Sam

  Sam's need for haste clashed with her fear of heights as she crept through the treetop town, hanging onto railings and ignoring the vaguely mocking looks of the locals who strode past her.

  Her mind lingered on the long drop beneath her feet, the fact that there were only a few thin wooden planks separating her and that vast expanse of open air at any given moment. She wanted nothing more than to hurry back to the clinic and throw herself into bed with a blanket over her head and pretend that she wasn't in this place, that the last few days were just a bad dream.

  But that was not an option.

  Will needs me to come through. After everything he's sacrificed for me, I can't let him down.

  It was already day seven, and afternoon from what she could see of the sky through the thick green canopy. No time to waste if she wanted to make that fourteen-day deadline.

  The platforms built off of the giant tree trunks held most of Talltop's buildings, which were squat and clustered together like fairy rings. Terraced rooftop farms grew sad produce that did not need so much sun. More daring lifers swung between platforms on suspended ropes rather than use the rope bridges. Just looking at them made Sam's stomach churn.

  Telling herself that she was being brave with every other step, Sam made a laborious expedition into the heart of the town. She figured she'd find a tavern or an inn or an alehouse and ask around for Bushy, the first name on Vivi's list and the one that had been identified as the best candidate. She tried asking a few passersby for information on the man or where she might find someone who knew, but no one looked particularly keen on talking to her, regarding her with open suspicion before hurrying along.

  She noticed that everyone in Talltop wore at least one weapon on full display. Many of them were a higher level than she was used to as well, with most around the seven or eight range and a fair few above ten.

  Near the center of town, an even larger tree than the other colossi towered above the rest, only a few buildings taking up the wide platform that extended from the rough-barked trunk. Humans hung from its boughs by deformed necks, dangling there like awful holiday decorations. They were suspended above the empty void separating the big central platform from the next one over—maybe ten in all, and in various stages of decomposition. Even from about twenty feet off, she could certainly smell them. She'd never get used to the smell of corpses.

  The bodies wore signs around their necks detailing their crimes. Her gaze slid over the names. She quickly made to move on, going for…

  Oh.

  Luc 'Bushy' Blanchard. Banditry.

  Well, shit.

  Luckily, she still had two more names on her list. Schultz, and… Vadim. At least one of them had to be around and amenable to help.

  A nearby tavern beckoned her over with its lurid signage. Simply named 'The Hole', she figured it was the kind of place where a person might find some leads on a morally questionable bandit guide. Entering through a low door, she found the interior cramped, dark, and smelling of sweat and smoke.

  "No, you are done," the owner was telling a shapely woman slumped over the bar.

  "Oh, come on…" the woman muttered, drunkenly slurring her words, most of her silhouette hidden behind a messy mane of black hair shot through with white streaks. "You know me. We're friends, aren't we? You know I'm as good as my word."

  The owner, a big Cook in a sweat-stained shirt, crossed his arms over his chest as he peered at the top of the woman's downturned head. "I do know you, Mags, which is how I know your word's worth about as much as a passing fart. I'm done doing you favors. You don't pay, I'll need to have you thrown out."

  "Hey, uh, sorry for interrupting," Sam said as she approached the bar, warily eyeing the half-drunk patrons scattered among the handful of wobbly tables in the common room. "I'm actually looking for someone named Schultz, and I was wondering if you might point me in the right direction."

  The owner barely glanced her way. "You want small talk? Order something."

  Sam sighed, and pulled up on a stool next to the drunk woman. "Okay, fine. Do you have…" She hesitated, about to ask for juice or something, but she wasn't really looking forward to the back-and-forth that usually entailed. Instead, she nodded to the woman next to her. "Two of whatever she's having."

  That got the other woman perking up pretty quick, looking up from the pillow she'd made of her own heavy breasts against the bartop to blink bleary-eyed at Sam. "One of those for me?" she asked.

  "Sure," Sam replied with a shrug. She paid the owner what was probably an inflated price, and soon had two slopping tin mugs of what looked like beer served to her. She steered one toward the stranger, who began drinking it down in healthy gulps, while Sam merely stared into the murky, foamy surface of her own swill. "So, about this Schultz guy?" she said hopefully.

  "Yeah, he's dead," the owner said matter-of-factly, serving a shot of something strong to a patron coming up to the bar for a refill. "Got shot in the stomach about… two weeks ago. Cheated at cards."

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  "Fuck, really?"

  "Yup." He pointed a stubby finger at Sam, eyes narrowed knowingly. "Say, you're that crazy girl, aren't you? The one that almost got done in by a mycophant."

  "Girl?" Sam worked out, face going hot. Feeling the top of her head, she suddenly realized she wasn't wearing her hat, which made her even more flustered. "No, you see, it's— I'm…"

  "Relaaax," the owner said with a low chuckle, and continued at a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned in close: "Everyone already knows. You're supposed to be traveling in disguise, right?"

  "No, that's—"

  "Running from Brimstone or whatever? You don't need to worry about that here. He's got no power in Talltop."

  "Right…"

  "Your name is Samantha Darling, ain't it? C'mon, the doctor's already been telling people as much after he Identified you."

