Talk is cheap, until you hire a lawyer that is.

  Then you get billed by the hour, but not hour of work. The clock starts the second they start moving on your behalf, and given his rates, seeing Mr. Tillman ready and waiting at the Sheriff’s Office is less reassuring than you’d think. That said, might well be worth it seeing how the guards all tense up at the sight of the tidy, well-kept man in a tailored winter jacket, one black as his soul and solemn as his demand to know what his client is being charged with.

  It's a whole song and dance between the lawyer and the guards, and the Sheriff himself gets involved soon enough. Sheriff Patel ain’t none too happy to see me again, but to be fair, in some fourteen years of knowing him, I don’t think I ever seen him happy, so make of that what you will. The sour-faced Gujarati native don’t pay much mind to Mr. Tillman neither, just lets him know I’m being held on suspicion of assault and brings me in to be processed. Takes some mugshots and documents my lack of injuries, which will no doubt speak volumes to a jury when they see how bad I done Dave in.

  Broke his nose, finger, and wrist, on top of dislocating his shoulder, but to be fair, I didn’t stomp on him even once after he went down. I would’ve really liked to too, but I don’t say as much, because only a fool speaks for himself while paying a lawyer to do just that, so I keep mum until I get into the interrogation room for a private 1 on 1 conversation with Mr. Tillman. Since the recording crystal is in the Sherrif’s hands, we won’t be able to watch it without him, but Mr. Tillman assures me that even if it’s not clear cut as I say it is, we got enough documentation to get any charges thrown out of court so long as Noora testifies on my behalf.

  Course, I’d rather things not get that far, since I don’t really want anyone to see the video of our conversation, much less have it entered into record. Ain’t no helping that though, so I let Mr. Tillman do most the talking when the Sheriff comes a knocking with questions. The gears of justice turn slowly however, because even though they opt not to formally charge me right away, they’re holding me on disturbing the peace and got 24 hours to come up with something. Means I get to overnight in a jail cell since prosecutors and judges keep normal office hours, and I done had the indecency to get in a scuffle mere minutes before Friday night quitting time. Not Mr. Tillman though, who leaves to take statements from the witnesses and let Aunty Ray know to grab the kiccaws and Cowie from my boat so they ain’t stuck there by their lonesome all night.

  In my mind, this ain’t nothing but a song and dance, because it’s a clear-cut case of self-defence against an overzealous and prejudiced guard, but come morning, I learn that the District Attorney don’t feel the same way. Got a whole laundry list of charges coming my way, most of which Mr. Tillman says won’t stick. It’s an intimidation tactic, throwing everything including the kitchen sink at me so they can make concessions later on down the line and reduce my charges in exchange for a plea deal. One I won’t ever take, because I know I didn’t do nothing wrong, but the District Attorney is an elected position, or will be soon as the Watershed hits, which is why he’s got me set in his sights. Wants his name in the papers, so I gotta see a judge to set bail and don’t get set free until 10 the next morning, where I’m escorted from the courtroom to the docks without so much as a cup of coffee to start my day.

  Rude is what that is, but Aunty Ray got me covered, bringing a hot thermos along with a boxed breakfast while delivering Cowie and the kiccaws to my boat. Tina and Chrissy come along with, but only for a quick hug goodbye since I got the guards all breathing down my neck with weapons at the ready. Which is preferable to having them aimed down sights, but I don’t want to risk nothing with Chrissy here, so I get gone quick as a blink and set sail soon as I can.

  Gives me something to focus on besides the break-up with Noora, who’s safe and sound back in New Hope, but might as well be across the Divide for all the good it does me. Won’t be no more quiet nights together all curled up on the couch, or boat trips out onto the lake with her arms wrapped around my waist for fear of falling in. Won’t ever hold her close while crying over Josie, or sit her on my lap to ask about our future, a subject she danced around like a marty moving through a briar patch, bobbing and weaving all about without so much as shaking a branch. Never could get a solid answer out of her, and now I know why. Too much baggage with me, which is fair. We both loved Josie with all our hearts, and though I love Noora too, I don’t think she ever loved me. She liked me well enough, was grateful for what I done and enjoyed my company plenty, but love? That can’t be forced, and though I can see that she tried with all her heart, I just couldn’t make the cut.

  Truth be told, even though I profess to love her, I didn’t do a good job showing it these last few months, leaving her to her own devices in New Hope and never really doing much of any boyfriend things. Even before then, I pretty much made her into the ‘other woman’, which ain’t anyone’s ideal. That’s on me, which is why I told her it wasn’t no one’s fault, but now that I think about it, I suppose it’s mostly mine. I couldn’t be what she was looking for in happily ever after, a free-spirited travelling companion to experience the Frontier with, one unburdened by things like duty, obligation, and grudges from criminals and law-enforcement both looking to make their name by taking the Firstborn down.

  That ain’t me anymore, the Firstborn that is, but the rest still applies well enough. I been all in on the quay and getting ready for the Watershed, so I done barely spent more than a handful of weekends with Noora, but even that limited bit of time was enough to show her our vision of the future don’t match up. Sure, I move about, but I’m a creature of habit, sticking mostly to pre-determined routes. Up north along the Highway all the way to Wabasca in the spring, then out and about in the badlands the rest of the year. Hardly the scenic tour of the Frontier Noora wanted to see, or the grand adventure she was looking to have with a clean slate and nothing in her rear-view mirror chasing her down.

