The message came in early in the morning, the better part of a day before the appointment. Jonas knocked on Quentin’s door, and he woke at once, sitting straight up. Beside him, Razia stirred. He smiled, touching her cheek with the back of his hand. She smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. It was for the best; she didn’t need to be awake for this. She’d only worry.
“Our eyes on the street saw them,” Jonas whispered when Quentin opened the door. “They reported a big cart wheeling in front of the house, and then Christophe and a couple of bodyguards went in. A few more stayed around, keeping watch. I think there’s like 6 people stationed in the area around the house, ready to give warning.”
Just as they expected, more or less. There was always the chance Kelli would bait them with a few instances of premium appointments before ambushing him, but Razia assured them Christophe would be too eager to kill. She was right, and she’d be delighted to hear so in the morning. For now, Quentin had a job to do.
“Excellent,” he whispered. “Have you told the men?”
Jonas shook his head. “I was waiting to tell you first. Should I get them ready?”
Quentin nodded. “I want to be ready to go in an hour. Make sure everyone’s armed and ready to move fast, move quietly, and cause some trouble. If the Watch gives us trouble, I’ll take the heat while everyone else runs.” All things he’d already said, but Quentin was ever the worrier, always ready to make sure everyone remained on the same page.
“Right,” Jonas nodded and retreated.
Alone now, Quentin got dressed in the dark, slipping away to his trophy room to get his armor. It slid on like a hard second skin, more comfortable now than it had been in that brief period of peace and prosperity for the Garden. The prosperity endured, but safety felt like a long lost dream. Maybe after they finally dealt with this, things could go back to the way they were. Quentin scoffed at his own hopefulness.
On the wall were three new tapestries, hanging above his weapons. One for the Darkstar, his patron whether he wanted it or not. Another for the Pierced Heart, who blessed their business and sped his recovery. And finally one for the Warcaller, god of battle and games, whom Quentin honored with every brawl and victory. They hung together in a trio, weight bearing down on him comfortably.
He’d never been a pious man before. Quentin still didn’t know how he felt about the gods and the imperfect, cruel world they drifted away from. Just the same, he couldn’t deny their touch in his life and their presence in the world. He didn’t know if he prayed to them to ask for help or to acknowledge them and show them proper respect as he fought for his own fate. Either seemed equally likely, and equally unimportant. He prayed because for once, it felt right.
Quentin didn’t bother with a sword and shield this time. Two fights in a row showed they wouldn’t be much good against a man strong enough to punch through shields and ignore the teeth of a blade on his skin. Instead, he grabbed an ax, testing the solid weight of it in one hand. Every time it seemed like he could get away from it, he was called to be an executioner again. He promised his people two long awaited deaths, and they’d have it.
The early morning was still black, lit up by a sea of stars and the full moon. How appropriate. Jonas and some of the others waited for him in the Garden. Some of the girls were up, like Isa, who leaned against a pillar, watching the rest of them like a hawk. Twenty men, a small amount compared to what he could’ve brought, but it would be all they needed. Others were already on their way to meet up with some of their allied spies and take out Christophe’s eyes.
“It’s time,” Quentin said simply. “You all know what it is we’re doing today, and how vital it is that we succeed. I don’t see much of a point to a speech here, so I’m not going to give one. When we get there, we’re going to kill Christophe and put an end to most of this struggle. Without their main leader, the Warlords might come up and start trouble but they won’t be half as organized. We’re cutting off the head of the snake today.”
They didn’t cheer or whoop or anything like that. Instead, Jonas banged his hand against his armor rhythmically. Soon, Pete joined in, and then David, Kit, and the others until they were all in sync, each loud thump thundering through the room more than their voices would. Finally, when everyone else joined in Quentin did too, nodding at Jonas as he slammed his fist into the beetle chitin armor.
And then he turned around and the banging stopped. He went out the door and his Shades followed, off to war.
They were almost to summer now and the spring morning felt nearly as warm as a winter day. More people, often beggars, stayed out on the streets at this hour rather than seeking shelter. They watched quietly, some as still as a mouse caught by a snake, as the well armed gang passed them by. Quentin stopped at one point to drop a few shards in an old man’s bowl, giving him a respectful nod before continuing on.
