Relapse (Breakers Book 7) Page 7

  Edgar furrowed his brow. His face was as white as a dog's belly and sweat stood out from his forehead like tiny clear pebbles. "We saw people to the south. We thought they were raiders, Lunatics, but when we caught up to them, these people were from… not San Diego. Better San Diego."

  "Better than what?"

  "That's the name of the place. Better San Diego. They sent… envoys. They need help."

  "Help with what?" Lowell said. Edgar's eyes rolled back. Lowell glugged more alcohol onto the swabs and dabbed the gut wound. Edgar arched his back, teeth gritted. Lowell gave him a moment. "What did the envoys from Better San Diego need help with?"

  "They have a kingdom. I've heard of it before, but it's bigger than I thought. Their people are getting sick. They need aid."

  "Sick with what?"

  Edgar shook his head. His hair was plastered to his forehead and he was no longer looking at any one thing. "Cholera. They think. They're not sure. I told them that maybe we could help. We've got Dr. Ordon, right?"

  "Right." Lowell wrapped another binding around the gut wound. "What did they say to that?"

  "They wanted to talk. Us, with their king. I told them we couldn't, we weren't authorized, but that we'd send someone as soon as we got home. Did we do the right thing?"

  "No doubt. Was there anything else? From them, or the barbarians?"

  "The Lunatics attacked us on our way back." Edgar blinked, eyes tracking across the boughs shading them from the afternoon sun. "That's all I can remember. I'm sorry."

  "Don't worry, kid. You did great." Lowell got out his canteen and rinsed the blood from his hands. "Here's the bad news: you're going to die."

  He laughed. "But you said I'd be fine."

  "I know."

  Defiance crept into Edgar's eyes. "I feel warm. It doesn't hurt. Just take me to see Dr. Ordon."

  "You need to listen to me." He grabbed Edgar's face, not altogether roughly. "You've been hit in the lungs and the liver. You're not going to make it out of this."

  The kid screwed up his strength, locking eyes with him. "You said I was going to be okay!"

  "I needed you calm enough to tell me what you knew. To help me save others. Do you see?"

  "But we can go home. To the doctor."

  "They stole your horses," Lowell said. "We can share mine, but it's forty miles to the Dunemarket. Another thirty to the Heart. You're not going to last another hour."

  Edgar's face fell in on itself. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "You deserve to know it's all the time you have left."

  "What the fuck am I supposed to do with it?"

  "That, I can't answer." He touched the kid's bare shoulder. "If the pain gets too bad, let me know."

  Edgar's chin quivered. Tears leaked from both eyes. "No. You were right."

  "About what?"

  "It doesn't hurt. I'll be fine."

  He patted the kid's shoulder again. Ten minutes later, Edgar quit breathing. He thought he should bury him and the rest of the Sworn, but he didn't have the tools or the time. He washed up and returned to his horse, who was cropping grass, oblivious to human drama.

  "Come on, boy." He slapped the beast's neck. "Lot of road ahead of us."

  He mounted up and headed south toward San Diego.

  Two mornings later, with the sun slicing through the branches, two men intercepted him on the San Diego Freeway. They carried machine guns and wore peaked metal caps like something looted from the medieval wing of the museum.

  "Halt!" one of them said. "Who goes there?"

  "Lowell," he said. "From Los Angeles."

  "And what business do you have in the Kingdom of Better San Diego?"

  "Well." He tucked his thumb into his belt loop. "I'm looking for you."

  They brought him up a winding road to the hills overlooking the coast. They'd converted the country club into a fortress, complete with stone walls. The front drive was blocked by a picket of wooden spikes and two gates, one chain link, the other wood.

  Inside, the golf course grew thick with the stubble of corn and wheat. They stopped him there to take his weapons, which he didn't object to, then continued on to the big white building that clearly served as what Lowell couldn't bring himself to call the palace. The insides were overdecorated with statues and tapestries, but he was more interested in the predatory men hanging around the kitchen and the deck.

