Chapter 54: Tribute

I worked the list of names I got from the slaves methodically, one at a time. I hit the nearest settlement first. It was a small town of less than twenty called Osed, named for what remained on an old sign just outside an outdoor mall. I didn’t bother with subtlety on this one, just went straight up to the front gate where a bored woman stood with a rifle, not realizing I was there until I was at the gate.

She stood and pointed the rifle at me. “What do you want, edman?”

I looked her in the eye, and she trembled a bit. I hadn’t bothered covering my face, the goal was fear. I flashed my cogwheel marshall badge. “Jeremy. Where is he?”

The guard found some backbone and steadied herself. “In his house I ‘magine.”

“He’s wanted. Sold a deadman into slavery.”

The woman nodded. “Splains all the points he’s been throwing around. Also where that 'edman that lived down the way disappeared to.”

“Open the gate.”

The woman shook her head. “Ain’t no way I’m letting some filthy-”

I froze her, leapt up over the top of the gate, disarmed, and backhanded her. She rolled a few feet and I picked her up by the collar. “Which one’s Jeremy’s house?”

She was dazed, but managed to point at a building that read ‘TA TO’ with several missing letters. I dropped her and went straight for where she’d pointed. I drew my pistol and kicked open the door.

A confused man looked up from his bed, a syringe in his arm, likely Drift based on the size of his pupils. In spite of his state he managed to reach for a gun which he moved to point in my direction. I shot his arm before he could fire and he dropped his weapon, causing it to discharge, breaking what little remained of the glass in the front of his home. I moved to grab him by the arm I shot, and started dragging him into the middle of Osed, firing a few shots into the air to get everyone’s attention. A small crowd was gathered as I made my way to the center of their town, some armed, most just curious.

One of them lifted his gun to fire on me and I froze him, deviating my course to kick him firmly in the chest, winding him. I threw Jeremy in front of me. “I’m a Marshall. I’m here because this man sold a deadman into slavery.” I looked around at the townsfolk that had surrounded me. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him, and I won’t come back as long as it doesn’t happen again, and you keep any deadmen born to you alive and healthy until the Undertakers visit. Otherwise?” I drew my sword and took a step toward Jeremy. “This.” I cut off his head in one clean motion. Some looked at me in shock, others anger, all of them with a healthy amount of fear. I lifted his head and threw it into a sack that I’d set aside for this particular occasion. It was a postman bag that I managed to dig out of an old post office. I gave everyone one last look, pulled my hat down, and walked out of the town and on to the next one.

After that I began moving quickly down my list. Ginny Carts of Huma got a chest full of buckshot, Randy of Sulphur got thrown from the top of his watchtower, Flex of the Gator boys raiders and most of his encampment were killed in their sleep. There were a few more after that. Altogether it was a busy and satisfying month, by the end of which I had a full mailbag of rotting heads. I found myself enjoying the work immensely, losing myself in the tracking, and execution. I was in large part borrowing from Pott’s Field’s founder Hades Johnson. I was wrapping myself in mystique and using it as a tool to convey an important message to everyone within Horde Territory and likely many beyond it. I was working within the Khan’s own rules, of course, I knew my limits.

I made my way into Fette with a heavy sack full of heads and a wave of rumor ahead of me. I received a number of nods and acknowledgements from the warriors and engineers as I entered. I had not only the authority of the Khan himself, but I seemed to have earned respect from them at a personal level as well.

I headed directly for the Khan’s tent palace, and took a place in the queue behind a small delegation of people, each waiting to offer tribute. Fette and the Khan’s palace had changed since I’d been there last. I noticed a number of tattooed warriors now sporting heavy black furs, many of which looked almost like armor in the way they’d arrayed it on themselves. I also noticed a large amount of black lumber being worked into new buildings, work benches, and even a wall that was being built slowly around the city. It seemed that while the Khan was collecting tribute from the Rens, they were having an impact on the Horde as well.

After the group in front of me completed their tribute and started moving back toward the rest of the city in order to trade, I stepped forward. The Khan looked much like he had when I’d last seen him. This time the Khan was not eating, but working. There was a massive engine sitting on his dais, and he was kneeling next to it with a wrench, tightening some parts, loosening others, patches of grease across his face and hands. He, like his warriors, was wearing a fresh ursan fur cape, though he was bare chested aside from that. One of his wives, a tall broad-shouldered woman, was standing next to him, handing him tools occasionally, and addressing the various supplicants. I didn’t see any of his other wives with him.

The last time I’d stood where I was I’d been with the undertakers, and he made us wait as he took his time eating and sorting through other business. This time his wife gave him a gentle touch on the shoulder, whispering to him, and he stood from his work to look at me. He wiped his hands absently on the furred cape he wore. He looked me over, his eyes stopping on my uncovered face. He didn’t flinch. Instead he smiled, showing his own teeth in response.

“Marshall. Why have you come? You owe me no tribute.”

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I shook my head. “Any audience with you requires tribute.” I tossed the bag halfway between us, and several heads rolled out of the bag.

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“These heads belonged to men and women who sold people within your territory into slavery. I also slew the slaver caravan which they sold to, though I waited until they left your territory as they had already paid you tribute to travel safely.”

The Khan leapt from his raised platform and landed in front of the mailbag. He lifted one of the heads by the hair, glanced at it closely even as maggots fell from its neck, then dropped it back on top of the bag. “A worthy tribute. You request an audience?”

I nodded. “A private one.”

He leapt back onto his dais. “Granted. However, I will not be able to oblige until the sun falls. Quarters will be granted and food given until then.” He made a gesture at his wife and she nodded and climbed the set of stairs not five feet from the Khan which I’d never seen him use.

She gestured at me to follow her and I did so. I was led to a room much like the one I’d been in the first time I’d stayed in Fette. Simple, a cot, small table. I placed my pack down and found that the Khan’s wife was still there.

“The letters? Did you deliver them?”

I nodded.

“Did they… was anything written back?”

I shook my head.

She sighed. “Sara will be disappointed. Thank you, Donovan.” She turned to leave, but hesitated. “Be truthful.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, wondering if she was calling me out on the letters.

“Just some advice for when you meet the Khan. I can say no more.” She turned and left the room.

I stood there for a moment. ‘Be truthful’ was often bad advice, particularly in the wastes. Now, I already hadn’t intended to lie to the Khan, quite the opposite, but maybe that was the warning. Maybe he already had an idea of why I was here, and knew enough that if I didn’t admit to something he suspected, I would be in danger. It was a hard needle to thread, and I wasn’t exactly the best at politics and intrigue. I took my canteen from my bag and had a long sip. I really preferred difficult situations I could shoot my way out of to those I needed to talk through.

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