“If the bus… excuse me, coach… is really full, people have to stand while it’s moving, so they hold on to the poles and rails… and they’re not really silver, just very highly polished.”
“The amount of time that must have taken!”
Matt almost told Gilbert they had machines to do the polishing, but caught himself in time. He didn’t want to have to explain what his civilization meant by a machine.
Matt didn’t know the night driver… old Frank must have finally retired… so there was no need to make conversation while the bus ran. That was just as well, since he had to explain to Gilbert that the “coach” wasn’t really going much faster than a team of horses could gallop, and that the signs up high on the walls were telling people about things they could buy and people who could help them if they needed it.
Gilbert wasn’t very much impressed by the things, but was by the number of people willing to help. He did ask, though, why the signs were in two languages, and when Matt told him one of them was Spanish, the language spoken in his world’s Ibile, Gilbert asked “Are they Moors?” and several of the darker-skinned passengers looked up, ready to take offense. Fortunately, Matt was able to say “There’s our stop!” and press the yellow strip. The chime rang, and the STOP REQUESTED sign lit at the front of the bus. By the time Matt was done explaining bell and glowing signboard, they were standing on the sidewalk, watching the bus’s taillights go away, and Matt switched to explaining how they could afford the fuel for lights at the back of the coach, and why they were necessary. He started walking as he talked, and Gilbert kept pace with him.
A raucous laugh sounded from a front porch, and Matt’s stomach clenched. “You might want to take a firm hold on that stick, Sir Gilbert.”
“As you say.” Gilbert grinned, his confusion and horror falling away in the anticipation of battle. Matt glanced at him, realized he was about to take out all his inner turmoil in good clean action, and felt a surge of thankfulness that he wasn’t going to be in front of the young knight’s stick.
“Hey, look there!” a callow young voice called out, and several other young men hopped down off the stoop. They swayed as they came toward the pair.
“What ails them?” Gilbert asked.
“They’re drunk,” Matt explained. He didn’t mention drugs.
“Well, it’s little Matty boy again!” Luco’s lip lifted in a sneer. “Went back for reinforcements, huh?”
“You could say that, Luco.” Matt let the boyhood fears wash over him and pass. “Having fun?”
“No, but we will now! Gonna run out on us again, Matty boy?”
“Only if it’s the only way I can keep from killing you, Luco.”
Gilbert said nothing, only grinned, teeth bright in the dusk.
“You talk big, Matty,” said a voice from behind, mocking.
Gilbert turned, but Matt kept his gaze locked with Luco’s. “How many of them are there?”
“Only five,” Gilbert told him.
“And I’ve only got four up here. What’s the matter, Luco? The rest of your buddies go to jail?”
Luco snarled and swung.
Chapter Seven
Matt blocked Luco’s swing and drove a fist into his belly. Luco grunted, folding, but pumped his fists at Matt’s abdomen anyway. Matt hunched, blocking some of the blows. Several got through, and they hurt, but his own fists had taken enough punch out of them to keep them from doing any damage. Choy and Liam closed in from the sides, and Luco shouted a curse as he swung a fist back for a hammer blow.
Matt chopped a short, vicious uppercut into Luco’s face.
As he fell back, Matt ducked a swing from Choy, lashed a kick at Liam, then came up pivoting to slam a punch at Choy, who blocked and counterpunched. Matt dodged enough to take it on his chest. The pain woke anger, but he caught Choy’s wrist and turned, catching his shirtfront, and bowed as he stuck his hip out. Choy knew the move, though, and leaped over, turning as he did… and slammed right into Liam.
Behind them, Gilbert shouted with delight, and Matt heard some very solid cracks as the cane did its work. The punks shouted in outrage.
Then Luco pushed himself to his feet, but he and Choy stepped back as Liam stepped in, grinning, numchuks whirling.
Matt leaped away, pulling a little stick of his own out from under his jacket… fourteen inches of polished, seasoned ash, an inch and a half thick.
Liam laughed and lashed out with the numchuks… but clumsily; it was clear he hadn’t taken lessons.
Matt swung his own stick, and the numchuks tangled around it. Matt pulled and kicked, and Liam stumbled past, then fell.
Someone hit his back, hard. He lurched forward, almost unable to breathe because of the pain, and swung about into Herm’s pumping fists. Matt ducked over, fists close to his face, blocking the punches, trying to time his countermove, if he could just pay attention through the pain as fists landed on his shoulders, his arms…
But the other four punks whooped and waded in. Pain exploded on the side of Matt’s head, in his kidneys, in his other side…
Then somebody roared, he heard a series of hollow knocks, and only Herm was there in front of him, staring over Matt’s head openmouthed. Matt uncoiled and slammed an uppercut into his jaw. Without a word, Herm fell.
Matt turned in time to see Gilbert flicking his cane against the side of Luco’s head, then whirling it to jab Choy in the stomach. Choy doubled over, and Gilbert swung the stick overhand. The hollow knock sounded again, and Choy slumped.
Matt stared at the wanna-be thugs. They were all on the ground, groaning or still. “They aren’t… ?”
“Dead? No. That is the virtue of a stick… it is harder to slay a man with it.”
Liam inched forward, reaching out for his fallen switchblade. Disdainfully, Gilbert kicked it away. Then he bent, picked it up, jabbed it in the crack between two slabs of concrete, and broke it off short. Liam pushed himself up to his elbows with a shout of protest that died as he saw the coldness in Gilbert’s eyes.
He shrank back down, speechless.
“Let us leave this heap of offal, Sir Matthew,” Gilbert said. “I do not think they shall trouble us again this night.”
“No, thanks to you. Let’s go.” Matt knew Liam was wondering what offal was.
“We’ll… we’ll call the cops on you!” Liam called.
“What are ‘cops’?” Gilbert asked.
“The Watch,” Matt told him.
Gilbert stared. “Footpads will call the Watch?”
“He’s carrying a lethal weapon!” Liam blustered.
Matt shook his head and turned away.
“The switchblade!” Liam shouted. “It’s got his fingerprints now!”
“It’s got yours, too,” Matt called back. “Go ahead and call the police.”
They went on down the block, ignoring Liam’s curses. “Well, Her Majesty was right again,” Matt admitted. “I did need help. Thanks, Sir Gilbert.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Matt would have felt a bit better if Gilbert hadn’t sounded quite so sincere.
They climbed the steps to the porch. Matt started to ring the doorbell, but remembered the problems of explaining to Gilbert and knocked instead.
The knight looked about him. “Truly a grand house, Sir Matthew! You are nobly born indeed!”
“Uh, nobody in this neighborhood is very rich, Gilbert,” Matt said sheepishly.
Gilbert stared.
“At least, they don’t think so,” Matt explained. “There are a lot of people who’re richer.”