Retribution Falls - Chris Wooding [4]
“What I’m saying, Macarde, is that we can both come out ahead,” Frey argued through gritted teeth. “We’ll work off the debt, me and my crew.”
“You’ll be halfway to New Vardia the second I take my eyes off you,” Macarde replied.
“What about collateral? What if I leave you one of the fighters? Pinn has a Skylance; that thing’s faster than greased owl shit. You ought to see it go!”
Droop-Eye drove a knee into his thigh, making him grunt, but Frey still wouldn’t extend his thumbs. The thug by the door smirked at his companion’s attempts to make Frey cooperate.
“Here, listen!” Rat shouted. Everyone stopped and turned to look at him, surprised by the volume of his voice. A strange expression crossed his face, as if he was puzzled to find himself the center of attention. Then it disappeared beneath a dawning revelation.
“Why don’t we let them go?” he suggested.
Macarde gave him a reptilian glare. “What?” he said slowly.
“No, wait, hear me out,” said Rat, with the attitude of one caught up in an idea so brilliant that it would require careful explanation to his benighted audience. “I mean, killing ’em won’t do no good to us. They don’t look like they’ve got a shillie to their name anyways. If we let ’em go, they could, you know, spread the good word and stuff: ‘That Lawsen Macarde is a reasonable man. The kind of man you can do business with.’ ”
Macarde had been steadily reddening as Rat’s speech went on, and now his unshaven jowls were trembling with fury. Droop-Eye and Bruiser exchanged wary glances. Neither of them knew what had possessed their companion to pipe up with his opinion, but they both knew the inevitable outcome. Macarde’s hand twitched toward the hilt of Frey’s cutlass.
“You should listen to the man,” said Crake. “He talks a lot of sense.”
Macarde’s murderous gaze switched to Crake. Absurdly, Crake was still smiling. He flashed his toothy grin at Macarde now, looking for all the world like some oily salesman instead of a man facing his imminent demise.
But then Macarde noticed something. The anger drained from his face and he craned in to look a little closer.
“That’s a nice tooth,” he murmured.
Yes, keep looking, you ugly bag of piss, Crake thought to himself. You just keep looking.
Macarde’s eyes glazed over, mesmerized. Crake directed every ounce of his willpower at the smuggler. Your man’s idea isn’t so bad, when you think about it. A show of generosity now will only increase your standing in the eyes of your customers. They’ll come flocking with their deals, offering the best cuts for the privilege of working with you. You’ll own this town!
But Macarde was smarter than Rat. The tooth worked only on the weak-minded. He was resisting; Crake could see it on his face. Even bewitched as he was by the tooth, Macarde sensed that something was amiss.
A chill spread through Crake’s body, something icier and more insidious than simple fear. The tooth was draining him. Hungover and weak as he was, he couldn’t keep up the fight for long, and he’d already used his best efforts on Rat.
Give it up, he silently begged Macarde. Just give it up.
Then the smuggler blinked, and his gaze cleared. He stared at Crake, shocked. Crake’s grin faded slowly.
“He’s a daemonist!” Macarde cried, then pulled the pistol from his holster, put it to Crake’s head, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Macarde was as surprised as Crake was. He’d forgotten that he’d loaded his pistol with only a single bullet. There was an instant’s pause, then everything happened at once.
Frey’s cutlass flew out of Macarde’s belt, leaping ten feet across the room, past Droop-Eye and into the captain’s waiting hands. Droop-Eye’s final moments were spent staring in incomprehension as Frey drove the cutlass double-handed into his belly.
Macarde’s bewilderment at having his cutlass stolen by invisible hands gave Crake the time he needed to gather himself. He drove a knee hard into the fat man’s groin. Macarde’s eyes bulged and he staggered back a step, making a faint