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“Very well, Lady Sable,” he said at last, his voice as casual as if talking about the time of day rather than children’s lives. “You did as I asked and my word is my bond.”
De Costa went back to the desk and picked up the casket that the Moon dagger had been in. I could see the two mirrors from where I stood and I felt a tug at my heart seeing the vague forms in them that were my son and daughter.
Holding the mirrors in one hand, he smashed them down against the corner of the desk. Shards of glass flew everywhere. For a moment I felt like I could see the forms of the blades over the pieces of glass, then they dissipated.
I wanted that to be the end of it. But what you want and what happens are often two different things.
“As promised, both of your little darlings are safe,” he a
“One thing,” I said.
“Our bargain is completed. Your Guild will have its fee, and you have your children. What more is there to say?”
“There is more,” I continued, ignoring his attitude. “Why me when there are any numbers of street thugs, mercenaries, even other Kybers you could have hired? Why did you insist on me?”
De Costa laughed: it was a sickening cackle. “The night I acquired the Moon Dagger I had a vision: my sister, dead, the hand that had wielded the blade was yours. You were a key pivot point to achieving my destiny,” he said. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
I nodded and stepped to one side. I’ve dealt with any number of magic users over the years. The necromancers like him left me repulsed. Kneeling beside her, the man moved the cloth farther away from her head, and then gently ran his fingers along her hair.
“Not that you weren’t pla
De Costa grabbed the bag and began to rip it down the center, revealing Layra’s blood-stained blouse right over her heart. I caught myself wondering if the man knew where that was; he certainly didn’t seem to have one.
Even with his back to me I could tell when he realized that something was wrong.
“The dagger, where is it?” He screeched in a voice that was almost feminine. “I will need it to finish this night’s work.”
“Oh, is this what you want?” I asked i
“I think not, brother,” said Layra. Her eyes were open, a look of pure hatred on her face. Since she couldn’t enter the house without an invitation, I gave her one. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust de Costa fully to keep his side of the bargain, but it pays to have a backup plan.
Layra brought out the other Moon Dagger. Her aim was good; as close as she was to her brother, it would have been hard to miss. The blade drove easily through cloth, flesh, and bone and into de Costa’s heart.
I could tell when the shock passed and pain swallowed Rathbin de Costa. Blood began to run around the edges of the blade, spewing out after a few moments to strike Layra, the furniture and even me. He trembled and then collapsed backward.
Layra struggled out of the bag and to her feet. She stared at her brother for a time and then began to chant. I couldn’t understand the words; there are more dialects of elfish than there are grains of sand in the desert.
Any possibility that it might be a mourning chant passed quickly. I could feel the magic stirring in the air around me. I realized she was doing exactly what her brother had pla
Vague images formed in the air above the body, most of them things that I did not want to even put a name to. But when I saw Killian and Jayce there, I knew what I had to do.
I stepped up behind Layra, threw my arm around her neck and brought the Moon Dagger around. This time it did not strike into the chair to one side of her, as it had earlier, but drove directly up under her rib cage and into her heart.
“I could ha…”
That was all she got out before the light faded from her eyes. I let go of her, and she fell down into the arms of her brother.
“I guess you got your money’s worth,” I told the dead sorcerer.
SUBSTITUTIONS by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Kristine Kathryn Rusch is a best-selling award-wi
SILAS SAT AT the blackjack table, a plastic glass of whiskey in his left hand, and a small pile of hundred dollar chips in his right. His banjo rested against his boot, the embroidered strap wrapped around his calf. He had a pair of aces to the dealer’s six, so he split them-a thousand dollars riding on each-and watched as she covered them with the expected tens.
He couldn’t lose. He’d been trying to all night.
The casino was empty except for five gambling addicts hunkered over the blackjack table, one old woman playing slots with the rhythm of an assembly worker, and one young man in black leather who was getting drunk at the casino’s sorry excuse for a bar. The employees showed no sign of holiday cheer: no happy holiday pins, no little Santa hats, only the stark black and white of their uniforms against the casino’s fading glitter.
He had chosen the Paradise because it was one of the few remaining fifties-style casinos in Nevada, still thick with flocked wallpaper and cigarette smoke, craps tables worn by dice and elbows, and the roulette wheel creaking with age. It was also only a few hours from Reno, and in thirty hours, he would have to make the tortuous drive up there. Along the way, he would visit an old man who had a bad heart; a young girl who would cross the road at the wrong time and meet an oncoming semi; and a baby boy who was born with his lungs not yet fully formed. Silas also suspected a few surprises along the way; nothing was ever as it seemed any longer. Life was moving too fast, even for him.
But he had Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off, the two days he had chosen when he had been picked to work Nevada 150 years before. In those days, he would go home for Christmas, see his friends, spend time with his family. His parents welcomed him, even though they didn’t see him for most of the year. He felt like a boy again, like someone cherished and loved, instead of the drifter he had become.
All of that stopped in 1878. December 26, 1878. He wasn’t yet sophisticated enough to know that the day was a holiday in England. Boxing Day. Not quite appropriate, but close.
He had to take his father that day. The old man had looked pale and tired throughout the holiday, but no one thought it serious. When he took to his bed Christmas night, everyone had simply thought him tired from the festivities.
It was only after midnight, when Silas got his orders, that he knew what was coming next. He begged off-something he had never tried before (he wasn’t even sure who he had been begging with)-but had received the feeling (that was all he ever got: a firm feeling, so strong he couldn’t avoid it) that if he didn’t do it, death would come another way-from Idaho or California or New Mexico. It would come another way, his father would be in agony for days, and the end, when it came, would be uglier than it had to be.
Silas had taken his banjo to the old man’s room. His mother slept on her side, like she always had, her back to his father. His father’s eyes had opened, and he knew. Somehow he knew.
They always did.
Silas couldn’t remember what he said. Something-a bit of an apology, maybe, or just an explanation: You always wanted to know what I did. And then, the moment. First he touched his father’s forehead, clammy with the illness that would claim him, and then Silas said, “You wanted to know why I carry the banjo,” and strummed.