  All the logic in the world don’t change the facts none though. Still hurts to see her go, but I ain’t gonna make it difficult for her to leave. Might seem cold or uncaring from an outside perspective, especially seeing how it seemed like she wanted to spend more time together before she goes. I can’t do it though, gotta cut things off here and now. Not because I’m angry or upset, even though I’m both. No, I gotta leave things here because I can’t allow myself any hope, since I know it’ll hurt all the more when she inevitably leaves. This is for my own sake, because I don’t want the hurt to last any longer than it needs to, as I’m still hurting from losing Josie and now I’ve lost Noora too.

  It's a long, lonely boat ride home, and doubly so since I was looking forward to a quiet weekend with Noora and ended up with a court date instead. I’m so out of sorts, even Elodie’s unexpected arrival fails to bring a smile to my face as she shoots out of the water and belly flops onto the ship, throwing her flippers out to either side and curling up so her head and tail form an upside-down crescent like a sea-lion doing ballet. “Hey there Ella-dee,” I say, making an effort to say her name right and put on a happy face in front of her endearing antics. Nodding into the interior, I continue, “Got some passengers onboard who’ll be happy to see you.”

  Though clearly in animal form, Elodie’s expression is human as can be as she lights up in joy, because it’s always a delight when she gets to hang out with other people. Despite my foul mood, it’s hard not to chuckle as she ambles on into the cabin with a bouncing, side to side gait, all too eager to see who’s waiting inside. Not two seconds later, she slides back out with an aggrieved expression, her brow furrowed and lips pouty while making her throaty, sea-lion growls, no doubt vocalizing her displeasure over the kiccaws being all locked up tight.

  “They caged for their own safety Ella-dee,” I say, still busy at the tiller while watching the open waters ahead. “You know how them kiccaws be, always hopping about and exploring every nook and cranny. I give them free run of the ship and they’ll hop on out of the cabin toot sweet, where they’ll get picked up by the breeze and thrown overboard in a jiffy, and then where’d they be?”

  Dead is where, because while kiccaws float well enough, the cold will do them in right quick. Elodie huffs a bit more, but I stand my ground, and she relents when I promise to let the kiccaws out soon as I can. Then she’s back to her usual happy-go-lucky self, heading in to press her face against the cage and play with Cowie for a bit, before coming back out to say goodbye and resume her swim. Not before pressing her head right up against my belly in demand of a head pat of course, an obligation I’ve all but given up on fighting.

  Ain’t fair coming at me looking like a cute, adorably bulky water marty while being an actual person inside, but I can’t help but want to hug and squeeze her tight. In a totally non-romantic way of course, but I gotta hold off because Elodie still don’t understand why people treat her differently depending on what form she takes, especially when they already know it’s her inside. It’s all the same in her mind, whether she’s a squishable sea lion, adorable diamondclaw, or attractive young lady with verdant green hair and emerald eyes so clear and innocent I can’t help but feel like a terrible person every time I see them.

  Don’t stop her from exploiting her animal form though, because she’s long since learned I’m more likely to let her come in close for a hug or snuggle if she’s furry, and she presses right up against me for a hug while I bid her farewell. “One thing,” I say, while scratching her head and trying not to feel weird about how adorable her sea lion expression is. “You know that trip I was planning? You think you and your parents could look after the kiccaws as well as the cattle? Won’t have to take care of for the horses anymore, as I’ll be bringing them along with.” Can’t have Cowie lugging all four of us around, and I’ll feel better riding point with Tina to keep the fighting away from Chrissy and Aunty Ray. “Not Old Tux,” I add, in reply to Elodie’s silent question, little more than a tilt of her head which I read as concern for her best friend. “He’s staying home with you. He done been to the mesa plenty of times before, and truth is he don’t like it much. He’d be lots happier staying home with you, so don’t you worry about him.”

  Elodie throws her head back and gives a little clap, smacking her flippers together in a show of joy before slamming her sea-lion chest back into my leg and hugging me tight. Then she backs off with a few hops and lifts her right flipper to signal yes, that she’ll ask her parents about the kiccaws. They’ll probably say yes, since Carter and his ilk are real respectful of animals and whatnot, but I wouldn’t want to presume, so I tell Elodie I’ll drop by sometime during the week maybe to see if everything’s a-ok. Truth is, I was kinda hoping Carter and his people would move up into the quay with me, since it’s an upgrade all around, but seeing how it’s the main port for goods flowing back and forth between New Hope, Riverrun, and Irongate, as well as most everything coming out of Rimepeak, the quay is far too busy for Carter’s tastes.

  Same goes for Clayton and his people, as they happy with the homesteads they’ve carved out for themselves, and while Gunnar was tempted by the offer, his people voted to stay where they were. They count a lot of Innates among their own, and don’t want to tempt fate with so many people coming in and out of the quay, since most folks tend to stare when they see a red-skinned, black-horned girlie or a giant barkskined tree-man. Me, I figure it’d be better for them all to live somewhere they’d be seen, so folks get used to seeing Innates going about, but ain’t my place to say what’s best for them.

  There are other reasons no one wants to live in the recently renamed Ming’s Quay, or at least no one I care to live with. The thought weighs heavy on my mind as I pull up along shore where I first met Kevin, who was all soaking wet after falling into the water while staring at a very naked Elodie. It’s a shallow pocket with a muddy shoreline that’s half frozen over, but I’ve made a few modifications and turned this area into my personal docking bay. Ain’t no dock, because if I built one, I’d have to hire a guard to keep all them commercial ships from using it in order to avoid paying the docking fees on the quay itself. Instead, I let my catamaran drift into the calm pocket of water and use Living Whip to lasso it to a bollard so it won’t float away. From there, I leave Cowie to watch the boat while I hop on over to shore after tossing my activated Floating Disc sleds over first. Own 6 now, 4 from the wagon, and 2 I done built myself over the last few months, and they all get fixed onto the boat hoist I done also built to get my catamaran out of the water. It’s far more complicated than it has to be, as I rigged up a moving ramp that slides out into the water and under the boat, so the Floating Disc sleds can work their magic and lift it on out with ease. From there, it’s just a matter of lashing the boat in, and working the winch to drag the whole thing up out of the water, Floating Disc sleds and all.