The only sound was nearly two dozen feet stomping the ground as they wound their way down the Boulevard. The closer they got, the more Quentin’s heart pounded and his entire being vibrated with excitement and nerves. It had been a while since he felt afraid before a fight. Even the invasion was more surprise than anything, but going after the big man himself…excitement just barely won out over fear.
They encountered the first dead spy five minutes away from the house. At least, Quentin assumed the corpse with the freshly slit throat was a Warlord or one of their spies. One of Mouse’s crew saluted him as he passed, and Quentin returned the gesture.
Not far from the house, they came across a Watch patrol. Quentin stopped just short of them, the rest of his gang falling in behind him. Out of everyone, Quentin alone didn’t wear a mask. Not today. When Christophe realized what was happening, Quentin wanted him to know it and see him as he died. Quentin nodded to the Silver in front.
“Good morning,” he said. “We won’t be any trouble today. Just passing through.”
The Silver spat on the ground. “We’ve got our orders. You won’t have any trouble with us, scum. So long as you don’t hurt any civilians. You do that, and I don’t give a damn who is looking out for you, I’ll --”
“I appreciate that,” Quentin interjected. “We’re here to kill a man with a bounty on his head. No one else. You have my word.”
“The hell is the word of a gangster worth?” the Silver scoffed, but he got out of the way and his people followed. They watched as the line of Shades continued on to the big house just a couple blocks from the bridge.
Not all the spies had been taken care of, it turned out. They didn’t need to be. By the time Quentin and his gang came close, it was already too late to raise a warning. One tried, but behind Quentin Kit stepped out and raised his bolter. The wooden bolt sank into his chest and sent him to the ground. He clutched at the embedded wood, gasping for breath. They ignored him and surrounded the house.
This was it.
Quentin raised a hand and motioned for the next step in the plan. From the back came two Shades with planks of wood and some tools. They got into place and covered the door with the planks, hammering them in into the wooden doorframe. From the second story a light turned on. Quentin looked up, and even with his bad vision clearly saw Christophe through the window. Quentin smiled, everything inside him telling him to go for it.
He listened to that voice and called out, “Burn it!”
Unlike the last couple of times, his men didn’t just carry weapons with them. A number of them carried alchemical flasks with a glowing orange liquid. They got into place as others smashed open the windows on the ground floor. At a nod from Quentin they hurled the flasks inside. They smashed against the ground and fire exploded out, catching furniture and rugs on fire.
The heat came back at them like a runaway cart, and Quentin shielded his face with an arm before the fires shrank back to a manageable size. The inside burned, vulnerable to fire in a way the foundation and walls weren’t. Maybe Christophe couldn’t be easily cut, but he would either burn or choke to death unless he -- there!
Quentin motioned for people to take a step back. A second later Christophe burst through the upstairs window, taking part of the wall with him. He rolled down the overhang and landed on the floor of the street amidst shards of shattered glass and clay. Christophe landed hard and the ground rumbled from the blow. The nearest Shades made to rush forward but Quentin held them back with a raised fist.
“Hello, Christophe,” he said. “Any last words you want us to pass along to Piro before we kill you?” He wasn’t half as brave as he hoped he sounded. Taunting people before death wasn’t something Quentin did, and he found himself not caring for it in general. For Christophe, he’d make an exception. “Any other loved ones to inform?”
Christophe pushed against the ground, taking his good sweet time getting back to his feet. When he did he wobbled, pain clear on his face as the house behind him burned on the inside. Shards of glass were imbedded in his skin, blood around the wound but not falling. Quentin looked for the rings covering his fingers, his big advantage according to Razia.
“Big talk, Quintius,” he said, rolling his neck around his shoulders until it cracked, “from someone who had to bring his entire gang to even stand a chance. You think this is going to make a difference? If I’m going to die I’m taking you with me!”
He launched himself at Quentin, and immediately two bolts stuck out of his chest, arresting his momentum. His dark, beady eyes squinted in pain as he looked down. He bellowed in rage in time for another couple of Shades to fire upon him. And again. He took a step back, shielding his face. And then, just like that, he disappeared from sight.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“What the hell?” Jonas looked around. “Where did he go?”
