[ASC 923.7.14]

  193 cycles since the Xolarii Purge.

  Suspicious eyes tracked the bounty hunter through Longshadow’s dusty streets.

  Xaryk had briefly entertained the thought of returning to the sheriff for information on his new mark. He’d abandoned the idea, unsure what would be harder to stomach—the sheriff’s silent victory or the awful whiskey he kept under his desk.

  Either would be just as sour.

  Luckily for the lone gunslinger, small Fringe towns had an even better source of information—and whiskey. The dual suns drifted toward the horizon like tired birds returning to their nests, bathing the Iron Horseshoe Saloon in a dusky red hue.

  The twinkling of ivory keys, clinking glasses, and raucous laughter greeted Xaryk at the door like an old flame.

  Xaryk took a steadying breath. Any old flame was as likely to greet him with scorn as with a kiss—as in life, so in saloons.

  The doors swung open with a creak as Xaryk stepped inside, boots heavy on the sawdust-laden floor—it did little to mask the smell of sour beer and poor decisions.

  The din dimmed the moment he stepped over the threshold—all eyes turned to him, quickly followed by hushed whispers.

  “That’s him,” a poorly muffled voice rasped. “The bounty hunter. Took down the whole Breakbones gang single-handed.”

  “Heard he did it with a single bullet and a bluff,” someone else answered quietly.

  “Doesn’t look so tough to me,” a third muttered, lower than the others.

  Xaryk surveyed the room, calmly meeting each curious stare, turning them away one-by-one.

  When the flood of rumours died down, he sidled up to the bar. Xaryk took up a stool, eager to blend in with the decor until the ripples he raised died down—there was little information to be gathered by wary patrons.

  “Whiskey, neat,” he called to the takalan barkeep. He was wordlessly answered with a popped cork. The glass slid down the bar. Xaryk caught it smoothly, tipping its contents down his dry gullet.

  The whiskey was harsher than any found on Arcanon, yet it was leagues better than the swill Repo had to offer.

  Xaryk tapped gold-tipped talons on the bar. Another whiskey followed.

  “Oi! Bounty hunter.”

  Xaryk rolled his eyes toward the barkeep, who offered only a shrug in return.

  The old wooden walls and rows of dusty bottles spun away as Xaryk pivoted in his chair, replaced by the rickety tables and an out-of-tune piano. At the rear of the saloon, a weathered door opened onto a loading bay, while a staircase led up to modest rooms for hire.

  The saloon was about as remarkable as the swinar now stomping toward him: too drunk, too loud, and nowhere near enough substance.

  “How can I help you, friend?” Xaryk asked coolly.

  “Me nephew ran with Breakbones,” the swinar slurred, glaring through beady eyes. “Ain’t been home since you rode back with Breakbones slung across yer mount. You kill him?”

  The silence that followed was deep enough for a pin-drop to echo like gunfire.

  “My condolences,” Xaryk said, raising his glass. “But I would purport that your nephew was felled by poor decisions as much as my gun.”

  The xolus rose smoothly, towering over the stocky swinar with a cool, professional gaze.

  “Barkeep,” Xaryk called without breaking eye contact, “fetch my new friend a drink—a balm for his loss.”

  The swinar took the drink, jamming the glass awkwardly between his tusks. The amber liquid mostly found its intended target. The rest adorned his shirt front, joining the stains already staking their claim.

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  “I want another,” he snorted, his breath reeking of rotten fruit.

  “And I wanted off this dust-ridden planet. Guess we’ll both end today disappointed,” Xaryk growled.

  With men like these, if you gave an inch, they’d try to take a mile. Xaryk preferred to give an inch, then draw a line in the sand with his knife—he was generous like that.

  The swinar huffed, turning to go. He lashed out with a massive haymaker.

  The bounty hunter was ready for the feint. He darted to the side, grabbing the arm with his right. His left arm snaked up under the swinar’s armpit, around his shoulder to grab the back of his neck.

  Putting his weight down, Xaryk pinned the swinar to the bar—the brute’s hand scrabbled at the wood for leverage.

  The xolus clicked, and his knife flew into his hands.

  “Try not to move,” he whispered, driving the point between the swinar’s fingers.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  The shining blade stabbed out a steady rhythm, cruel and precise. The swinar’s eyes impotently followed the blade.

  Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.

  Faster. The swinar’s eyes darted back and forth.

  Th—th—th—th.