  Once that’s done, I bring Cowie and the kiccaws home to get settled in with Dumpling, Momo, and Samosa. The three cow gals are delighted to reunite with their feathered friends, but the horses are having too much fun out on the ranch to pay me or the birds any mind. With so much room on the ranch, I could easily bring Old Tux to live here too, but I couldn’t bring myself to separate him from Elodie after seeing how attached they’ve gotten. They’re the best of friends now, and he’s more active than ever, so keeping them together seemed like a great idea. Especially since Old Tux don’t bat an eye whenever one of them people turn into a horse and go running alongside him. My other horses get real spooked when they see it happen, and I can understand why, but Old Tux is made of sterner stuff and don’t let it faze him one bit.

  With the animals all settled in, I head on back to lock up the boat in the shed and take in the sights along the way. The quay here has been home for the last 4 and a half months or so, and will be for the foreseeable future, though it’s brought me more headaches than Luisa intended. Not her fault really, but while there was never any official, public confirmation of actual factual cultists living here at the quay, I did my due diligence and reported as much to the Marshal. Couldn’t leave him swinging in the breeze looking for a Proggie that ain’t here no more, nor could I keep word of a Deviant on the Frontier to myself. He wasn’t none too happy, and my ignorance of the fact that Luisa and Mr. Mueller were cultists don’t absolve me of the sin of letting slip that the Rangers were making ready to move on the Proggie way back when.

  Wasn’t like I told them outright either. All I said was something like, ‘It shouldn’t be much longer now,” while talking about when things would be back to normal. That’s all, but it was enough for Mr. Mueller to put two and two together, clever man that he is. The Marshal being the Marshal sees that as his failing, because he was the one who told me about the operation. If he hadn’t, then them cultists might never have made it down there in time to lure the Proggie away to be killed and eaten by flabby froggy Matías.

  Not to say I believe the evolved ranakin was harbouring the soul or spirit of Lusia’s dearly departed son or anything; It’s just easier to call him Matías because what else am I supposed to call him?

  Either way, even without official confirmation, plenty of mobsters saw the big white froggy crack open two boats and eat everyone on board, and not all of them went running back to Brightpick with Francis and Mikey. In fact, I’d say most ran off into the forest and didn’t make it back to civilization until I was in custody in New Hope, since it seems like there are dozens of first-hand accounts of what went down here. There’s also Mia Pugliano, who ain’t resurfaced since I lost her trail up north in Métis territory, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she pushed the narrative from the shadows of wherever she is, saying how the Firstborn worked with cultists to bring down the Mafia.

  You’d think folks would be split on which side to come down on, but it seems most would rather have mafiosos hanging around their towns and villages as opposed to cultists. That there is all sorts of backwards in my opinion, because almost everyone here on the Frontier been pressed by outlaws and criminals, while hardly anyone been directly affected by cultists. Even in the old world, cultists were more of a boogeyman than a real-world problem to most folks outside of South America, but despite being a non-issue for some 200 years, fear of the Nahuatl Cultists of Aberrations is still going strong in Americans, and ain’t none of them lining up to live in a former cultist village.

  Granted, I haven’t exactly opened up the doors to accept anyone and everyone who might want to live here. Fact is, I ain’t in no rush to sell off the properties I been entrusted with, mostly because I’m being picky about who my neighbours gonna be. That’s not the only reason though, as there are plenty of hurdles to overcome besides the association with cultists and my general distaste for company. Like the fact that the homesteads here have been built with the intent of co-operative living, in that most of the acreage is put to use as a shared ranch. Can’t easily convert it over to individual use, because the houses that done already been built are too close together to give each family a 500-acre square, meaning they’d all get a long, narrow strip instead. Hardly ideal for personal use, whether it be for farming, tanning, ranching, logging, or what have you, and splitting things up so the house ain’t connected to the rest of the homestead is just a nightmare of future land squabbles in the making.

  I considered bulldozing all the houses and starting over from scratch, but I kinda like the look of the houses all lined up along the cobbled path, as then they all got a good view of the lake from their front door. I know I’ve watched many a sunrise these past few weeks from various different porches and been blown away by the beauty and tranquility of it all, so I figure if I find the right people to move in, then we can make this shared land situation work out.

  Not that I’ve been trying very hard. I don’t much care for having neighbours, and since land taxes are based on the homestead’s income and Mr. Mueller left papers showing they didn’t earn a single red cent all year, I don’t owe the Feds nothing for the quay itself, just my own personal taxes which I can easily lie about. Gotta declare what I earn from trading Cores, hides, mead, and what have you, but ain’t no one counting how much Aberrtin I collect, not unless I start selling it. What’s more, anything spent on improving the village can be claimed as expenses, meaning the boat hoist I done built, the many security cameras I put up, the Wards I done laid, and most my other recent expenses all goes towards lowering my own personal taxes, to the point where it looks like I’ll be getting a hefty rebate next year.

  All in all, it’s a pretty sweet deal being the sole trustee of a whole village. One that’s pretty busy despite me being the only person who lives here, as there’s always plenty of traffic at the quay itself. Time was, Mr. Mueller and everyone else benefitted by collecting the docking fees and selling crates, barrels, food, and whatnot to the passing sailors and caravanners, but while I was in jail, the Feds sent someone to take over as dockmaster meaning I don’t benefit from all the traffic. No skin off my nose though, because it saves me the headache of having to sit there and make note of what boats and wagons are coming and going each and every day. Even the weekend, as there are a backlog of ships waiting to load or unload as sailors and coolies stand around in the cold while waiting their turn at the quay.