  They stashed him upstairs in a room with a nice view of the grounds. His escort stepped out and closed the door. He didn't hear the man's footsteps recede.

  Half an hour later, footsteps and voices carried down the hall. The door swung open. A man in a green uniform with red piping stepped inside. "All rise for his majesty, King Dashing!"

  Lowell stood. He swallowed his gum. A man in a purple Adidas track suit walked in. He was older, around sixty, with longish salt and pepper hair swept back from his temples. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. He moved past Lowell and seated himself at the high-backed chair by the window.

  He gestured to Lowell's chair. "Be seated."

  "You'll have to pardon me," Lowell said. "I don't have much experience appearing before royalty."

  Dashing honked with laughter. "Some people, I like to put through the wringer with the bowing and the scraping. It's a kick. On this day, however, I have no interest in such antics. Show the proper respect you'd grant any authority in their seat of business, and you won't hear me complain. Do you know why I'm suspending regal protocols for you?"

  "Your people told you why I'm here."

  "Correct! That, and I'm so tired I'm starting to wonder if kings can retire." He clapped his hands and held them together in front of his nose. "First, clear something up for me. You're here, alone, and from what my men tell me, you were about to walk right on by us and stumble into Old San Diego. Did you even know what you were looking for? Exactly what capacity are you here in?"

  Lowell chuckled. "Unofficial. I heard something that made me think we might be of use to each other. Before the diplomats get involved and waste a week of our time, I thought we might try a five-minute conversation. I hear your people are getting sick. What with?"

  "If I knew that, would we be here discussing their diarrhea? It's a stomach bug. Brutal. People are dying, others can't work." His eyes snapped to Lowell's. "Don't even think of treating this as intel. You decide we're weakened, that it's time for the lion to take down the gazelle, and I'll make sure my last act as king is to dump a thousand gallons of diseased shit into every reservoir and stream in L.A."

  "That won't be necessary."

  Dashing leaned back and tapped his fingers on the padded arm of his chair. "Convince me."

  "If I'm here to scout weakness, I don't stroll in and ask the king about it. I ask the people in the field. The people hurt worst are happy to complain."

  "Or you send your soldiers in to do the scouting while you stroll in like everything's on the up and up."

  Lowell narrowed his eyes. "Then here's some intel for you. We're not concerned with what you've got going on 120 miles away. Not when we still haven't cleaned up our own back yard. That's what this is about, Your Highness—I think we can help you clean up your sickness. And we need your help to clean up ours."

  6

  Raina laughed in the sheriff's face. "Get out of my way."

  Wilson Gates didn't budge. "This isn't something you can declare away by fiat, Raina. We can't have our leader rushing off to risk her life in every little skirmish. If something happens to you, what happens to this place?"

  "I will be fine."

  "Do you think denial can protect you from gunshots? Do you have any idea how irresponsible you're being?"

  "I named you sheriff of this island," she said. "Don't mistake that because I am on the island, I am yours to order around."

  "You don't need to worry about me. You need to worry about all the people you'll leave in the lurch." Gates massaged a thick triceps. "I'm not saying you can never fight again. That's not my place and I know it. What I'm
saying is that, before things get too serious, we need to make some changes."

  Late afternoon light speared through the windows, illuminating the dust motes swirling in the doorway. "Like what?"

  "In the event you become incapacitated, we need an institution that's ready to carry on your work. A war council."

  Raina laughed again, but this time the air tasted bitter. "So that is what lies beneath the apple's skin: worms wanting a bigger bite."

  "You calling us worms?"

  "I am calling you a man whose motives are clouded by the chance to force your way another step up the staircase."

  "How about we take a step back before this gets ugly?" Gates said. "Is it a bad idea to create a council? A group of minds capable of providing you with advice, and of holding down the fort when you're in the field?"