  Sam let out a long sigh. "Yes. Fine. Whatever." So much for her brilliant disguise. Maybe it was for the best. She'd been doing an increasingly shitty job at maintaining it anyway.

  "Darling?" the stranger asked, whole upper body swaying drunkenly as she turned to regard Sam more closely. "Huh. I thought you looked familiar…"

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked. "Have I met you before or something?"

  The stranger snorted out a chuckle and dove back into her mug. "Nah. Just reminded me of someone I used to know."

  "Don't bother with that one," the owner said with a disgusted sneer. "Mags is always spouting off nonsense, all this big talk like she used to be somebody."

  "I am somebody," Mags insisted.

  "If you were somebody, you wouldn't be in this shithole, mooching off other people's charity."

  Mags smacked her lips wetly. "That's… very true, sir. I must concede to your biting wit once again." The noisy slurping that followed suggested that she was not too upset by that fact.

  Sam reminded herself that she had a reason for being here. "Okay, Schultz isn't around," she said to the tavern owner, "but what about Vadim? An Explorer named Vadim?"

  "Oh, sure," the owner said. "He hangs out here all the time. Nice enough fellow."

  Sam, who had been preparing herself to hear that the man had suffered some untimely and inconvenient demise, felt her brows lift in surprise. "Really?" She looked around the place at the unassuming, shadowed faces. "Is he here right now?"

  "No no, he's still at work I think, so you'll need to check back in a while. Of course, you're welcome to do your waiting right here over a mug or two. Nothing like a stiff drink to get time running quicker."

  "And so it was written," Mags agreed, thumping her palm on the bar.

  "And so it was written!" echoed a few other patrons with a smattering of laughter and tin mugs clinking where folk sat close enough.

  Mags held up her mug toward Sam as a trickle slopped over the rim and ran down her knuckles, a seemingly endless amount of cleavage spilling out of her rumpled, half-laced tunic. Her eyes were half-lidded, face slack. "C'mon, little Darling," she said. "Clink me. Let's clink it up."

  Sam rubbed at her soft spot and frowned down at the untouched mug in front of her. She hadn't intended to drink any of it, of course, but it seemed she was going to be here a while anyway. After all she'd been through, she figured she could use something to take her mind off things…

  With a shrug, she picked up her mug and knocked it against the other woman's, then took a big gulp. It tasted like rotten grass going down and had her coughing, the stuff nearly shooting out of her nose, and soon folk were laughing at her as her face went steadily hotter.

  "Easy there, little Darling," Mags said with a chuckle, thumping Sam hard on the back. "This your first time drinking or what?"

  "Second, actually," Sam muttered into her mug, working her way up to a second mouthful to redeem herself. "Tasted so bad the first time I never went back to it." She let out an acidic burp and stifled the urge to be sick into her cup.

  "That is just the cutest thing ever," Mags said with the exaggerated enunciation of someone obviously drunk trying not to act it, "isn't it, Chief?"

  "That it is," said the owner, snapping a kitchen towel before throwing it over one shoulder. "You messing with us, Samantha Darling?"

  Sam shook her head.

  Mags threw a sweaty arm over the back of Sam's neck and dragged herself over until her head was resting on Sam's shoulder. "Well, don't you worry little Darling, I'll teach you everything there is to know about functional alcoholism."

  "Not that you'd know much about the 'functional' part," Chief muttered.

  "Hurtful," Mags said with a mock pout, her sour breath hot on Sam's cheek. "Now, you be a good girl and have your medicine, little Darling. The great thing about alcohol is, it tastes better the more you drink."

  "Doesn't it just," Chief agreed.

  "Go on now," Mags murmured, tapping encouragingly at the bottom of Sam's mug. "Bottoms up."

  Not wanting to disappoint, Sam took a deep breath and swept the rest of her beer in one go, giving a wet belch as she slammed the empty mug down with a hollow metal thunk.

  "There you go!" Mags leaned away and patted Sam's back as she gave a full, husky laugh. "Now, seeing a woman wet her throat might make another feel mighty thirsty. Just how generous are we feeling tonight, little Darling?"

  Sam fished a few bills out of her pocket without bothering to count and handed them to the owner. "Just keep my mug full," she muttered, then gave a sideways nod toward the dark-haired woman. "Hers, too."

  Chief counted out the money, laughing so his big belly bobbed up and down, and stuffed it away. "Sure thing, sweetheart. Looks like it's your lucky day, Mags."

  Mags eyed her mug being refilled from a barrel with rapacious hunger. "Every day is my lucky day, Chief," she said, great certainty in her voice.

  Sam drank with the dark-haired stranger, quickly losing track of how many mugs she'd knocked back. No matter how much she drank, she couldn't keep up with Mags, who drank it down like a fish, and at a perfectly steady pace. Wouldn't you know it, the beer did taste a little less shitty with each new mug. And wouldn't you know it, with each new mug, her problems all melted further into the back of her mind, something half-remembered and unimportant. It was nice.

  After a while, everything started to get a bit weird. She started sweating, and was hot all over, and her lips got numb. She remembered drinking, then talking with folk, then drinking, then gambling a bit, then drinking some more, then walking somewhere outside, then…

  Black.