  Time was, they’d take a load off and wait inside Luisa’s pub and restaurant, but the Feds done tore the place down and the Catholic Church sent someone to sanctify the land after they discovered it was once the Sanctum of a High Priestess of the Nahuatl Faith. That was the exact reasoning given to me, though I ain’t entirely clear on what a Sanctum is. Something about a place of Aetheric power, one made significant through Rituals and blood sacrifices, which is why the Priest they sent looked like he wanted to burn down the rest of the village too. Personally, I think the quay itself was also a Sanctum of some sorts, seeing how that’s where their morning Rituals took place, but I’m guessing the Feds didn’t want to deal with the cost or delay of rebuilding a quay in such a high traffic area.

  Truth is, I’ve been inundated with lawsuits by the Feds as they’d love nothing more than to kick me out and take ownership of the lands, just like Mr. Mueller warned me they would. All the paperwork is rock solid though, and since they haven’t put out arrest orders for any of the former villagers, the Feds can’t legally invalidate the transfer of property. Aside from making Mr. Tillman rich by paying most my legal fees, the lawsuits ain’t doing much of anything at all, though they’re still annoying to have to deal with.

  There’s a lot of work that goes into maintaining a village too, especially when there are so many disgruntled workers lined up by the quay with nowhere to take shelter from the cold. Most know better than to trespass and head over to the houses, because I done shot three men in the last 4 months for doing just that, but the fact that there are so many houses sitting empty while all them workers are stood outside in the cold ain’t doing nothing to endear me to the masses. Me, I pay no mind to the hushed whispers and dirty looks thrown my way as I go about my day, servicing my boat, checking the buildings, tending my animals, and just generally keeping myself busy so I don’t crash out over the breakup. Ain’t easy, but I manage well enough for a few hours until the end of day rolls about. Helps to know I’m bringing Aunty Ray and Chrissy out to the mesa too, because instead of agonizing over everything I’ve ever said or done with Noora, I’m occupied with thoughts on how to keep my family safe out in the badlands proper.

  Plans which get interrupted shortly before dinnertime, though I’m still toiling away in Mr. Mueller’s workshop with no idea of what I’m gonna eat. I been living in the man’s house more often than not since it’s got a good view of the quay from the bedroom, so moving my gear into his workshop seemed like a no brainer. The knock on the workshop door catches me mid Etch, and rather than put my wand down to answer it, I keep on with my work and hope whoever it is just gives up soon enough. No such luck however, because a few minutes of intermittent knocking later, the visitor knocks one more time and my patience comes to an end. Placing my Etching wand down with a thunk, I stomp on over to the door and yell, “State your name and purpose before I shoot you dead.”

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  What can I say? It’s been a shitty day. Granted, that’s how I been answering the door pretty much all the time recently, because even here in the safety and comfort of the workshop, I go around strapped with no less than 6 guns on my person at all times and at least one rifle within easy reach. Today, it’s the Whumper, which I got sitting in an umbrella stand close to the door, but rather than Conjure up my Wildshaped Hand, I draw my Model 10 and cock it for good measure. Which is audible through the front door, and a distraction from the hum of the Video camera I got set up outside as it powers up to show me both the workshop door and the front door into the Mueller’s house on the crystal screen I installed behind a panel on the wall. Cost me a pretty penny buying so very many screens to hook up all around the quay, and this tiny one by the front of the workshop was one of the most expensive ones yet.

  Turns out getting a good resolution on a tiny screen is more expensive than having that same resolution on a bigger screen, for reasons I don’t really understand. Well worth the cost though, because the screen shows a tidy man with a trimmed beard in neat business attire and a briefcase in hand standing alone outside the workshop door. “Mr. Zhu,” the man says, his muffled voice coming through the door loud and clear as he holds his arms out to either side to show he ain’t got a gun in hand. “My name is Levi Adelmann, of the Adelmann, Eisenhardt, and Hornstein Corporation. If I could have a moment of your time to discuss a business matter regarding the development of your fine village here?”

  “You didn’t read the sign by the docks?” I ask, resisting the urge to switch over to the Naga and put a Bolt through the door. Not to kill, just to scare, but that’d be a waste of the Ability, not to mention the spent brass and the damage to the door to boot. “The one that says trespassers will be shot, and solicitors shot twice?”

  Credit where it’s due, the man don’t flinch, just doubles down and speaks calm and casual as can be. “Yes, I did, and I apologize for disturbing you on this fine Saturday evening, but alas, needs must. All of our previous correspondence by mail went unanswered, so I made the trip here from Silver Summit in hopes of speaking to you in person about a lucrative business opportunity that would net us both a substantial profit with little to no investment on your part. All I ask is for a few minutes of your time good sir, and perhaps a mug of hot tea if you could spare it. Something to ward off the evening chill as it were.”

  By now, I’ve cycled through all the other cameras in the village and haven’t seen any gunmen lying in wait to ambush me, so I ask, “You armed?”

  He ain’t, and patiently goes through the whole rigamarole as I get him to open up his coat and do a full turn so I can check him on camera. Once I’m fairly certain he don’t got a gun, I unlock the door, step back, and tell him to open it up, stick both hands through, then come in slowly. Which again, he does, holding his briefcase in his teeth as we come face to face and looking not at all put off by it. That I can appreciate, so I after informing him our interaction will be recorded, I give him a quick frisk and check his briefcase to make sure there no gun concealed inside or built into the frame. From there, I gesture for him to follow me up to the big house, where I invite him in and put the kettle on in the kitchen.

