Gunlaw

Gunlaw 32

"How would I know?"

"But you said—"

"You know what's easier than magic? Lying. A lot easier."

Mikeos sipped his whiskey and watched her. He'd just have the one. Hemar stared too, tongue sweeping out the bottom of his glass.

"Oh don't give me that look. So I lied. You just shot eight men dead in the street."

Hemar filled his glass again and topped Mikeos'. "Why didn't you just leave town, Mikey? If Mayor Sensa wants you out you'll be going. Easy or hard."

"I think we've ruled out easy." Jenna sniffed her whiskey and blinked.

"The witch here wanted to speak to Miss Kitty, to find out something she knew," Mikeos said. "Only it turns out that the old Miss Kitty ain't in residence no more."

"Her trail's here. We just need to pick it up and follow on." Jenna tried the smallest sip from her glass, shuddered, licked her lips, tried another.

"Well I didn't know it wouldn't be the same old Miss Kitty." Miss Kitty had been a constant but near invisible presence at the 'Bullet all of Mikeos' childhood. The whores lived in fear of her, though she'd plied their trade herself they said, once upon a time. Hunska of course, all the best were. Fucking's no big deal to the hunska, leastways not with humans. About as important as breaking wind. And if a hunska's got feelings . . . well, they're are held too close for whoring to touch. "The old Miss Kitty, she might have been old enough to be the woman we wanted. Didn't reckon with it being a title she could just pass on though. Makes you wonder how many Miss Kittys this place has seen. This new one wasn't born when Eben—" Mikeos broke off. For a half-second Hemar grew still, paw frozen on its passage to his mouth, eyes widening. Just a flicker, but like poker players 'slingers know about watching a man and reading a man.

"What?" Hemar caught the look.

"You know." Mikeos nodded. It felt true. "You know about this. Why we're here. Who Eben Lostchild is."

"I don't know anything but whiskey." Hemar knocked his glass back. "I'm just Hemar, drunk-in-the-gutter Hemar. Washed all my memories away long time ago."

"You're Hemar who should have gone to grey and died years ago." Jenna gave her drink a look of mild surprise, licked her lips, and swallowed the rest in one gulp. "But here you are, twice as old as a pack elder and healthy with it, despite swimming in the bottle for twenty years. You know, Hemar. Doesn't take magic to tell that—" She broke off as Mikeos nodded toward the doors. A woman was approaching them, tall, wrapped in a richly tailored dress-cum-plainscoat like the women of consequence wore in Ansos, the latest fashion. Gun-hands flanked her, four of them, clearing a path, though in truth a path cleared itself.

Mikeos stood, Hemar too, though having risen from his chair the domen looked as if he'd rather go to his knees. Jenna remained seated, her back to the approach.

"Ma'am." Mikeos nodded.

The woman drew back her hood, trapped rain spilling over her shoulders. She looked young, surely no more than twenty, but with old eyes and an air of command to her. On the stairs whores in lace and crinoline fluttered fake smiles and carried hurt in their eyes. This woman was an entirely different creature.

"I'm Rema Sensa, mayor of this town." As she spoke Jed Wesson came from his table to stand beside her, his coat flicked clear of the single action colt peacemaker at his side.

"No."

It took a moment before Mikeos understood that Jenna had spoken, still hunched over her empty glass, her back to the mayor. Rema's glance flickered to Jenna then returned to Mikeos. "You're not welcome here, either of you. You're trouble, Jones, always have been, and the witch carries more trouble than you could dream of."