The Claim

1-8-2015

“Rise for the Chorister,” said the gun.

“Is that you?” said Esker. “Because that woman coming toward us—well, it’s not that I’m against standing for a lady, but I find you more persuasive at this time.”

Esker felt a jerk upward on his collar and stood. The gun’s hand couldn’t quite follow him all the way up, he noted with satisfaction—though the gun-barrel could, and it rested contently in the hollow where his neck joined his skull. 

The Chorister had reached them by this time; she declined to dismount. Over the bandanna, she met Esker’s eyes and spoke with a voice.

The very fact of her possessing a voice was shock enough that Esker almost failed to notice the features of that voice: It was a smooth bass thrum, its tonality pure as song, its cadence musical and not altogether human. A man’s voice, though not like any man’s he had heard before—and uttered, if the stillness of the bandanna was any indication, without movements of the mouth. He reexamined the rider’s shape in the moonlight, wondering whether he had misread her body in the moment’s heat—but it was a woman’s, that was certain, although he allowed that he might not be so sure had he not seen her move. 

There was, of course, no possibility of his comprehending the words, not when there was so much to wonder about in this voice, this speaker. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Say it again?”

“Who are you with?” the incongruous voice sang, with no hint of exasperation—though Esker thought he might have read a tinge of that in her posture, in the small motions of her head. “The posse or the outlaws?”

“The posse, ma’am.” He did not contemplate deceit. He had dealt with tribal hetmen and war-leaders before—or, at any rate, seen them dealt with; they were generally intelligent enough to kill anyone they knew they wanted dead, and in those whose disposition was uncertain, they valued square-dealing above all. Which meant they often opened with a question to which they knew the answer. “Have any died?”

“How many of you were there?”

Were. But that could easily be bait. “Forgive me, ma’am, if I haven’t seen my way clear to divulging that information at this time.”

“My man’s bullet hasn’t seen its way clear to your brain-pan either, but things change.”

“Perhaps I can be of use some other way. May I speak about why we are here?”

“Unless you’re a very unusual medicine show looking to rehearse a long way from civilization,” said the Chorister, “I reckon you’re after the Harshef gang or mine.”

“His,” said Esker. “Forgive me again if I admit I haven’t heard of the Chorister’s gang until this encounter. We’re from out of Metu village, west and south of here. We don’t get out here often, ma’am.”

“I see,” said the Chorister. “Sort of like the boys who threw their ball into the neighbor’s yard. Entirely harmless.”

“You can see how dangerous I am,” said Esker, spreading his hands. “A veritable babe in arms—no teeth, no claws, no guile. What gets tricky, though, is if I don’t come back.”

“I know Metu village a little,” said the Chorister. “I’m not altogether certain I and mine could make it a hell of dead flesh and black-burnt houseframes in a single night—but, then, I’m not altogether certain we couldn’t, and it might be fun to try.”

Esker shrugged; he felt the barrel of the gun wobble against the back of his neck. The Chorister’s wingman was getting tired. “I take your meaning—really, I do—but this ain’t merely a Metu affair. We were summoned on a writ from the territory governor.” He let half a breath go by, saw the Chorister’s shoulders rise. “If he finds the posse he bankrolled was wiped out—I mean, we’re being considered for a province, he’s going to have a proper election to win. A couple of half-piastre horse thieves blunder their way into a train robbery, well, that’s a local matter. A posse up and vanishes—who knows? Maybe a bigger posse, maybe Jaidari marshals…”