  An Aetheric kettle that really feels wasteful to use, but you can’t argue against the convenience of being able to bring water to a boil in minutes. Sure beats using the wood-fired oven I brung over to replace the Aetheric one I gifted to Aunty Ray, only to quickly replace it with another Aetheric stovetop I done pulled out of the neighbour’s house. Sure, it’s expensive in terms of power usage and kinda wasteful, but being able to just turn a dial and get the proper heat within minutes is just too handy to say no to, or set a temperature and timer and leave it be, instead of having to stick around to make sure it don’t burn the house down.

  All these modern conveniences are making me soft, but the way I see it, time saved on things like cleaning, cooking, or whatnot is time better spent doing something practical.

  I don’t jump right into business, nor does Levi seem all that rushed, which is good because I like to get the measure of a man before discussing any sort of deal or partnership. If the name wasn’t enough to give it away, the yarmulke tells me Levi is a practicing Jew, as the colourfully knitted skullcap is a symbol of reverence and humility before God. That’s about all I know about Judaism, aside from the broad strokes. Don’t know how their God differs from the God Catholics, Christians, and Muslims worship, since far as I can tell they all got the same roots, nor do I really care if I’m being honest. For me, one religion is no different from the next, because so long as there’s no expectations for me to follow their rules outside of their home or place of worship, then I couldn’t care less who you pray to. Even the Nahuatl Faith don’t seem all that different if I’m being honest, because Luisa and the rest have done right by me, and since they say they ain’t killed no one who didn’t deserve it, I don’t see why I should get all twisted over their human sacrifices.

  The Abby worship, that’s a bit much, and rearing a full-on Deviant is downright horrific, but only because of the implications regarding what would happen if they ever lost control of them Abby or Matías. That’s where I draw the line, when personal practices might prove dangerous to others around them. Otherwise, I say live and let live, because all religion sounds made up to me anyways.

  Oddly enough, the issue don’t come up when I offer Levi milk to go with his tea and butter cookies along side it. Man don’t ask if it’s kosher, just digs right in with a smile, which makes me suspect he ain’t the most pious Jew around. Then again, I could’ve guessed as much seeing how today is Saturday, given how that’s their Sabbath and he’s here to talk business in violation of it. Either way, my conscience is clear because the milk comes from Momo, who gave birth to a healthy calf last February. Since my animals ain’t for slaughtering and are treated like family, they should fit the bill as kosher, so I don’t make a fuss about it.

  Should start thinking about what I’m gonna do with Samosa’s calf though, as she’s looking ready to give birth in two or three months. Seeing how my relationship with the Rangers ain’t exactly friendly no more, there’s no reason to keep providing them with Magical cattle at no real profit when I could sell them off to the Pathfinders or Chevaliers instead. Could also raise them myself, but Cowie eats more than all four horses combined, so a whole herd of his kin would soon eat me out of house and home, even if I got 37 of them.

  An issue for another day, as I fix my attention on Levi in front of me. We chit chat about nothing while he gets settled in, mostly about the long, 13-hour ride down from Silver Summit which is another town up on Mount Rimepeak, one that’s fast becoming more prosperous than Brightpick now that the Pugliano Family ain’t calling the shots no more. Once I’ve shown Levi that I’m anti-social, but not rude, as the latter would reflect poorly on my upbringing and therefore Aunty Ray, I finally get to the meat and potates of the matter. “So lemme guess,” I begin, sitting across the table from Levi who straightens up as soon as he hears I’m ready to talk. “Your business opportunity got something to do with feedin’ and housin’ all them dockworkers settin’ camp outside the village limits.”

  “Indeed it is,” Levi replies, flashing a smile that is friendly yet feels utterly insincere as he hands over a business card with three names on it and an address up in Silver Summit. I pocket the card while trying to get a read of the man. His smile ain’t ugly or nothing, but the insincerity has to do with how quickly he goes from neutral to smiling, from one to the next in the blink of an eye, and I understand why big smiles never worked for me neither. I probably did the same thing, and it’s unnerving at the very least, while hardly convincing to boot. “From Rimepeak alone,” he begins, launching into his pitch while pulling papers out of his briefcase, “This quay sees upwards of two-hundred visitors a day. Mostly teamsters hauling cargo, meaning they must spend the night here and unload their goods in the morning. That is two hundred potential customers with decent wages and no place to spend them while they’re here, because there is no inn, pub, restaurant, or any other such establishments to service their needs.”

  “Uh huh,” I say, cutting in before he can drown me in papers full of charts, statistics, and profit calculations. “There’s reason there ain’t no establishments though. Ain’t no one to work them, and I need settlers to help manage the properties already here before I can take on others lookin’ to open up businesses of their own.”

  “The issue of a workforce is no issue,” Levi begins, beaming brightly to hear that’s my first complaint. “Or at least one that is easily solved. We could simply hire for rotational work, bringing employees in to work for a season or two before heading home to rest. We would have to pay higher wages, but with so many caravans coming and going each day, the danger and expenses of frequent travel would be minimal at best.”

  “No,” I say with a shake of my head. “If anyone’s gonna be sleeping within fifty feet of my bedroom, I want to know who they are or have someone I trust watching them.”

  For reasons that ought to be obvious, and Levi picks up on it right quick. “We could section the business off from your residence,” he says. “That would prevent employees and clientele from disturbing you in your home.”

  “Rules and laws ain’t ever stopped no thieves or murderers,” I retort. “All it does it outline the punishments, which I gotta dole out myself, and I’m getting real tired of all the paperwork that comes with gunning folks down.”