  "Before a dog pack moves from one place to another, does their leader call a council?"

  "I'd like to think we're a little better than dogs, Raina."

  "Humans are the only animal on earth to dissect every decision as if it is to be prepared for a religious feast. Dogs and lions know that the only way to act effectively is for there to be one leader and many warriors."

  "Had a feeling logic wouldn't find much traction with you." Gates extended his jaw to the side. "So how about I come at you on your level? If you don't agree with our proposal—either recuse yourself from the field, or put together a council—then those new farmers and fishermen you need will go on strike."

  She snorted. "They wouldn't dare."

  "You might think this council is a bid for power, but we're not the only ones afraid of a potential leadership vacuum. Besides, they want representation. The feeling their voice is meaningful."

  "A voice accomplishes nothing. That is why words vanish the moment they're spoken." Raina held his gaze. "If they strike, they will starve."

  Gates smiled with no humor. "I think they'll find a way to get by. The real question is, how are you going to keep your warriors fighting on the mainland after you need them here growing wheat?"

  Her jaw flexed. "Get out of here. Flee before I cut you down on my doorstep."

  He chuckled, two clicks of air. Seeing her face, he went silent and his eyes became that of a man who has just glimpsed a cougar before it slips into the woods.

  "So be it." Gates stepped back. "You should take us more seriously than you do."

  She slammed the door. With hours to go until their raid on the mainland, she went to her room and unsheathed her swords and brought them to the main room where the windows looked out on the rolling hills and the bay to the north. As the daylight waned, she practiced the forms that Carl had taught her two years before, the blades slicing silently through the air.

  Thirty minutes later, a knock sounded at the door. Mauser stood outside, smiling in a way that made it clear he would rather not be there.

  "Gates sent you," she said.

  "Of course he did." Mauser stared pointedly at the door until she opened it wide. He ushered himself inside. "But I wouldn't deign to play errand boy if I didn't think he was right."

  She set her sheathed swords in the corner. "You think he's right to want to cut a slice of power for himself?"

  "Oh, I don't want to touch his motives with a ten-foot pole. There's nothing more twisted, gross, and unknowable than a man's motives. If we stick strictly to the proposal's logic, however, I can't say I can fault it."

  "We've fought well for years. I see no need for a council."

  "Really? Who's supposed to take the reins if something happens to you out there?" Mauser waved toward the waters separating them from San Pedro. "Me? I can't do what you do, Raina. I'm all right at improvising tactics, but when it comes to the strategy of an entire campaign, I don't have the correct vision."

  Raina moved to a chair and sat, her feet coiled beneath her. "What kind of vision do you need?"

  "The bloodthirsty kind."

  "I have no interest in blood for blood's sake. But I will punish those who would hurt us."

  "Potato, po-tah-to. Do you really think having a council would be a detriment?"

  "These people know nothing of war. Their advice would be feeble, and when I ignore it, they'll get angry. It would slow down my decisions, too. It would be like choosing to run through the mud when there's pavement right there."

  "You're ignoring the benefits more brains could bring to the table, but let's assume your position: that you are the most suited to orchestrate this war, and you can best do that alone."

  "I didn't say that. You're here and you're speaking with me."

  He rolled his eyes. "Amendment: while not averse to seeking outside counsel, you do your finest work with minimal interference. And this system is superior to the backup Sheriff Gates is proposing—that of a war council whose membership would include people who have never actually been to war. Do you agree with that?"

  "I do."

  "Then logically, it makes zero sense for us to risk our most valuable asset—you, and your unparalleled decision-making ability—on strikes that aren't absolutely critical to the success of the overall campaign."

  She stared at him. "I hate you."

  Mauser tucked his thumbs into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "True wisdom is often hateful to the ears. Otherwise, it wouldn't be wisdom."

  "I won't authorize their council of cowards. But I'll stop going with the warriors unless the objective is vital—such as killing Anson."

