Will told the marshal the whole truth, seeing as he actually was innocent. He would have liked to omit the part about the elixir, but it wouldn’t have made sense for the Artificer to attack Will in his own shop for anything of lesser value.
The marshal listened to the story in silence, glancing between Will and the corpse that had been dragged out onto the main floor. He saw that Bee was on a hair trigger by the door, ready to cave the man’s skull in if he decided to make trouble. Will shook his head at her.
No. Down, girl.
<
I don’t care, Bee. We’re not fighting our way out of this place. This place might be out in the middle of nowhere, but it still falls under the Council of Peers. Whatever we do here will follow us back to Sheerhome or anywhere else in the Frontier.
<
You let me talk my way out of it. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll take a night in the slammer and have Pigeon bust me out. But no killing.
<
I’m serious, Bee.
<
All right, good.
“Hey, stranger,” the marshal said, clapping his hands together in front of Will’s face to bring him back to reality. “This isn’t the time to get squeamish. You realize what you’ve done, don’t you?”
Will looked down at the blood-drenched corpse. “Like I said, it was self-defense.”
The marshal shrugged. “That remains to be seen. Do you know how disputes work here?”
“No…?”
“Smaller issues are mediated by myself and a select few members of the community. Bigger ones…” He prodded at the limp Artificer. “...Are subject to public contest.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Whoever wants to take a swing at you will get their chance,” Pigeon said. The Artificer had left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter that had fallen to the floor in the scuffle. She’d picked it up, wiped it off, and was now eating it. “If no one wants to challenge you, great—you’re innocent. If someone does, you duel. He wins, you’re guilty. You win, you’re innocent. That pretty much sum it up, marshal?”
The Explorer nodded gravely, stroking at his coarse mustache. “Yup, preeetty much. It’s not all as fancy as what you’ve got in the city, but it lets us settle disputes quick and definitive. Out here, that’s important.
“So that’s what’s going to happen, stranger. You’ll be taken to the Meeting Tree square, we’ll read off your alleged crime to the people, and one among them will have the chance to duel you, if they wish.”
It was not ideal. As Will had proven to himself a minute ago, he was far from recovered, and in no shape to be fighting any duels.
“Let me guess,” Will said. “The duels go by empty hand rules?”
The marshal nodded. “Yessir.”
That meant no pistol, and no potions. Even better.
“Can I have someone fight in my stead?”
“That’s allowed. Anyone’s who’ll take up for you.”
<
That’s not happening.
Will cleared his throat and turned to the Jeweler, who was stuffing the last piece of bread into her mouth. “Pigeon. Would you…?”
Pigeon forced out something unintelligible through her food, then chewed and swallowed, a finger in the air. “Very well. Your death would be a mild inconvenience. Especially since I’ve already gone through the trouble of putting you back together once.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, you’ll owe me a favor.”
Will gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he bit out.
“Excellent.”
“What the fuck, Will?” Bee cried out loud. “You’re gonna let some random skank fight to the death for you?”
“That was the plan,” he replied with a sigh. “Do you take issue with that?”
“Of course I do! It’s practically cheating! The only one who should be caving in skulls on your behalf is me!”
“And next time I find myself on trial for murder, it’ll be all you, I promise. But right now you don’t have the levels for it. The lifers this far into the interior are a whole different class of bastard from the ones in Sheerhome. It’s possible you’d win, but I wouldn’t put money on it. And if you lost, it’d be both our asses. For now, Miss Worthy, please settle down.”
“Asshole.”
“Brat.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
She stuck out her tongue at him. “Whatever. I hope she gets you killed.”
*****
Will was not allowed to enjoy the comforts of the room he had bought and paid for. Instead, he was forced to stay inside a small, locked room inside the marshal’s home until the morning. He was given no blankets or bedding.
Bee did not let go of his supposed infidelity, and spent much of the night taunting him, making a great show of enjoying the comfort of the soft bed.
And, though she tried to hide it, she was also simply trying to keep him company, prevent the nerves from setting in. He was going to be on murder trial in the morning, after all.
Will wasn’t too concerned. Whatever Talltop had to offer, he was confident there was no one who could put up much of a fight against a Level 30. If anything, it would be interesting to see Pigeon in action. He had heard the stories, of course, but he welcomed the opportunity if 30s were as powerful as people claimed.
He dozed off for some time, but didn’t get any proper sleep, curled up in the dark all night. The marshal fetched him first thing in the morning, let him take a piss off the railing under watch, gave him water and a heel of bread, then escorted him through town. They reached its center and stepped onto the wide square platform around the settlement's largest longfather tree. Here, smaller branches projected from the trunk, and lanterns of iron and colored glass swayed in the breeze, glinting in the pale light of a new day.
Upwards of two hundred spectators gathered around. They from nearby platforms or up in little alcoves hewn out of the wood, set high above the other buildings. Will spotted Mongrel and Nix among them, and could make out Bee shouldering a trio of men for a better spot without even looking in her direction.