  My casual declaration stops Levi in his tracks as he grapples with the harsh truth in the statement, one that leaves him gulping like a fish before reaching for his mug of tea. When he got his bearings again, he says, “Well then, what if we were to help you with your other issue, that of selling the land you’ve acquired of late?” Pulling out another business card, he hands it over and explains, “Our company has ties to a Federally licensed bank, the Leventhal Mercantile Bank, perhaps you’ve heard of it? They would be more than happy to vet prospective clients and arrange mortgages to help them purchase their future homes.”

  Since he’s here and offering advice for free, I figure I might as well pick his brain on the subject. After explaining the difficulties regarding the layout and co-operative elements of the village in brief, I ask, “So you see the problem? I’m not just looking for neighbours. I’m looking for business partners pretty much, since whatever we use all this land for has gotta be a collective effort.”

  “Then why not sell the houses as is and keep the rest of the homestead in the trust?” Levi asks, which sounds all sorts of simple, but wasn’t something I thought possible. Seeing my confusion, he explains, “So long as there are no stipulations in the terms of your trust regarding the sale of these lands, you should be free to portion and sell them off in whatever manner you so desire, as you are the sole trustee and can therefore divide up each homestead as you like. Not everyone is looking to move out into the sticks to become a farmer or rancher after all, as that entails far more work than running a bar or restaurant would.” Lighting up, he adds, “In fact, if you’re willing to do just that, you could solve both problems at once, allowing your future neighbours to open establishments within your village, ones you would then have partial ownership of.”

  Getting more than a little carried away, Levi starts running the numbers and showing how much I could sell the houses for and how much I’d stand to make, which is all a bit much if I’m being honest. I never wanted to be no landlord or whatever, and just imagining all the minutia I’d have to deal with in the day to day is enough to give me a headache. Say what you will, Levi gives a good pitch, but I don’t think he understands how scared most folks are of living somewhere without walls, especially with the Watershed coming in the next year or three. Maybe more, but could be less, as it could happen tomorrow and we wouldn’t know it until it did.

  Takes a good half-hour or so before Levi runs out of things to say, at which point I reply, “I’ll think about it.” Which is as good an answer as he’ll get, and he smart enough to know it, and smarter still not to push for a hot meal and warm bed here in one of the houses. He’s heard the stories and knows how quick on the trigger I can be, but not without reason, so he leaves me with some papers and thanks me for the tea and cookies. Since it’s time for me to do my patrols, I walk him out with a mind to escort him all the way over to the outskirts of the village, some 100 plus meters away from where I done dug out the foundation for what was supposed to be a warehouse but has since become my personal homestead, my little slice of the Frontier as it were.

  Unfortunately, I’m barely 10 steps out the Mueller’s front door before I notice an issue that needs fixing, and I bid Levi a goodnight. He don’t keep walking, just stops in his tracks as I head on down to the docks while spinning my Model 10 on one finger to confront the sailors pulling in. Hardly polite, but I find that manners don’t help much when dealing with fools who think they above the rules, like the 8 sailors on this small cargo hauler making ready to dock even though it’s well past 1900 when things close up for the night. “Gentleman,” I shout, stopping at the end of the quay and taking cover behind a concrete barricade I had installed for this very purpose. “Docks are closed for the night, so turn around and head on back from whence you came.”

  The sailors turn to look at one another and pick out a spokesperson, who soon shouts back, “We got a rush delivery. Last minute. We’ll lose our jobs if we don’t deliver, so quit bustin’ our balls, will ya? Help us out here.”

  “Help yourselves,” I reply, keeping calm and cold as can be. “Unhitch your boat and get gone from my sight. You step one foot onto those docks or wear out your welcome, and I’ll shoot you dead for trespass.” Giving them a moment to let it all sink in, I add, “Can always find another job friend, but I only heard of one man who come back from the dead, and you ain’t him.”

  Rather than get gone, the sailors all stop to talk things out, which is how I know they up to no good. No sailor or teamster is willing to risk their neck delivering no rush shipment, especially since there ain’t no rider with multiple horses waiting to receive it. Don’t take more than three seconds to lose my patience, as I raise my Model 10 and give them a warning shot, a booming retort that sends a spray of water splashing up at the front of their boat. “Next one draws blood,” I call, mildly annoyed by the audience and the fact that I don’t got Fireball prepped. Got no patience for killing them all 1 by 1, especially since I only got 5 bullets left in my Model 10 and 6 in the Rattlesnake. They ain’t far, but 11 shots for 8 targets ain’t ideal. Sure I got a pair of Nagas too, but they’re really more for show since I can’t shoot them all that well with my left hand. Not with any accuracy at least, because the recoil on both guns is too strong for me to mitigate one-handed, unless it’s with my magically strengthened Wildshaped Hand, or a modified Mage Hand upcasted to Third Order and held together with Concentration to keep it from unravelling apart with every pull of the trigger.

  Both of which I’m trying to keep under wraps, playing my cards close to the vest as it were. Always good to have an ace up your sleeve, but if things get sticky, I might have to reveal one here tonight.

  Probably the Mage Hands, because the accuracy on them is still iffy at best, and therefore less threatening. Doesn’t stop me from burning the Aether to upcast a Third Order Mage Hands while the sailors take cover behind crates and argue amongst themselves. “Per – Auxilium – Manus,” I intone, while flicking the phantom fingers of my right hand a come-hither motion. My upcasted Mage Hands are still blue and spectral as always, but a touch more solid in appearance. It’s subtle, but no one ever said Magic was fair and you gotta differentiate a regular, Cantrip Mage Hand from a Third Order one.