Quentin got his answer. He heard the hard, heavy footstep before Christophe’s fist smashed into his face and sent him sprawling. Coming back into view, Christophe followed through, landing on top of Quentin. Four or five hundred pounds of hateful Warlord crashing on top of him hurt worse than the fist, the ends of the bolts stabbing into his own flesh. Then Christophe’s hands closed around his throat and squeezed, and Quentin’s work turned dark.
“Get him!”
The Shades wasted no time in attacking, the closest of them firing more bolts into Christophe’s back, peppering him with what looked like tiny twigs when spread across his vast bulk. Jonas stabbed forward with a spear, the metal tip biting into flesh and encountering resistance. Quentin grabbed at Christophe’s wrists, trying to pull them away but they were like iron around his throat. Eventually the giant roared and got off, swinging one massive hand back and knocking Jonas down to the ground.
Quentin gasped for air, spots in his vision blinking black and clear. He scrambled to his feet, picking his ax up and swinging it into the giant’s back. The blade cut through cloth but bounced off Christophe’s skin. The giant whirled around, swinging wildly as more and more Shades surrounded him and attacked.
They worked as one, striking as another withdrew, dancing in and out as their prey failed to get a good hit in. He panted, eyes wild and full of something Quentin had waited weeks to see: fear. Christophe had no gang to help him, no Shaper friend to bail him out of trouble. Just him versus twenty pissed off gladiators with a hunger for vengeance.
“You!” Christophe slapped away a spear, whirling around on Quentin. “You think you’ve won?” He swung at Quentin, who just ducked back out of the way. His strikes were slowing down by the second, and Quentin had always been a defensive fighter. So he just smiled at Christophe, stepping backwards as another spear was driven into his back. This time whatever enchantment Christophe had failed and the weapon parted flesh.
“You shouldn’t have come after Razia,” said Quentin, hefting his ax up. “You shouldn’t have gotten our friend Demetrius killed, or come up north and killed our friends! You started this, we’re finishing it!”
He raised his weapon high. Once again, fear glittered in Christophe’s dark eyes, just for a second. He swung wide again, just as Quentin hoped. He swung the ax right into Christophe’s extended hand, lopping off three of his fingers. The fingers and his rings clattered to the ground.
All at once, dozens of wounds poured blood. Christophe clutched his mangled hand, wide eyed and mouth forming a silent O. Quentin held up his fist again and the attacks stopped. All those bolts, just little mosquito bites at first, now added up to something the giant couldn’t take with his magic rings removed. He fell to his knees, gasping for air. Blood pooled from his lips as well as he looked at Quentin with a mixture of fear and hate.
“You…” he whispered.
“Me,” said Quentin. He swung his ax. Once, twice, three times it took to part Christophe’s head from his body. Said body collapsed into the dirt, blood staining the sandy streets and forming a thick, dark pool. Quentin grabbed the head by its greasy hair and lifted it up.
His Shades screamed in triumph, raising their weapons and waking everyone within a mile radius. Christophe was, finally, dead.
“The hell is this?” the Watchman asked as Quentin approached him alone. His weapons were gone, sent away with the other Shades. Doing this alone might’ve ended with him in the Colosseum, but he trusted Omar and he trusted the need for an end to the violence. The Northeast Watchtower was, thankfully, on the opposite end of North Orchrisus from Inspector Irwin and his grudge.
“A bounty I’m turning in,” said Quentin, lifting the head up. It dangled from dirty black hair, swinging around in a circle. Blood dripped from the stump.
The two Watchmen’s hands immediately went to their weapons. A month of street wars no doubt made them itchy to do something, anything they could. Quentin just sighed and jiggled Christophe’s head. “I came here unarmed and I have a bounty to turn in. And if you help speed this along, maybe I’ll share some of the love with you.”
One of them hesitated. “How much love?”
After that, they led him in straight to the Tower’s gold badged officer. Inspector Klaus was a burly, grizzled Finskovite with a number of awards on his desk. Thinking of Razia, Quentin dropped the head on the desk next to those awards, biting back a smile.
“Christophe, leader of the Warlords,” said Quentin. “Responsible for an assault on the Boulevard of Saint Trassius and the murder of several politicians. I believe dead or alive were the terms of the reward.”
Inspector Klaus looked at the head, nose wrinkling in disgust. He eyed Quentin, frowning. “So you’re the one I was warned about.”
