“Daga, you fucking asshole,” she snarled.
“Fortescue.” Assent. “To what do I owe the honor?”
They were standing underneath an awning, under an amber sky, in a village that had once boasted big game hunters and tipsy tourists. Now there were skulking villagers and animals so malnourished that they looked ill.
“I’m here because a little birdie told me you’ve been recanting secrets. Secrets that weren’t yours to tell.”
She jabbed a finger, roughly, against his chest. He grimaced.
“You Magi—where do you get this stuff?”
Fortescue scowled. “But it is true, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Daga sighed, “I’ve been flappin’ my mouth. What of it? This continent’s a free world, you know.”
“And yet, here I am.” She smiled at him. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Going to run this time?”
He shook his head, shoulders tense. “No.”
“…well, then, I’ll let you make the first move.”
Daga laughed; it was a violent noise. “That’s an awfully nice offer, for a Black Magus. Are you sure you’re cut out for this? Perhaps I should run.”
Her smile became a grim line. “No.”
His hand went for the revolver in his pocket—hers twisted and lifted, as though miming a punch. Daga gargled, his shot going over her shoulder; she felt it as it slammed past her. Then he took a few stumbling steps and fell on his knees. But instead of gargling, he laughed.
“That’s it. I knew you had it in you.” He winced. “Damn, you’re good.”
Fortescue moved forward and kicked his face. He fell back with a gasp. Blood, from the wound she’d inflicted, was starting to blossom across his stomach, through his dirty beige shirt.
“Morris Daga the Second,” she murmured, “you have been sentenced to death by the Black Council for selling Imperium secrets during a time of war. Do you have any final words?”
“Yeah.” Daga spat blood sideways on the sand. “I do: long may he reign.”
With a derisive snort, Fortescue flicked her hand roughly to the side and tightened it into a fist. Daga gargled, blood forming a waterfall out of his mouth. Then he was still.
Leaving him in the sand, to be discovered and probably robbed of his clothing by natives, she tucked her hood back over her head. One down. Two more to go before she could return home. One more traitor to the Crown, and a criminal fleeing justice across another continent.
She pulled a square piece of black velvet from her pocket and, concentrating on its surfaces, pulled it over her head. A native saw a young woman be devoured by a cloth no bigger than her hand, and ran screaming from the spot. She didn’t care. She was hundreds of miles away.
(Source: velvetdemon.net)
