'I tend to shoot straight,' said Shannow.. 'Have you completed my order?'
'Is the sky blue? Of course I have. I also made some five hundred shells for Meneer Scayse to the same requirements. It seems his Hellborn pistols arrived — without ammunition.'
Shannow paid the man and left his store. A sharp pebble under his foot made him remember how thin were his boots. The town store was across the street and he bought a new pair of soft leather boots, two white woollen shirts and a quantity of black powder.
As the man was preparing his order, an earth tremor struck the town and from outside came the sound of screaming. Shannow gripped the counter to stop from falling, while all around him the store's wares — pots, pans, knives, sacks of flour — began to tumble from the shelves.
As quickly as it had come the tremor passed. Shannow moved back into the bright sunlight.
'Will you look at that!' yelled a man, pointing to the sky. The sun was directly overhead, but way to the south a second sun shone brightly for several seconds before suddenly disappearing.
'You ever seen the like, Shannow?' asked Clem Steiner, approaching him.
'Never.'
'What does it mean, do you think?'
Shannow shrugged. 'Maybe it was a mirage. I've heard of such things.'
'It fair makes your skin crawl. I never heard of a mirage that could cast a shadow.'
The storekeeper came out carrying Shannow's order.
The Jerusalem Man thanked him and tucked it under his arm, along with the package he had taken from Groves.
'Fixing to leave us?' Steiner asked.
'Yes. Tomorrow.'
'Then maybe we should complete our business,' said the young pistoleer.
'Steiner, you are a foolish boy. And yet I like you — I have no wish to bury you. You understand what I am saying? Stay clear of me, boy. Build your reputation another way.'
Before the young man could answer Shannow had walked away, climbing the steps of the Traveller's Rest. A young woman stood in the doorway with her eyes fixed on something across the street. Easing past her, Shannow glanced back to see that she was staring at a black-bearded man sitting on the sidewalk outside the Jolly Pilgrim. He looked up and saw her; his face lost all colour and he stood and ran back towards Tent Town. Puzzled, Shannow studied the woman. She was tall, and beautifully dressed in a shimmering skirt of golden yellow. A green shirt was loosely tucked into a wide leather belt and she wore riding boots of the softest doeskin. Her hair was blonde, streaked with gold, and her eyes sea green.
She turned and saw him looking at her and for a moment he felt like recoiling under the icy glare she gave him. Instead he smiled and bowed. Ignoring him, she swept past and approached Mason.
'Is Scayse here?' she asked, her voice low, almost husky.
Mason cleared his throat. 'Not yet, Frey Sharazad. Would you like to wait in his rooms?'
'No. Tell him we will meet in the usual place. Tonight.' She swung on her heel and stalked from the building.
'A beautiful woman,' Shannow commented.
'She makes my hair stand on end,' said Mason, grinning. 'Beats me where she comes from. She rode in yesterday on a stallion that must have been all of eighteen hands. And those clothes…
that skirt is a wonder. How do they make it shine so?'
'Beats me,' said Shannow. ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow. What do I owe you?'
'I told you once, Shannow, there's no charge. And it'll be that way if ever you return.'
'I doubt I'll come back — but thanks for the offer.'
'You hear about the Healer? Came in with the wagons this afternoon?'
'No.'
'Seems like the Red Plague hit the convoy and this man walked out of the wilderness with a Daniel Stone. He healed everybody. I'd like to have seen that. I've heard of Daniels before, but I never touched one. You?'
'I've seen them,' said Shannow. 'What did he look like, this Healer?'
'Big man with the blackest beard you ever saw. Big hands too. Like a fighter.'
Shannow returned to his room and sat once more at the chair by the window. The golden-haired woman had been staring with naked hatred at just such a man. He shook his head.
Nothing to do with you, Shannow.
Tomorrow you put Pilgrim's Valley far behind you.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sharazad sat, seemingly alone, on a flat rock under the moonlight. The day had brought an unexpected pleasure: Nu-Khasisatra was here in this cursed land of barbarians. It had been a source of constant fury that he had escaped from Ad, and the King had been most displeased.
Seven of her Daggers had been flayed and impaled, and she herself had lost ground in the King's affections. But now — Great be the Glory of Belial — the shipbuilder was within her reach once more. Her mind wandered back to the man she had seen staring at her in the hovel that passed for a resting place. Something about him disturbed her. He was not handsome, nor yet ugly, but his eyes were striking. A long time ago she had enjoyed a lover with just such eyes. The man had been a gladiator, a superb killer of men. Was that it? Was the barbarian a danger?
She heard the rumble of the wagon coming through the trees and wandered to the crest of the hill, gazing down at the two men who drove it. One was young and handsome, the other older and balding. She waited until they came closer, then stepped out on to the path.
The older man heaved on the reins and applied the clumsy brake. 'Good evening, Frey,' he said climbing down and stretching his back. 'You sure you want to unload here?'
'Yes,' she said. 'Just here. Where is Scayse?'
'He couldn't come,' said the younger man. 'I represent him. The name's Steiner.'
What do I care what your name is, thought Sharazad. 'Unload the wagon and open the first box,'
she said aloud. Steiner loosened the reins of a saddled horse that was tied to the rear of the wagon and led the beast back a few paces. Then both men struggled with the heavy boxes, manhandling them to the ground. The older man drew a hunting-knife and prised open a lid. Sharazad stepped closer and leaned forward, pulling back the greased paper and lifting a short-barrelled rifle clear of the box.
'Show me how it works,' she ordered.
The older man opened a packet of shells and slid two into the side gate. 'They slide in here — up to ten shells; there's a spring keeps the pressure on. You take hold here,' he said, gripping a moulded section under the barrel, 'and pump once. Now there's a shell in the breech and the rifle is cocked.
Pull the trigger and pump the action, and the spent shell is ejected and a fresh one slides home.'
'Ingenious,' admitted Sharazad. 'But, sadly, after this load we will need no more. We will make our own.'
'Ain't sad to me,' said the man. 'Don't make no difference to me.'
'Ah, but it does,' she said, smiling and she raised her hand. From the bushes all around them rose a score of Daggers, pistols in their hands.
'Sweet Jesus, what the Hell are they?' whispered the man, as the reptiles moved forward. At the back of the wagon Clem stood horror-struck as the demonic creatures appeared, then backed away towards his horse.
'Kill them,' ordered Sharazad. Clem dived for the ground, rolled and came up firing. Two of the reptiles were hurled from their feet. More gunfire shattered the night, spurts of dust spitting up around Clem's prone body. His horse panicked and ran but Clem dived for the saddle, grabbing the pommel as it passed. He was half-carried, half-dragged into the trees, shells whistling about him.
'Find him,' ordered Sharazad and six of the reptiles loped away into the darkness. She turned on the older man, who had stood stock-still throughout the battle. Her hand dipped into the pocket of her golden skirt and she lifted out a small stone, dark red and veined with black.