  That said, upcasting don’t do much for the Spell, not objectively at least. In terms of carry weight, they’re limited to 20lbs a hand up from 5lbs for the Cantrip, and they gain a bit of extra range too, able to stretch a whopping 12m away from my sternum. That’s double the Cantrip’s range of 6m, which seems great, but when you break it down, you see that every time the Spell moves up in Order, it gains 10lbs of carrying capacity split between two hands, and 2m of extra distance.

  Which ain’t much considering these upcasted Mage Hands cost as much as a Fireball. Fact is, it’d be a total a total waste of a Third Order Spell if I used the Mage Hands for anything besides shooting guns. Can’t even poke someone’s eye out from a distance, because while they’re fairly fast and responsive when close to my body, the Mage Hands slow down the further they get from me. Once past their original maximum range of 6m, they move at their base Cantrip speed, which is so slow that using them to eat was a trial of patience. Still, they can pull the trigger on a Judge and not unravel apart so long as I’m Concentrating while I do it, which is an advantage I’m happy to have. Don’t got much use for Concentration anyways, though I still maintain that a Third Order Mage Hand is nowhere near as useful as a Fireball.

  Thankfully, the Spell Structure still counts as a Cantrip, meaning it don’t take up the precious real estate reserved for First Order or higher Spells. Would have to really think about if I wanted to keep it if that wasn’t the case, so it has it’s uses. Just as I finish casting, the sailor spokesperson draws a gun from his waistband and shouts, “Now listen here punk! We’re working fo – ”

  “Don’t care,” I retort, already shooting as I do, hitting the speaker with my first Bolt and killing a second before the rest return fire. From behind cover on a boat, which is bobbing in the water and spoiling their aim while I’m stood up on dry land, giving me stable footing, more solid cover, and an elevated position to boot. Only 3 more bullets before I gotta reload though, and one sailor is even smart enough to count them. Pops his head right up after I’ve shot six, before I got a chance to switch my Model 10 for the Rattlesnake, but not before my Mage Hands had time enough to bring both Judges to float a few metres away from the boat. Rather than risk letting any of them surrender and really ruining my night with another trip back into town to deliver prisoners, I open up with both Blastguns for a booming retort. Soon as my Mage Hands pull the triggers, the nose of both oversized revolvers jump straight up into the air as those Conjured spectral hands ride the recoil back, and my mind goes taut with the effort of maintaining the Spell. Then I bring the Mage Hand back down and I pull the trigger again, just in case any of those shredded bodies on the ship are still drawing breath.

  A third shot seems a touch overkill, but I love shooting my guns, so I have at it all the same before bringing my Mage Hands back in. Only to drop the Judges off for reloading mind you, which I need help with since I still only got the one real hand. Safe behind the concrete barricade, I turn to glance at my audience and find Levi taking cover behind a hedge while watching with mouth agape. Knew he wasn’t carrying, but he could’ve snuck up behind me all the same, so I gave him a chance to make a move. Not that I expected him to, but least now I know he ain’t out to get me.

  And if he was? Well, my ever-reliable partner Cowie is there to watch my back, having come running at the sound of gunfire to see what’s what. Can see his white curly cues poking out as he takes cover next to a house, looking all cute and serious in his baby form. A necessity since the ranch fence is too high to jump over but all too easy to slip through. Only takes him a thought to go full-sized and really ruin someone’s day though, like he’d do to Levi if the man were to make a move against me.

  Cowie done earned him a treat he did, but there’s still work to be done yet. Waving him over, I reload the Judges with help from a Mage Hand, while the other one floats on over to grab the ship’s dock line off the mooring post and bring it around to the side so Cowie can go big and drag it up onto shore. Scuttles the boat in the process by scraping its hull across the rocks, but I’m pretty sure 6 Penetrating Blasts from almost point-blank range put enough holes into the bottom to sink it all the same.

  “You should head on out,” I say to Levi, once I’ve got the boat beached and am 100% sure everyone on board is dead. “I’d offer you a room and a hot meal, but as you can see, I got a problem with outlaws and killers comin’ right up to my doorstep. Hence why folks ain’t knocking on my door looking to buy into the land here.”

  Rather than run off with soiled trousers, Levi stands up, straightens his jacket, and clears his throat before making an approach. A cautious one, as I still got my guns out to reload them while Cowie looms protectively nearby, but I wave my partner off and give Levi a quizzical look. Running a hand over his yarmulke and then through his beard to make sure they both still there, he approaches just close enough to make conversation without yelling. “Does this…” he begins, then gestures at the bloody aftermath of the beached boat without actually looking at it, “Happen often?”

  “Not so often I can’t handle it,” I reply, which is God’s honest truth. Only had to shoot 3 trespassers, but these 8 make 25 dead would-be smugglers in 4 attacks over the last 4 and a half months, and Lord knows how many boats I done turned away at the docks. “All sorts of criminal outfits have been looking to muscle into Rimepeak lately, and this quay my daddy built here is the quickest way to get guns and muscle up the mountain if you comin’ from downriver. With Federal agents doin’ daily inspections, them criminals can’t be smugglin’ in broad daylight no more, so they keep tryin’ to come in after the docks close for the day.” Shrugging, I point over at the intercom I installed on the quay and add, “Had to put in a squawk box just to yell at idiots in the middle of the night without getting out of bed, so at least these fools had the decency to come in early.”

