The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [121]
Trinica nodded at that, making a hissing noise through her teeth.
“But until that time,” he said, “you’re going to have to watch out. Every drunk with a knife, every dealer looking for an angle, everyone with a grudge against you, they’re all going to be lining up to take their chance. They’re going to see that Trinica Dracken’s been brought down and they’re going to take their shot at you while they can.”
“I can look after myself, Darian,” she snapped.
“Can you?” he asked. “Can you shoot? Can you fight?”
“I can shoot,” she said, showing him the revolvers in her belt.
“Can you shoot well?”
She glared at him, and he had his answer. Trinica wasn’t a fighter. She’d got to where she was by guile, manipulation, and sheer ruthlessness. She wasn’t physical enough to compete in the brutal world of pirates. She’d used others to protect her and fight in her place. Smart people stayed out of gunfights.
There was no crew to hide behind now, no one to issue orders to. Here, she was out of her element, and it scared her. She hid it behind a wall of frost and rage—perhaps she even hid it from herself that way—but none of that fooled Frey.
He’d not seen her scared for a long time. Not since before their aborted marriage, before he ran out on her. More than a decade had passed and they were both different people now, but the feelings that came to him were the same as if it had been yesterday. He felt protective. He actually wanted to hold her in his arms. But that would be the grossest insult to her, the final humiliation, and she’d never allow it.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Once you get the Trigger fixed, you can come back here and bomb the shit out of this whole town. How’s that?”
“I just might do that,” Trinica said darkly. “I just might.”
But until then, Frey thought, I’ll look out for you.
Their route took them the long way round the settlement, and navigation wasn’t easy. A few times Frey had to stop and ask for directions. Usually they wanted money in return, but Frey had a gun, which cut through the tiresome process of haggling. Once Frey and Trinica were established as dangerous, the shanty dwellers left them alone. They weren’t interested in trouble.
The shanty petered out into a mess of run-down alleys that smelled of old fish and tanneries. Frey got his bearings by shinning up a drainpipe until he could see over the rooftops to where aircraft were taking off from the landing pad. Not far, by the looks of it.
Trinica stuck close to him as he led the way through the alleys. She probably didn’t notice she was doing it, but Frey did. It warmed his ego to think of himself as her guardian. For some reason it made him feel a bit better about things.
They came out of the alleys onto something that resembled a street. It was narrow and grubby, but it bore signs of being a thoroughfare, and the buildings on either side didn’t look in immediate danger of collapse. That was an improvement on much of the town.
“Spindle Street,” said Trinica, pointing at a faded sign high up on one of the walls.
Spindle Street. Smult had mentioned it. When you come out of the shanties, look for Spindle Street. Follow it to the landing pad.
The landing pad, and the Ketty Jay, and then out of this dump forever. Frey had a long list of places he never wanted to return to, for one reason or another. Hawk Point had qualified before he’d even landed.
There were a few people about, bartering at stalls or chatting in doorways. “Just act normal,” he said to Trinica, and they walked out of the alley and down the street.
Frey could feel the glances of the townsfolk as they headed toward the landing pad, but they were left alone. If Smult was right, the men who lay in wait were behind them by now. Only the gunmen at the landing pad were left, as insurance in case they should slip past the others. Jez and Silo should have taken care of them.
Better check, he thought, reaching into his pocket for his