The Kill Society (Sandman Slim)(44)

He moves some shiny things around on his desk. Map-reading tools.

“You Sub Rosa are difficult to read. I wanted to trust you, but perhaps I was wrong. It has happened. Not often, but it has happened.”

“Like today.”

“Unfortunately.”

I let go of Daja. She sags against the table, but it’s a feint. She throws an elbow back at my head. I move back to avoid it, but end up smashing my head into a cabinet anyway. She lunges for her knife, but I still have the Colt. We’re stuck there with her knife to my throat and my pistol to her face.

The Magistrate gets up and comes around the table. Gently, he pushes both of our hands down.

“Children. Relax. Everything is all right now. We are all friends, tested in battle and this somewhat convoluted peace.”

Daja seems to do whatever he says, and I’m too tired to die right now. Daja puts her knife in its sheath and I put the Colt at my back. My head swims enough that I have to sit down. The Magistrate kneels next to me and opens my coat.

I stare at him a little cross-eyed.

“‘Somewhat convoluted’?”

“Trust me, Pitts. I’ve played games much more tangled than this.”

“I need a drink.”

I hold Daja’s empty glass out to her.

“You need one, too.”

She smacks it out of my hand.

“I don’t want to drink with you.”

“Of course you do,” says the Magistrate. “After tonight we know one thing: if there is anyone in the havoc we can trust, it is him.”

“I might still be whoever’s messing with your equipment,” I say. “Or partnered with them.”

“But you are not.”

“How do you know? You know who it is?”

“No. But I know you enough to know that while you may be a killer, you are not nearly subtle enough to be a spy or a saboteur.”

“I think my feelings should be hurt.”

“My apologies.”

“I’m supposed to trust this prick?” says Daja.

“Yes, my dear,” says the Magistrate.

“But I don’t have to like him, right?”

“Of course not. That is your choice. But trust in these times is more important than affection. Do you not agree, Pitts?”

“Trust isn’t my greatest asset.”

“I think we can all say that. But here we are. Any combination of us could have killed any other combination and yet we are still alive. That must count for something.”

Daja sits.

“I want a drink after all.”

The Magistrate pulls off my bandages.

“Unfortunately, tonight became a bit more physical than I had hoped. I will have to restitch your wound.”

“Does that mean I get more laudanum?”

“All you want.”

“Then hack away.”

Daja picks her glass up off the floor and pours herself some wine. I guess the Aqua Regia isn’t her favorite after all.

“Everyone is outside,” she says. “What are we going to tell them happened? The gunshot? All this blood?”

The Magistrate goes and comes back with a medical kit.

“The gun was a misfire because Mr. Pitts has been drinking. He ripped his stitches during his stupor.”

“Sure,” I say. “Blame it all on me.”

“As you said yourself, Daja is the boss and I am the Magistrate. Who else should we blame?”

I try to think, but I’m drunk and in a lot of pain.

“Fuck it. No matter what we say, they’re going to take one look and blame me.”

“Unquestionably.” The fucker smiles. He starts threading a surgical needle. “Daja, please let the others in.”

“I will, but one last thing. What’s a Sub Rosa?”

“A guardian angel,” I say.

“Guardian asshole,” she mumbles, and opens the doors.



After getting my second set of stitches, Aqua Regia, and more laudanum, I sleep hard.

In fact, the whole dog pack sleeps late. I only wake up when someone drops a shot-up transmission as they’re raising it out of a truck and it shears off the side of the engine housing. Apparently there was a memorial service for everyone who died in the firefight. I don’t like preachers and a few of the dead didn’t deserve it, so I’m glad I missed it.

An hour later, I’m sitting on my bike staring at Daja and the wreck of the camp behind her.

It’s going to be a few days’ work to get the havoc on its feet and moving again. The mechanics strip every part from every dead vehicle. Then they start on the Hellion AAVs. One of them is still running, but there’s a few inches of Hellion blood inside that need to be swabbed out. It’s times like this that I’m glad I’m in the pack. I don’t know how to fix car engines. I don’t want to haul supplies in and out of trucks like the conscripts. And I sure don’t want to be on blood cleanup duty.

When the whole pack was in the motor home last night, the Magistrate laid out our post-getting-royally-fucked orders. One, do a recon run up the road and scout for other towns and potential ambush points. And two, look for a landmark the dear departed Empress told the Magistrate about. An obelisk with instructions to whatever magic beans it is we’re looking for. Fortunately, they’re both in the same direction, so yay for small favors.