swallowed, thickly. ‘Should I be worried?’
‘It’s the territories. You should always be worried,’ I said.
‘I should go with him,’ Winfried said.
‘Don’t think that would be a problem, ma’am,’ I said. ‘And you’re free to do whatever you’d like. But if one of you spots him, you’ll need to hustle back up here to tell us. If not, just stay there, and we’ll come down after dark.’
A suspicious look crossed Winifred’s face. ‘Are you wanted, here?’
Our last visit to Hot Springs ended up with us in jail and the whole town on fire, courtesy of the Crimson Man who was riding Fisk like a bronco. But that was when the town was owned and run by the Hellene, Croesus, and his Argenta Mining Company bully-boys. Now, Hot Springs was firmly under the Imperial thumb.
‘No. We’re members of the Ruman army and have papers to prove it.’ I dug in my satchel and removed the orders that Cornelius had given us, waving them in the air. I was thankful neither of the Lomaxes asked to inspect them, revealing our patron. I don’t know why I didn’t want them to know – and, even in silence, could tell Fisk didn’t either – except that it would simply complicate matters. Better we remain rankers, minor functionaries performing a menial (if exciting) task.
‘Should I procure rooms for you both?’ Winfried asked.
‘That might be in order,’ I said. I glanced at Fisk and he nodded. ‘I could use a bath, and the hot springs promise a good one,’ I said, dug around in my pouch for enough sesterces to cover a night’s stay and handed them to him.
After a bit of nervous preparation on Wasler’s part, and prim efficiency on Winfried’s, the Lomaxes rode down the trail to Hot Springs, the jaunting-hearse in tow.
‘You don’t think they’ll end up in no harm, do you?’ I asked my partner.
‘No. Beleth is long gone,’ Fisk said, staring at the town. ‘But who knows what mischief he’s left behind for us.’
‘I hope you’re wrong about that,’ I said.
‘I do too, Shoestring. I do too.’
EIGHT
Ides, Quintilius, 2638 ex Ruma Immortalis
When it was dark, we walked down the mountain, alert and watching for any who might be alarmed at our prescence, past the graveyard which had grown large, and came into Hot Springs proper. The gallows were gone, I was thankful to see, and much of the town had improved from its former state of corporate despotism. Plain ole Ruman despotism had worked wonders. If there’s anything the Rumans know how to do, it’s build and organize towns. The new Hot Spring’s streets were open and wide – while still as muddy as any frontier town – and the sides were well planked for walking, patrolled by Hellfire-toting legionnaires and vigiles bearing daemon fire lanterns. A year past, the streets had teemed with Argenta bully-boys in the employ of a Mr Croesus. Storefronts were restored and looked profitable – a few sported plate glass windows that, in a Hardscrabble town, were begging for trouble. Couples walked arm in arm along the plank-walks on their evening passagiatta as store clerks unbanked daemon lights, swept porches, and performed their last chores for the day. Faint sounds of piano and guitar and laughter emanated from the largest building in the town, the Aurelian Hotel – a three-storied wooden structure whose planks still oozed sap. The whole thing was golden if you squinted in the dying light.
All of Hot Springs smelled of sulphur and the sickly-sweet odour of fresh cut pine. A town swiftly on the mend.
Fisk’s shoulders rose and hitched as we rode down the main street. He had his hat on, low, covering his eyes, even in the dark. The events caused by the Crimson Man – and consequently Fisk – would remain long in the townsfolk’s memories.
We stabled the horses in the Aurelian’s coach house, tossed a couple of extra sesterces at the stable boy to give a little tenderness and loving attention to our tack, and hoisted our personal
‘It’s the territories. You should always be worried,’ I said.
‘I should go with him,’ Winfried said.
‘Don’t think that would be a problem, ma’am,’ I said. ‘And you’re free to do whatever you’d like. But if one of you spots him, you’ll need to hustle back up here to tell us. If not, just stay there, and we’ll come down after dark.’
A suspicious look crossed Winifred’s face. ‘Are you wanted, here?’
Our last visit to Hot Springs ended up with us in jail and the whole town on fire, courtesy of the Crimson Man who was riding Fisk like a bronco. But that was when the town was owned and run by the Hellene, Croesus, and his Argenta Mining Company bully-boys. Now, Hot Springs was firmly under the Imperial thumb.
‘No. We’re members of the Ruman army and have papers to prove it.’ I dug in my satchel and removed the orders that Cornelius had given us, waving them in the air. I was thankful neither of the Lomaxes asked to inspect them, revealing our patron. I don’t know why I didn’t want them to know – and, even in silence, could tell Fisk didn’t either – except that it would simply complicate matters. Better we remain rankers, minor functionaries performing a menial (if exciting) task.
‘Should I procure rooms for you both?’ Winfried asked.
‘That might be in order,’ I said. I glanced at Fisk and he nodded. ‘I could use a bath, and the hot springs promise a good one,’ I said, dug around in my pouch for enough sesterces to cover a night’s stay and handed them to him.
After a bit of nervous preparation on Wasler’s part, and prim efficiency on Winfried’s, the Lomaxes rode down the trail to Hot Springs, the jaunting-hearse in tow.
‘You don’t think they’ll end up in no harm, do you?’ I asked my partner.
‘No. Beleth is long gone,’ Fisk said, staring at the town. ‘But who knows what mischief he’s left behind for us.’
‘I hope you’re wrong about that,’ I said.
‘I do too, Shoestring. I do too.’
EIGHT
Ides, Quintilius, 2638 ex Ruma Immortalis
When it was dark, we walked down the mountain, alert and watching for any who might be alarmed at our prescence, past the graveyard which had grown large, and came into Hot Springs proper. The gallows were gone, I was thankful to see, and much of the town had improved from its former state of corporate despotism. Plain ole Ruman despotism had worked wonders. If there’s anything the Rumans know how to do, it’s build and organize towns. The new Hot Spring’s streets were open and wide – while still as muddy as any frontier town – and the sides were well planked for walking, patrolled by Hellfire-toting legionnaires and vigiles bearing daemon fire lanterns. A year past, the streets had teemed with Argenta bully-boys in the employ of a Mr Croesus. Storefronts were restored and looked profitable – a few sported plate glass windows that, in a Hardscrabble town, were begging for trouble. Couples walked arm in arm along the plank-walks on their evening passagiatta as store clerks unbanked daemon lights, swept porches, and performed their last chores for the day. Faint sounds of piano and guitar and laughter emanated from the largest building in the town, the Aurelian Hotel – a three-storied wooden structure whose planks still oozed sap. The whole thing was golden if you squinted in the dying light.
All of Hot Springs smelled of sulphur and the sickly-sweet odour of fresh cut pine. A town swiftly on the mend.
Fisk’s shoulders rose and hitched as we rode down the main street. He had his hat on, low, covering his eyes, even in the dark. The events caused by the Crimson Man – and consequently Fisk – would remain long in the townsfolk’s memories.
We stabled the horses in the Aurelian’s coach house, tossed a couple of extra sesterces at the stable boy to give a little tenderness and loving attention to our tack, and hoisted our personal
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