  It ain’t only been smugglers either. There were two groups of actual hitters who were either upset I’m getting in the way of their business or looking to make their name by killing the fabled Firstborn. Or rather, the Yellow Devil now, which is seeing more public use in the months since the Puglianos went the way of the dodo. That’s why I won’t let Aunty Ray, Chrissy, and Tina come visit, while Noora was an exception because she wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Not that I tried all that hard to turn her away. Was glad for the company even, though I wasn’t all that pleasant to be around. Never asked her to come over either, or tell her how much she meant to me, so of course she’d leave. No sense sticking around for a sad sap like me.

  Since Levi seems right shook about all this, I leave him be to go a rummaging through the bodies and crates to see if they got anything worth keeping. There’s no law against it. I done the bloody work, so I get first claim of their gear. Unless it’s stolen, at which point I’d be obligated to turn it in, but that’s why I stop the recording before cracking open the crates. Can’t know if something’s stolen if no one tells me, but all I find are garbage rifles and trash semi-automatics same as what the sailors were using, as well as a couple bucks a body and a few wedding bands that ain’t worth shit.

  What a shame. And here I was hoping for a nice full-auto semi-automatic submachine gun, or even a proper rifle to replace the Ogre’s Bane I scrapped after throwing down with the Puglianos. Kept the Burst Bolt Core and gave it back to Clayton, so I imagine he got himself a new modified rifle by now. As for these pieces of junk, they’re destined for the evidence room or scrap heap, but that’s Sheriff Patel’s problem now, soon as I move them onto my boat and bring it all in tomorrow for a fun filled morning of paperwork and paying Mr. Tillman for his time.

  “If I may be so bold to ask,” Levi begins, interrupting my inner grumbling after moving close enough to see what I’m doing while Cowie watches him. “What happens next?”

  “I ship this all back to New Hope and let the Sheriff know what happened,” I reply. There’s no sag of visible relief from Levi, which means he ain’t asking because he’s worried I’ll silence him, so I got no real idea why he’s interested. Can’t hurt to ask though. “Why you wanna know?”

  “If we are to do business together, it would be best to go into with both eyes open,” Levi replies, flashing a nervous smile. “I am curious though. The Accords clearly state you are permitted to claim their belongings as spoils of battle, so is there another reason you intend to hand this… rightfully earned windfall over to the Sheriff?”

  Ah. I see his angle now. He stuck around because he smelled a possible profit, and is hoping for a piece of the pie. He’s right about my claim to the goods, as that’s what them fools on the Highway was counting on when they tried to bait me, Errol, and Sarah Jay into a fight. So long as one of us drew first, then they could legally claim my gear, my wagon, and everything in it, but they done bit off far more than they could chew. Same as these fellas, but now Levi got eyes for the booty I done just plundered off the dead.

  So I explain to him the bit about stolen goods, which he shrugs off as a non-reason, so I give him the real one. “I wouldn’t use these mass-manufactured knockoffs as a paperweight, much less my every day carry,” I say, resisting the urge to get into the specifics of why they’re terrible. “What’s more, they’re probably stolen or illegally manufactured to boot, and whoever’s behind these fools is gonna want them back.”

  Meaning Levi would be in danger if I were to partner up with him to sell them, which is what he’s angling for. He gets the message, but he’s hungry for the profit, which I think is more trouble than it’s worth. These handguns go for 20$ retail, and the rifles maybe twice that but since any law-abiding citizen can walk into a reputable gun store and buy a legitimately manufactured version with a quality guarantee for that price, who’d pay that much for shoddy second-hand goods from some schmuck selling them out the back of his wagon?

  That’s how I see things, but apparently Levi thinks different. At the very least, he ain’t concerned about the trouble it’d bring or the minor profits involved. Goes to show how skewed my view of money is, because while I don’t see much point in saving 10$ on a janky second-hand handgun, that’s 3 day’s salary for your average labourer. In contrast, I spent about 3 years of the average salary gearing up for Pleasant Dunes, and while the guns, armour, and other gear still retain most of their value, that’s a whole lot of cash tied up in assets.

  Hence why Levi is so gung-ho about striking a deal to sell these rifles and handguns on consignment. Since it don’t cost me nothing, and I done warned him about the troubles it might bring, I figure I might as well give him a shot. Who knows? It might well solve my cash flow issue, in that I ain’t poor, but I got no cash to spend. Happens every year since I make most my cash in the Spring doing a trade run up north, while the rest of the year’s earnings are typically in Cores and Aberrtin. Between all my expenses and getting screwed on prices in New Hope, this year is looking learner than most, but if Levi pulls through, then I could be looking at a long and profitable partnership selling… less than legitimate goods.

  With that in mind, I hand over the lion’s share of what I find in the crates, including a whole bunch of ammo and packed magazines to boot. The sailors’ weapons stay behind, and I leave enough weapons to more or less fill the crates since the Sheriff gonna see them on the recording anyways. Levi don’t care about the possible troubles though, as he’s seeing dollar signs and wants to head back inside to draw up a proper contract right quick, but I wave him off because it’s late and I still got a lot of work to do, hauling bodies and scrapping boats and whatnot. “You pay me whatever you think is fair,” I say, which throws him for a loop. “I trust you.”

  Flashing a smile that ain’t much of a smile, I pull out his business card. “And if it turns out I can’t,” I add, looking Levi dead in the eyes while holding up the card that’s got his business address in Silver Summit, “Well, I know exactly where to find you, don’t I?”

  A bit extra, threatening him like that, but my daddy always said, ‘Trust, but verify’. I learned the hard way that it’s best to heed his advice. In all things mind you, and since he never cared much for his rep either, I done said my goodbyes to the Firstborn and embraced the Yellow Devil instead. That’s who them dead sailors dealt with, and that’s who Levi’s gonna be partnering up with, so like the man said, best he come into this with both eyes open.

  If not? Well, he knows what’ll happen, and he won’t have no one to blame but himself.