Bank of Westminster

Chapter 22

The earth lay withered, water flowed, star-charts spun, stone tablets fell, and a scarlet sky loomed as white bones erupted from the ground...

Flowers—ghost-blue blossoms—spread across the land like a sea. Translucent vines carried rivers of golden blood, as if molten lava coursed beneath an iron-blue sea.

A girl in a plain, blood-pale bonnet, face unadorned, sat astride a black goat. She held a little bell-staff, her blood-red lips parting:

"Dream-wanderer, seek the corpse of the god on the farther shore of slumber... and I shall offer a small yet pure prayer... Lord of Dreams... Lord of Dreams..."

Lord of Dreams? The name sounded strangely familiar.

The thought had scarcely flashed through Baron's mind when the girl's words faded like an echo in the void. He opened his eyes, struggled up from a pile of straw, and stared blankly at the world around him.

From the scratchy, jolting bed of straw beneath him, the muddy road glimpsed through a gap in the wagon's curtain, and the whinny of horses behind told him he was riding in a hay-laden cart.

A wagon... Am I in the Inside? The clothes were different, but both revolvers and the dragon-gall ring remained. No ropes had chafed his wrists, and his backside didn't ache. Someone must have rescued me.

No—this was more complicated. Two other men slept nearby, each with three runes inked on the back of a hand: the Geis—command sigils—unique to Silver-path demon-hunters.

At Mr. Baggin's clinic, Don Quixote had once walked Baron through the system. Three runes in total: one released a silvery mist that suppressed magic, another formed a blood-arrow from the hunter's own life, and the last kindled blue fire to burn demon corpses. Each could be used only once.

Beast-path hunters, by contrast, bore no Geis; instead they used brands to fuel their beast-shifting—like Bill Frank that day.

So the Hunter Association had intercepted him.

Baron's heart sank. Staying here was dangerous. He rose carefully, lifted the canvas flap—and froze.

Hanging in the cloudless sky were two brilliant moons.

His mind went blank.

"Ferdinand boy, it's just a simple survey job—planning to bolt already?"

A heavy hand clapped his shoulder. A scar-faced hunter in his thirties dropped down beside him, unscrewed a metal flask, and took a long pull before tilting his head to study the twin moons.

"Zod, what's the point talking to this nameless outsider? I've disliked him from the start. If he wants to run, let him—saves the squad from dead weight. Besides, the Rose Merchants' bounty notice isn't a joke."

The last man in the wagon woke. Young, called Macquire by Zod, he took the offered flask and drank deeply, eyeing Baron with cold distaste.

"He snatched Miss Yalilan's recruitment notice, took the deposit, then tried to skip out. Deposit-hunters like that ruin the reputation of real bounty hunters—"

Macquire muttered, "No wonder Andre looks down on him... a black-haired Ferdinand trying to work in Gillian without even giving his name... and now Zod's caught him trying to run—"

He turned to Zod. "Why not hand him over to Andre? Let that bastard earn a favor by reporting him. Our mission would go smoother afterward—"

"Macquire, enough. Whatever grudge he has with Andre, he's still on our squad. That makes him one of us." Zod winked at Baron. "Right, Ferdinand boy?"

Baron was quiet a moment. "L."

Both hunters stared.

Baron said flatly, "My name is L."

They exchanged a puzzled look, as if a mute had suddenly spoken. Zod laughed and offered the flask. "L, want a nip?"

Baron tipped the iron flask to his lips and drained it.

He had always held his liquor—more than three liters of the hard stuff—and as a newly minted knight his constitution was even stronger. The fierce spirit only left him mildly light-headed.

Zod roared with laughter. "Now that's a lively lad! I was afraid Ferdinand folk couldn't handle Prol's liquor."

Prol... Baron's pulse quickened. His old geography teacher had never mentioned a continent by that name.

Though, to be fair, Earth never sported two moons either.

He wiped his mouth, then in the manner of an old barfly tilted his head toward the sky. "Fine pair of moons tonight."

"Well, it's the Retrograde Day," Zod replied.

The wagon rumbled on. Before long Baron, using jokes straight from his previous life, had won the two hunters' trust and pieced together the lay of the land.

He had crossed worlds again.

This was the continent of Prol, home to one empire, five duchies, and many smaller kingdoms. Across the sea lay the duchy of Ferdinand, whose people were black-haired and, on average, dragon-riders.

They were now inside the borders of Ford City, in the southern duchy of Gillian. Their papers declared them bounty hunters who had accepted a mission from the Hunters' Guild: escort the Rose Merchants' pureblood tigress, Yalilan, and investigate the God-cursed flames reported in the town of Mondra.

So I died and crossed again... A land where time rewinds every four days... bounty hunters... and I'm starving...

Baron took the coarse bread Macquire offered, broke it into chunks, and wolfed it down with the rough liquor. The ache in his stomach eased.

Macquire grumbled, "Slow down—no one's stealing it from you."

In short order, the ironclad camaraderie of men was forged.

Baron now understood Macquire's earlier hostility. The bounty notice had been limited to twenty sheets, issued on a first-come basis. Because the Rose Merchants were the continent's premier guild, everyone coveted the job.

But the local hunters' boss, Andre, had declared he would claim fifteen of the twenty sheets for himself; the rest could fight for the crumbs. Intimidated by his reputation, the locals stopped after the fifth sheet was taken.

Yet in the end Andre held only fourteen. A stranger from outside had snatched the sixth.

The black-haired, black-eyed "Ferdinand," Baron, became Andre's thorn.

And because Zod and Macquire had secured two of the remaining five sheets, they had been stuck with the outsider and now rode with him in the hay-wagon toward the mission site.

Suddenly the wagon's jolting eased.

Zod said, "Dirt road's turned to gravel—we're in town."

Baron lifted the canvas.

The rutted mud had indeed given way to neatly laid gravel. To either side, the gloom of the forest had been replaced by limestone and marble buildings of mixed styles.

The wagons halted; a whistle called for assembly. The three men jumped down. Ahead, Gothic spires stabbed at the sky, ringed by bonfires that from afar looked like blazing, fallen trees clustered round a hill.

Through the wavering flames Baron glimpsed a wine-red figure on horseback. His heart lurched with sudden, inexplicable joy.

He parted his lips, but the name came out a silent whisper: "Car... men."

"Out of the way, out of the way—Ferdinand, don't block the road!"

As his heart trembled, a powerful shoulder rammed him from behind.