Chapter 21: Hellbound --------------------- Underage? "I am sev'nteen yearsh of age, misssshter bart'nder, and I w-want another whisshky. Now," I tell him. Of course I'm old enough to drink. For god's sake, if I'm old enough to commit... what's it called? Patricide? Yeah, that's it, if I'm old enough to kill my own father, I can bloody well drown my sorrows in some whiskey. Even if it does taste like rusty rainwater. So what. "I'm sorry, son, but you'll have to show me some identification," the bartender tells me. He isn't hurting, not like me: I can see it in his eyes. All wide and open and spotless: all he sees is a drunk little kid with a bad attitude in front of him, asking for liquor. He doesn't have the slightest clue as to what the world's really like. To hell with him. "Bartend, you 'ave to the count of sheven ta gimmie some whiskey," I tell him, and start reaching for my swords. He's probably got some goons around, to make sure guys like me don't kill 'im, but to hell with them too. I've got no time for this. I just want my whiskey, and if he won't give it to me... "Jamie! Arag! Take him down!" the bartender yells, then starts ducking down. I throw one of my swords at him: he shrieks like a little girl when it connects with his arm. I think I hit an artery, 'cause it starts spraying blood everywhere. I start rushing up to finish the job, and then I hear clattering from behind... and-- ...like a wall hit me from behind... ****************** What the hell is this? Who the hell threw me onto the street? I'm lying face-up on the ground: I'm still in South Figaro: I recognize the cobblestone pattern. So how'd I end up on my back? I lift myself up: my stomach heaves as I do, and as soon as I'm upright, there's a rush of flame in my head... I can't hold it... and it's all over the ground. Only a few flecks on me, but if I don't get moving, it'll flow down. God, are all hangovers like this? I feel the heat rising again, but I push it back, and roll away from the mess I made. I can hear the people around me: most of them sound pretty disgusted--and loud. Everyone's talking like there's a battle going on. It's insane. I pick myself up: it hurts to straighten my back, so I just sort of stagger my way out to the city limits. I'm passing lots of people, and everyone's staring and pointing, but god, I don't care. It doesn't matter. ****************** The engine of the Spitfire rumbles beneath me as I lift off: I ought to fix that before I actually head back to Doma. But god, I just feel so tired, I'm not going to bother with it. It's not worth the effort; too much time spent, and I feel like someone slipped a Rhyos into a vodka last night: my stomach's quaking as if something really nasty's inside of it. I jam on the thrust on the airship, and let it start moving forwards: it's moving slower than normal; maybe's it's me, actually. Maybe I'm the one who's not working as well as I should be. Then again, who could blame me? It's not like I ASKED to kill my dad or anything: he's the one that took time of out his life to track me down so he could kill himself. At least, that's what the magistrate told me. "You know, son, I'm supposed to arrest you for killing someone, but... I can't do it," he told me. His eyes were cold and soft at the same time: an ice-blue that wavered constantly, like the lights you sometimes see just north of Narshe. "Garric came in South Figaro, I don't know, maybe two months ago, and started to work the second he got here. He was dashing all over, going to bars, making deals: nothing I could convict him on, but shady business nonetheless. So, he did this for days, and every so often he would disappear from his hotel room: I'd been keeping tabs on him, you see. And yet, every so often, he'd suddenly leave his room for a night, and come back really early the next morning. Turns out he'd been to the postmistress. Two hours later, someone or other would tell me that someone had been killed that night. And I knew exactly who did it: I could see it in his face. The way he walked, the way he carried his sword: it was a killer's walk, a killer's talk..." He stopped talking then, and for a while both of us just stared at the ground. I hadn't let go of my sword yet. "If you want me to stop," he told me, "Just say so." I nodded that he should keep going. I needed to know. "Anyway, so like I said, I knew he'd been killing people. If I had the slightest chance of making a charge stick, I would have arrested him straight off, you understand? You wouldn't have had to deal with this... but I didn't. I should have tried harder, done more, but I didn't, and now we're all in hell because of it. And for that I'm sorry. So go. Everyone knows now that Garric's dead, and that the killings are over. Everyone saw it, and no one's going to harrass you for doing it. But," he leaned close to me then, his eyes really wide and wanting, "Why'd you do it? I thought he was your father?" "Because I'm his son," I told him. "And I'm my father's son." ****************** The next few hours... or were they days? Well, at any rate, I don't remember much beyond that. It was just like a dream, really: no real start, but a real end. It ended just when I hacked up that bartender. From there on, I remember everything. Every look I got, every woman that pulled away from the blood dried on my hand, and the liquor on my chin-- every kid that ran away. I remember every one of them. Hey! What's that? An airship? Must be Imperial--let's see if I'm right. I raise the Imperial flag, and--yep, they do too. It's a big ship: probably a cruiser or carrier. So what's it doing out here? I come in close, letting the engine rest a bit as I swing over to the side of it. I adjust my speed so that I match it perfect, then come down into an empty spot in the launching hoops. The Spitfire's rattling a bit as I land, but nothing serious. I cut off the engine's power, and open up the hatch up top. One, two, one, two: I undo the damned straps that've been keeping me in place for the past three hours. God, that feels great. So now I lift myself out of the seat, and I'm pulling myself up the ladder: the sun's shining down on me like there's no tomorrow. Damn- it's almost blinding me. I get out on top, and I look onto the main deck. Somebody there is staring right at me. Can't quite make it out. "Alltaire! What a... pleasant surprise!" the guy yells at me. The voice is high-pitched and haughty... oh, not him-- "What the hell's going on here, Phansha?" I yell at him. He smiles like it's funny: he's probably going to demote me or something. I wait for him to yell "Alltaire, you're now demoted to janitor! Get down below!" or something in that high, whiny, old-maid voice of his. But instead, he just smiles even wider. "Alltaire, welcome to the warship Chimera. We're about to go to war!"