Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

She drew her knife as she turned; this time there was no point pretending she was anything but an enemy. ‘I’m glad you brought in breakfast. I got hungry looking for you.’

‘Under orders from General Oaklen again, I assume?’ The spy placed his food on a broad walnut desk. ‘Is he still determined for you to retrieve that stone?’

Brexan smirked. Jacrys still had no idea the stone was lost in another world an eternity away.

‘What’s funny?’ Jacrys asked, drawing the dirk from his belt.

‘Nothing, Jacrys, or Lafrent, or whoever you are today, nothing except that you are going to have to travel much further than you could even imagine if you want to get that stone.’ She began circling, hoping she could be quick and ruthless as she had been fighting the Seron in the meadow on the Ronan border. There was no way out, except past Jacrys. She unfastened her cloak and let it drop to the floor.

‘I’m sorry to say that when I am finished with you today, my dear, there will not be much left for old General Oaklen to-’

She cut him off. ‘Oaklen didn’t send me, you arrogant dryhump.’

‘Oh, really?’ Jacrys didn’t appear to care. ‘Working on your own – a Ronan girl with a passion for freedom? A freedom even your grandparents never knew?’

‘I was one of Bronfio’s platoon. I saw you murder him.’

‘And I suppose you followed me all the way here to get revenge. Oh, but that is precious, my dear. You? A trained killer? Don’t make me chuckle. You should have died with the rest of that wretched platoon in Riverend Palace.’ He handled the dirk as if it were an extension of his own hand.

Brexan watched him, and tried to keep from looking frightened; he was obviously better than she with a short blade. The only chance she had was to defeat him mentally; beating him physically would need a stroke of exceptional luck.

‘Do you hope I’ll believe you are Prince Malagon’s top field agent?’ she asked, sneering. ‘Look at you – you’re a mess. I wonder if the prince knows you’re holding one of the Resistance’s top men as your private prisoner in a warehouse less than a quarter of an aven’s amble from where he himself is in residence… and you, living in a warehouse yourself? You are on your own, Jacrys, just like me. So stop trying to sell me a new ploughhorse; I’m full to here with your blather.’

Jacrys lunged, as Brexan had expected, and she calmly parried his attack and moved back, content to let Carpello’s desk stand between them for a moment.

‘Not bad, my dear.’ Jacrys circled again. He wasn’t breathing heavily; Brexan tried to mask her own, heavier, breathing. ‘Most of my opponents don’t survive even this long. Sad, isn’t it, that fighting with a short blade has become such a lost art. Too many have gone over to great heavy weapons, rapiers, and-’

Jacrys took the blow behind one ear and crumpled soundlessly to the floor beside the desk. Stepping over the spy’s legs, Sallax delivered another hefty blow to his temple. The spy’s body twitched several times before he lay still.

‘Is he dead?’ Brexan asked, retrieving the fancy tunic from the bag and helping Sallax into it.

Sallax shrugged and tossed his makeshift club – a table-leg, Brexan thought, towards the fireplace. She was pleased – and grateful – to see that he had not lost his skill.

She packed the breakfast Jacrys had so thoughtfully provided into another of the spy’s shirts and picked up the flagon. As she stepped over the spy’s body, she said, ‘You know, Jacrys, you are so right: fighting with a short blade is a lost art – just as well cracking someone’s skull with a piece of bedroom furniture just never seems to go out of style.’

She looked up at Sallax, who stared back at her, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had probably killed a Malakasian officer. ‘You’ll have to go without boots for now,’ she said, ‘his are too small for you, but I’ll get you some as soon as we get to the Redstone. Here, wrap that blanket round you too; it’s cold out there. Can you make it?’

‘Versen?’ Sallax asked.

‘Yes, I have news of Versen.’ Brexan uncorked the flagon with her teeth and took a drink. It was tecan, warm and tasty. She took another swallow, passed it to Sallax, who did likewise, and took him by the arm. ‘Come,’ she said calmly, ‘let’s get going.’

‘That coffee smells great,’ Steven said, opening a saddlebag and rooting around for the last of the venison strips. ‘When I was driving from Charleston to Denver, I must have drunk three gallons of the stuff.’

Mark looked up from where he had been carefully pouring hot water through one of the filters Steven had stolen from Howard’s kitchen. ‘I can’t wait. I’ve grown so used to tecan, I’m worried I’ve lost my taste for it.’ On the outskirts of Traver’s Notch, a farm had provided milk, cheese, bread and vegetables to complement their venison. Mark had negotiated for a small metal pot for the brewing of coffee. Now he gripped the thin paper filter awkwardly between two fingers and trickled water slowly through the mound of ground coffee, trying to imitate the timing of their coffee maker at home. ‘It’s not the easiest thing in the world,’ he admitted, ‘but so far, it certainly smells like coffee.’

‘I think it smells like burned dirt,’ Garec said. ‘And you prefer this muck to tecan? Look at the colour of it!’

‘You need learn to have some faith, Garec,’ Steven said. ‘Just wait until you try some with a little milk and a few drops of that sugar extract Gilmour pretends he doesn’t carry in his tunic next to his three hundred pipes.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Garec,’ Mark said, ‘you want it barefoot.’

‘Barefoot?’

‘Exactly,’ Mark nodded, ‘as it comes, direct from the pot, none of that creamy, sugary nonsense, just insert the needle and open the IV.’

Garec looked askance at the foreigner. ‘I think Steven’s way sounds better,’ he said, ‘but neither sounds good!’

Gilmour broke in, ‘That aroma does bring back memories. My last cup must have been outside Gettysburg. Jed Harkness from Maine had a pot that brewed it right beside the fire, the water bubbled up in a little compartment, first clear, then brown and then almost black. It was wonderful…’ He sighed, and pulled his cloak close around his shoulders. It had grown noticeably colder in the days since they had resumed normal travelling, without the aid of what Garec had dubbed the Larion push. The ground was hard this morning and there was frost on the leaves and shrubs. The sky was slate-grey, and a glimmer in the southeast was all the sun they had seen that morning.

‘Don’t admit that, Gilmour,’ Mark said, ‘you’re showing your age.’

‘I am?’ He looked at Steven. ‘You’ve calculated the difference. How old would a two-thousand-Twinmoon grettan like me be in Colorado?’

Steven breathed a sigh through his nose. Mark recognised it: his maths sigh, a deep breath that said, there are numbers and figures lining themselves up inside my head, so don’t interrupt.

‘That’s about two hundred and eighty years old, Gilmour.’

‘Holy shit.’ Mark stopped pouring and stared at the former Larion Senator. ‘I have to apologise, Gilmour. The fact that you have any memories from your last visit at all is an impressive feat, never mind that they come from a time when my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother was still in nappies. And I am embarrassed for my world that this little cup of trail coffee is the first you’ll have to drink in a century and a half. I wish I could take you to the diner on I-84 just across the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. That’s the best coffee in America. I used to run up there when I was on break from school just to get a mug. It took all day.’