“Probably,” said Quentin. “For what it’s worth, I’m not here to cause trouble or make things worse. We want the same thing, Inspector.”
“I doubt that,” he said, baring his teeth.
“We want peace and prosperity and an end to pointless fighting,” Quentin continued. “We want the scum from the south to stay where they belong and trouble someone else, and we want the idiots up here in the north to stop trying to fight over every last scrap of meat they can get.”
“You say that, Quintius,” Inspector Klaus said, “and yet you’ve been doing the same. Do you think we haven’t been watching you? We’ve seen the damage you’ve done and the people you lead. What makes you think you’re any better than them?”
Quentin shrugged. “It’s called harm reduction, Inspector,” he said, unable to stop himself from smiling. “There’s always going to be violence in Orchrisus. If we keep a lid on it, we can keep it limited to those who deserve it and use our best efforts to keep everyone else safe. The sooner the fighting stops, the sooner I can spend my evenings getting drunk with the girls. You ought to come by sometime, Inspector. I promise a once in a lifetime experience.”
Klaus growled at him.
“Oh well. I believe you owe me five hundred aquilos, last I checked.”
Four hundred aquilos richer, Quentin made his way home right as the sun rose over the horizon and the first fiery rays bathed Orchrisus in their glow. It was a beautiful sight, for the ten minutes or so Quentin could enjoy it before it blinded him. He made his way back to the Garden mostly by feel, catching up with Jonas a few blocks away.
“No trouble?” Jonas asked as he fell in step with Quentin, subtly guiding him and keeping the rest of the street away.
“Oh, a tiny bit of trouble but nothing I couldn’t deal with,” Quentin answered, clasping Jonas on the shoulder. “Any trouble on your end?”
“Not even a little. She tried to talk her way out of it and begged a little, but I think she knew there was no getting out of it. We brought her to the Garden as you asked. She’s in Samantha and Lynne’s room, with Roscoe inside with her. He’s sober,” Jonas added, “for now. He’s not happy about missing the action, but he knows he’s got an important job.”
“Good, good,” Quentin said. “And the girls and guys? Are they awake?”
“Kind of hard to sleep through that many people coming in and out. And when we dragged Kelli in, kicking and not quite screaming, they started talking. Well, Isa started talking.”
Quentin chuckled. “She held out as long as she could and I’m proud of her for not murdering her just yet.”
Sure enough, the Garden was awake and full of life. Lynne, Lucy, Isa, Jenna, and Razia were there. Samantha conspicuously wasn’t, and probably for the best. Her sense of forgiveness and gentle nature had no place today. All along the rest of the walls were the other Shades, some still dressed for battle.
Razia joined Quentin in the doorway. “It’s done,” he said, pulling her close. Ever since Razia took that nasty cut to her neck, she’d been more subdued, less outwardly chaotic and gleeful about everything going on. Hopefully this would go a long way towards getting her back to her normal shit stirring self. “Christophe is dead, we’ve got more money, and now…”
“Now we deal with Kelli,” Razia finished, sighing. “Finally. What happened to Samantha is…”
“Kelli’s fault,” Quentin interrupted. It would only help so much, he knew, but Samantha still lived and soon the problem would be dealt with.
“Yeah.” Razia leaned into him and he just held her for a minute, luxuriating in the feel of her body against his. Nothing like the awkwardness or yearning from before, just two people who cared about each other, comforting and caring for the other. Quentin didn’t want to pull away, but in the end he had to. He kissed the top of her head and turned to the room, clearing his throat.
“Bring out the prisoner,” he called.
A few seconds later, Roscoe dragged Kelli out and threw her in the space between the couches, in front of the statue now permanently gazing skyward. Seeing so many people in one place, she had to know what was coming. She flinched, getting to her feet and keeping her eyes down.
Razia looked to Quentin, who nodded. She stepped forward, somehow seeming bigger than Kelli despite the traitor having several inches on her. “We know who you are, Kelli,” she began. “And we know what you’ve done. What you’ve made happen here.”
Kelli froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “We talked about this. I kept an eye out for Cicero, and told him -- “
“Then why did you stick around after Cicero died?” Razia demanded, to the murmured agreements of some of the other girls. Jenna’s face held disbelief and pain. Quentin hated how much this would hurt her. “Everyone else loyal to Cicero went to ground or started teaming up with others to get as much as they could. You stayed here, except for when you went to report in to Piro.”