The central platform remained empty, save for Will and the marshal himself.
The shopkeeper was called Walther the Wig. The marshal briefly laid out the situation, that Walther had been killed in his shop and Will admitted to doing it, but claimed it was in self-defense.
“Now, then,” the marshal called out, scanning the crowd of onlookers. “Does anyone contest his version of events? If so, step forward, and let truth fly from the lips of the victor.”
The chatter died down as everyone waited for the answer.
“I contest it!” called a disembodied voice from the crowd.
“Me too!” cried a second.
“Fuck him!” from a third.
The marshl bid the three men step forward, and after some shuffling and shoving they emerged onto the central platform. They all had murder in their eyes for Will.
A Level 11 Explorer, a Level 12 Builder, and a Level 14 Farmer.
The men were allowed to lay out their grievances, which all ran along the lines of calling Walther a saintly friend, and Will a filthy, spineless liar.
“Only one of you will be able to participate in the duel,” the marshal said. “Talk amongst yourselves and pick a champion to represent your cause.”
Unsurprisingly, the Farmer was chosen for the task. He was a big, bald fellow, muscle-bound, with a bull’s nose and angry, angry eyes.
“And you, stranger?” the marshal asked, turning to Will. “Will you be fighting on your own behalf?”
“No,” Will called, loud enough that his voice carried across the adjoining platforms. “I have someone who will fight in my place.”
The marshal nodded. “Very well. Then let her make herself known.”
The crowd shifted and murmured, looking around for the one who would be fighting on the stranger’s behalf.
After about ten seconds of nothing, Will found himself casting glances as well. By half a minute, he was working up a cold sweat.
“Well?” the marshal asked. “Where is she?”
Will tried his best to ignore Bee mugging at him from across the sheer drop. “I, uh… think she’s just a bit late?”
“Well, she’s not here now, so we’ll be moving on. Unless you have another fighter in mind, you’ll need to represent yourself.”
Not ideal.
<
Afraid not. If I have to, I’ll ask Nix.
<
He’s Level 14, Bee. You’re not ready yet.
<
He could tell she already knew he was right—she was just teasing. At least that meant she wasn’t worried about his safety yet. Somehow, that show of confidence boosted his own flagging spirits.
“I have someone else,” Will said. “Nix, would you—”
One moment there was nothing in front of him. Then, there she was—Pigeon. There was no movement. He hadn’t even blinked. She was just there, suddenly.
She held her battered hat onto her head while she dropped a half meter, landing with two sharp clicks of wood on wood as her clogs hit the platform.
She corrected her disheveled vest, then scanned over the assembled spectators, who had gone all silent. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “Were you all waiting?”
“You did that just to show off,” Will forced out through clenched teeth as he walked up to the Jeweler’s side. “What happened to being inconspicuous or whatever?”
She did not grace him with so much as a glance in his direction. “This whole spectacle would have forced me to reveal more than I’d like either way. I might as well enjoy myself.”
There were scattered cries of surprise from the crowd. Presumably, some had started Identifying her.
Pigeon sized up the big Farmer in front of her. “This who I’m fighting?”
“Yes,” the marshal said.
“All right, then.” She reached out with her left. “May the best fighter win.”
There was no hint of irony in her voice, but Will knew it wasn’t genuinely meant. It was like a grown man wishing an eight-year-old girl best of luck before fighting her in a no-holds-barred wrestling match.
The Farmer shook her hand, swallowing it up inside his big mitt, and gave a cocksure grin. His two friends crossed the nearest bridge and melted back in with the crowd, and he began to shake out his arms and legs to limber up.
It was a little tragic. Will almost considered warning the man, which would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, but then he realized that he wasn’t much of a gentleman.
The marshal led Will off the platform, then parked himself halfway across a nearby bridge, close enough to commentate.
The two fighters lined up opposite each other at a few meters distance. The Farmer settled into a low wrestler’s stance, his open hands outstretched. Pigeon regarded him with a flat, vacant expression, about as much passion in her body as though she were waiting in line at the grocery store.
“Fight!” the marshal cried. He sent a flashing ball of light into the air with some skill to signal the commencement of the duel.
Before the Farmer had taken one step, Pigeon raised one hand and flicked her finger in his general direction. There was no warning. No sound except a sigh of rushing air. No visible attack of any kind.
The man’s chest caved in as though he’d been hit with a steel ram. He went flying, hit the railing of the platform, and flipped over it. There was no scream as he fell. Will suspected he was already dead.
People looked over the edges of the platforms to watch him go. There was no cheering or booing or conversation of any kind. Just stunned silence and awkward shuffling.
“My good friend is innocent, it turns out,” Pigeon said in a flat voice, spinning on her heels to face the marshal. “And since he's not at fault, that means he’s entitled to restitution from the holdings of both his attacker and his accuser, correct?”
“That’s… Ahem, that’s correct,” the marshal stammered, whiskers quivering.
If there were those that took objection to the outcome, they certainly didn't voice their concerns.