  He squealed, clamping his beady eyes shut as the knife became a blur of silver.

  Thwack!

  Xaryk hammered the knife into the bar where it wobbled from the force. A small bead of blood stained the blade from where it just barely nicked the skin between the swinar’s knuckles.

  The bounty hunter grunted as he heaved the swinar up by his coat. “There’s a good man,” Xaryk said, dusting him down and straightening his jacket.

  The swinar stood, shoulders hunched, eyes half-open as he trembled with fear.

  “Now, we good?” Xaryk asked.

  The swinar nodded and waddled away.

  Xaryk tapped the bar, and another glass slid into his waiting hand.

  So much for blending in—seems I’m still the chandelier in a stable, he mused.

  The whispers intensified.

  It would be difficult to get people to talk when they were more concerned with trading gossip in which he was the subject. Xaryk had planned on slipping into a game, leveraging his hand for information; now he had the sinking feeling it wasn’t in the cards.

  He downed his whiskey, the amber burn preceding an attempted exit.

  Yet something caused the bounty hunter to linger: a sweet scent just under the sour saloon stink. A clicking of heels—a metronome that mirrored his jaded heartbeat.

  Brown hair framed her face like a gilded frame might a masterpiece. Lavender eyes were as piercing as revolver rounds. The dress fit like it was made for her—a tight bodice that ballooned into heavy skirts. Yet despite her alluring curves, this woman was not without her edges: a steely light in her eyes, the slit in her skirts to allow for a quick retreat, heeled boots rather than gossamer slippers, all adorned with a heavy belt the seasoned gunslinger knew concealed at least a single shot—in this woman’s hands, it would be enough.

  “Thanks for that,” she smiled, with purple-stained lips.

  Xaryk raised an inquiring brow.

  “I’m no friend of Ranmuk, but you just saved me an evening cleaning his blood off the floor,” she said, setting down a pair of heavy glass pitchers on the bar.

  “I accept your gratitude and raise you my pleasure of being at your service.” He smiled. “Xaryk Foe, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?” she asked, raising a delicately curved brow. “You’re well mannered for a bounty hunter.”

  “A bounty hunter right now. Tomorrow I might be a starchaser. Last span I was an investigator, and an age ago, I was a boy raised by his mother to be a proper gentleman.”

  “Busy man,” she teased.

  “This is a big universe. I’m just trying to carve out a slice for myself,” he said, retaking his perch on the stool and ordering another drink with a gesture.

  “Care to join me?”

  “I’m a working woman, I’m afraid,” she lamented, holding up grime-stained nails.

  “And after?”

  “A prior commitment.” She offered a consoling smile.

  “Lucky man,” Xaryk said. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  “None taken.” She turned to leave, but stopped short. “You didn’t ask my name.”

  “You didn’t offer,” he replied between drinks.

  “But you didn’t ask,” she said, and he could feel the fire he’d sensed earlier creeping into her voice.

  “A name has great power,” he said, putting his glass down with a clink. He turned to meet her violet gaze and let truth spill from his tongue—a rarer vintage than anything to be found on this world. “Bewitched as I already am, I fear your name would be a brand upon my heart and mind. A searing tether from which I might never escape.”

  The woman looked taken aback for a split second before her mouth twisted into a wry smile.

  “You ass,” she said.

  “Amongst other things,” he returned her grin with interest. “One last thing before you walk away and break my heart?”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “I’m after some information on the big bad in these parts—Axel Redmark,” he said, voice low.

  She nodded gravely, the playfulness in her eyes snuffed out.

  “Now, I’m not looking to incriminate you, but I find men have loose tongues with a belly full of liquor and a hand full of cards,” his eyes drifted to the table. “Now I fear I may not be welcome. Any tips?”

  She pondered for a few seconds before nodding.

  “Ol’ Jakov over there—big hat, missing a few teeth.”

  Xaryk spied the man mid-bluster.

  “Mention the cost of water and its link to taxation by Core World water monopolies, and he’ll welcome you like a brother. It’ll take a bit to steer the conversation anywhere else, but that’s your in, troublemaker.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said, dropping his conspiratorial tone.

  “First ones free,” she said, taking her leave.

  He tried not to grin like a fool as she walked away, offering one final, alluring glance.

  Well, we’ve had the kiss and the slap, he thought as he prepared to approach the tight-knit group of gamblers. What happened next was anyone’s guess.