  "I think that's for the best. There's a political advantage in this, too. Even if you aren't granting the others the power they're after, in backing off from participating in the raids, you're proving you're open to listening to their concerns."

  "Politics." The word tasted as bitter as what is left behind in the bottom of a cup of tea. "Once this war is finished, my first act will be to declare politics illegal forevermore."

  She sent Mauser to tell Sheriff Gates of her decision, then rounded up the warriors for the night's raid and informed them she wouldn't be coming with them after all. She designated Henna as leader in her stead. As night approached, she spent the remaining time questioning the warriors about hypothetical situations they might encounter.

  With dusk approaching, they rousted from the palace and headed for the bay. On the dock, Raina gazed north at the dark land.

  "Remember that this raid is not vital in itself," she said. "Its purpose is to hurt them and slip away before they have the chance to hurt you. If your situation does not favor you, it serves us better to withdraw than to press an attack against poor odds."

  "I'll place this first in my mind." Henna glanced up at the moon and grinned. "No matter how it urges me otherwise."

  They loaded onto the sloop. The boat creaked, nudging dumbly against the rubber bumpers between it and the dock. The sails fluttered. A sailor called out; the sloop cast off.

  Raina stood alone to watch as the warriors faded into the night.

  * * *

  While the warriors were off on the first mission of the guerrilla war, Raina occupied herself with farming. In San Pedro, the many sources of their food had grown and blossomed like the crops themselves. Most people had tended gardens of their own; others learned to fish; a few settled open land and farmed it. Those who produced more than they could eat and store had brought it to the Dunemarket to sell. There was more than enough for everyone.

  They could achieve the same state in Catalina. But they would not have time to let the tree grow by itself.

  In the hills south of the palace, men and women dug trenches to divert water from a creek and into the fields. Raina joined them. The work was hard and good and it helped keep her mind off what she was missing. Besides, it needed to be done.

  Often, she was watched by the farmer, a sunburnt white man named Ryans. He had a body like an egg and a head like a smaller egg perched on top of it. On the third day of her labor in the trenches, while she rested in the shade, Ryans finally mustered himself to walk through the grass and approach her.
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br />   "First off," he said, "I know who you are, and I appreciate you pitching in to help fix this place up."

  She looked up and smiled. "And second off?"

  "Well, I've heard about the plans. And I wonder."

  "If you want answers, you need to pose clearer questions."

  He scrunched his brows together and glanced across the meadow. "Thing is, this is my home. My land. Once you all are done here, me and mine will be the ones working it. But plenty of it will be going to feed the people in town, won't it?"

  Raina nodded. "They're earning their meal, aren't they? That is why they are here."

  "Sure. Like I said, I appreciate it. But we got a whole new population here, don't we? What happens if they need everything I got?"

  "Would you let them starve so you could have more?"

  "Well, no." He took off his hat and rubbed his bare scalp. "But it seems like if this is my land and my work, I ought to be compensated for it."

  "Perhaps you're being compensated by being kept safe from Anson and his armies."

  "But not everyone's contributing equal, are they? You got a shoemaker over there in Avalon, and you're not taking everything he makes."

  Raina picked a stem of grass and peeled it in half. "We're not. Do you have a suggestion for a better system?"

  Ryans replaced his hat and tugged it back and forth until it had found its proper place. "Seems to me I'm facing a food tax, aren't I? Not to say it like a dirty word: I know it's needed. But I need my food to trade for all the things that need trading for. Seems to me that if I were given some kind of chits or vouchers that I could exchange—"

  "Raina!" One of the scouts came racing down the hill, flushed and sweaty. "Raina, the warriors have returned. They are victorious!"

  "Thank you for your counsel," she said to Ryans. He muttered something back, but she was already running up the hill behind the scout.

  At the palace, all five of the warriors had returned intact, relaxing in the shade of the courtyard with glasses of lemonade. Henna and Bryson had adulterated theirs with slugs of moonshine.