“That’s not true!” Kelli insisted, but a quick look around revealed no one believed her. Her face fell.
“How could you?” Jenna said, standing up and moving closer. Her hands balled into fists, she looked ready to cry or throw punches or both. “Was anything you said true? ANYTHING?”
The crowd whispered and murmured. Some of the other girls, like Lucy, didn’t seem comfortable with the happenings. Isa, on the other hand, looked downright predatory, like she could kill Kelli with a glare if she tried hard enough. Lynne, for once, looked to be on the same page.
“You stand accused of spying, letting in the men who killed Demetrius and kidnapped me, and poisoning Samantha in your attempts to kill Quentin. Do you deny any of this?”
Her face oscillated between several emotions before she ended with a sneer. “...no, I deny nothing. You want the truth? Fine. I was a fucking spy. Piro and Christophe paid me to be among you and listen to your petty, shitty problems and try to make friends with you disgusting whores to try to find a weakness. And for what?
“This has been the worst job I’ve ever done. It’s been torture. I’m glad it’s over. You killed Christophe, I hear? Good. Maybe now I can just fucking skip town and be done with this shithole of a city. I know you people. Mr. Q, the softhearted,” she scoffed. “You’re not going to do a godsdamned thing to me, so you might as well let me out.”
Everyone turned to Quentin. He shook his head at Kelli sadly. “You’re right, Kelli. I’m not going to do a thing to you. I don’t have to.”
“What?” Kelli blinked.
Isa stood up, pulling out a long, thin knife she’d been concealing. All around the room, Shades pulled out knives and handed them to the other girls. Razia took one, as did Lynne and even Lucy, though she hesitated. Finally, Jenna did as well. Tears poured down her face as she looked at Kelli with anguish in her eyes.
“Whoa, you can’t be serious,” said Kelli, a hint of doubt entering her voice. “You’re all a bunch of self righteous goodies. There’s no way you’ll…Stop, Quentin, help me!” She looked over to Quentin in desperation.
Quentin shook his head. “You almost killed Samantha. You did get Demetrius killed. There’s nobody in the world who could save you now.”
As one, the girls closed in on her. Kelli backed away from Isa, right into Lucy’s path. The young woman hesitated, then slashed with her knife. The blade cut through Kelli’s dress, into her back, drawing a line of red and a breathless scream from Kelli herself. She jerked away, only to find herself face to face with Jenna.
“Traitor!” Jenna hissed and slashed. Kelli raised her arms to defend her face. Another long, deeper cut in her flesh.
The rest of the circle closed in. Kelli’s head darted around wildly, tears in her eyes. Quentin could practically smell her fear from here, the fear of a cornered animal who knows it isn’t getting out of it alive. Isa grabbed Kelli by the hair and drew her blade against her cheek. She screamed and thrashed but Isa’s grip held. Lynne collapsed on her, stabbing her in the stomach, followed by Razia and the rest.
Kelli’s screams tapered off to a gasp as the women went to work, getting their hands dirty for the first time. As far as Quentin was concerned, she did it to herself. Actions had consequences, and Kelli had a hell of a debt to pay. In some ways, it was a relief Quentin didn’t have to do it himself. Once the other girls knew about it and Isa suggested it…Well, only Lucy seemed hesitant, but she didn’t hold back now.
They cleared away, and Kelli lay dead in the middle of an expensive plush rug. At least it would help with the disposal. The girls backed away, panting and covered up to their arms in blood. Lucy broke down crying, as did Jenna. The two dropped their weapons and hugged. Quentin promised himself he’d check in with them later, if Razia and the rest didn’t.
Razia herself and Isa looked to have no qualms with killing the girl. Isa in particular wore a satisfied smile, and even spit on Kelli’s corpse before heading for the bathroom, presumably to clean up. Lynne collapsed just off the rug, breathing hard and staring off into space. She deserved it more than just about anyone, other than Samantha herself.
“Let’s leave them to it,” Quentin said to Jonas.
“We did it,” said Jonas, clasping Quentin’s forearm. “We avenged Demetrius.”
Quentin smiled. “That we did.”
There were still plenty of problems and disasters bound to come their way, but in this at least, they could be satisfied and proud.