkler system spurted to fitful life.

"Bad move, chummer," Sam shouted. Feverishly he fumbled the magazine out of the Sandier. "Alarm's going off at the local police and fire stations. Place like this has direct connections. Too much fire hazard."

The elf's answer was another fireball. Sam's protection erupted in flames, then began to topple toward him. He rolled away, barely escaping being buried in the falling merchandise. In his haste, he lost the magazine. He cursed. The Sandier would be of no more use than a club, and he was exposed now. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for the door. He never made it. In a whirlwind of orange and yellow fire, he was picked up bodily and thrown through the disintegrating display window. Glassy teeth tore at him, shredding clothes and flesh with equal ease. In a shower of fragments, he landed on the cold sidewalk outside the shop. His shoulder was numb, his face a stinging mass of scrapes and cuts, and one eye was blinded by flowing blood. He had lost a boot and most of his pants, but he was still alive. His magic had saved him from the flames.