The Rifleman - Bk1 - Ch.52

Chapter Fifty-Two

The Assignment.

Wesley spent much of the following day working with Earnshaw’s people to develop their new crafting production line. The Mayor had set up quite the system overnight, with repair materials collected in a central location for conversion into upgrade cubes, mods, and reinforcements.

Naturally, there was still a fair amount of secrecy around the whole thing. The actual conversion was being done by a team of three, Earnshaw’s most trusted people. It should have been a fairly simple process—it would have been, except that no one trusted the information.

Arguments and wasted time mainly resulted from people insisting that they knew better than ‘whoever wrote this book.’

Firstly, they refused to accept that the numbers he had worked out for each material were correct. One insisted that it had to be about weight rather than numbers. Another was certain that any materials, not just repair materials, had to work. Who cared if the steel bar was a repair material from a drop or crafted by a smith?

Well, the system did.

Who cared if there were just half the number of cloth scraps but the same amount of material?

Well, the system did.

That was what it came down to every time. Initially, Wesley had been excited to see if they would come up with any new recipes, but after a few hours trapped in a room with three of the most prickly, stubborn individuals he had ever met, Wesley was more than willing to sneak out a window if that was what it took to get him away from them, he was even considering making his own window if that was what it took.

Luckily, that turned out not to be necessary.

Malia practically kicked the door in after almost seven hours with the trio, her face pure thunder.

“Wesley, let’s go,” she snapped, glowering at the others, daring them to speak.

“What’s wrong?” Wes asked, immediately worried about Joy.

“This farce is a joke,” Malia snapped. “He’s set up another group actually looking into the recipes.”

Wesley almost laughed.

Almost.

“Crafty bastard,” Wesley chuckled as soon as they were away from the three lackeys. “He wants to keep any new discoveries to himself.”

“Exactly,” Malia growled. “Those three idiots are just supposed to copy our recipes while a brother and sister team are working on finding new ones.”

“That sounds about right,” Wesley sighed. “Although you would think he would worry more about the Sundering, at least for now.”

“What do you mean?” Malia rounded on him. “Did you expect this?”

“Or something like it,” Wesley admitted. “Earnshaw’s nice enough, but he is a city leader at the end of the day. They tend to think round corners, trying anything that could give them a leg up over others.”

“Then why give him the recipes in the first place?” Malia asked hotly. 

“Because he will also be making as many upgrades as he can. One team to make what we already know about, and another to discover other options,” Wesley said. 

“So, what can we do about it?” Malia asked.

“Nothing,” Wesley admitted. “How others act isn’t on us. It’s on them. All we can control is how we act and who we are.”

The two of them hurried back to check on Joy, who Malia had left with the baker while she went to get Wesley. The whole thing had been busted by pies. The man’s pies were so good that the other team had come by to get some, and Malia had overheard their discussion.

While Wesley didn’t love the idea of Joy being alone, even for a minute, he could understand how Malia felt. If the situation had been reversed, he would have done the same. Still, he had a bad feeling that something was off about it all.

The whole situation, with the researchers coming to the pie shop and talking about their work, just felt a little contrived.

Sure, coincidences happened, but this one felt almost scripted to ensure that Malia overheard them. 

His suspicions were confirmed when they entered the baker’s shop through the back door, and Wesley heard Pru’s voice coming from the front. 

“Do you think they share the poor thing, or does he keep her all for himself?” Pru said loudly. “Squirrels love nuts, after all.” She laughed nastily. 

“I think you should leave now,” the baker’s voice carried more than a hint of anger.

“Come on,” Pru was clearly enjoying herself, “Don’t be shy, love. A girl has to make her way in the world somehow. It’s cute you pretend to be cook—”

Wesley was not proud of how quickly she paled when he stepped out of the back, but a small, vicious part of him was happy about the reaction.

“Pru, what a surprise,” Wesley said sarcastically. “I thought it would take you at least another hour before your self-control gave way.”

The red-haired priestess had a small gaggle of guards with her. Two thin, pale-looking young men and a trio of greasy-haired women. None of them were very old, and he was immediately reminded of her past love of corrupting young men and women. She seemed to rally when she saw them glowering at him.

“Come to protect your little toy?” Pru asked.

“Oh, dear,” Wesley feigned compassion, “Now, we talked out this before, Pru. Not every woman thinks that what is between their legs is their ONLY talent. Others tend to aim a little higher than that.” Okay, it was a shitty thing to say, but his blood was boiling, and it was true in her case.

“How dare you!” One of the interchangeable gaggle cried in outrage. “She is a Priestess!”

“Was,” Wesley corrected. “Was a Priestess. She’s a Fallen Priestess.”

“I’m guessing she didn’t so much fall as jump,” Malia said, stepping out behind Wesley.

Pru was scarlet with anger now, but he saw her do the social math, seeing the looks of anger from the other customers, the baker, and his family. It didn’t take a genius to see things had not gone her way, and so she smiled.

“Just a little joke,” she said with a sickly smile. “No offense intended.”

“Liar,” Malia said coldly.

Pru and her supporters were almost a block away when Wesley stepped out of a side street and into their path. It had only taken a brief few seconds of wisp form to get ahead of them, and he was done with messing around.

“What are you doing?” Pru asked, arching an eyebrow. “Chasing me down in public? Earnshaw won’t like that.”

Wes knew she had been trying to invoke a reaction, and he knew she wouldn't stop until she got one. 

“Not really my problem,” Wesley said with a smile. “I just thought we could save time, and do this now.”

“Do what?” Pru smiled widely, delighted to have gotten a reaction.

“We both know how this goes,” Wesley admitted. “You make bitchy little comments, harass me and my people into a reaction you can use.”

“Like coming after me in the street when I made a few ‘jokes’ about your new team?” Pru asked smugly. “Threatening me?”

“I haven’t threatened you,” Wesley pointed out.

“I think my friends would disagree,” Pru grinned as they all agreed eagerly.

“Well, I’d hate to make you even more of a liar than you already are, Pru,” Wesley said simply. “So let’s skip all of this bullshit, shall we?”

“What bullshit?” Pru asked sweetly. 

“All the little provocations, lies, and that,” Wesley replied. “Allow me to be very clear. I’m skipping right to the end of this farce.”

“The end?” Pru’s smile lost its sharpness.

“If you fuck with me or my people, I’ll kill you,” Wesley said honestly. “I’m not fucking around with all your games or letting you escalate things into some big confrontation. I’ll just kill you.” Wes shook his head. “I hate killing, and I always choose another option if I have one, but you are poison. Sparing you will just mean more people pulled in and more death and suffering. I really hoped you could change, could be something more, but if not?” He shrugged.

“You can’t be serious?” Pru frowned.

“Have I ever lied to you?” Wesley asked directly.

“No.” Pru’s face darkened. “Just killed my friends.”

“They didn’t give me a choice,” Wesley said, eyes meeting hers, “When given a choice, I prefer not to kill. Do I have a choice here, Pru?”

“Fine!” Pru spat, her hatred now fully on show. “I’ll leave you and your people alone.” Her eyes burned with hatred and pain. “Completely alone. If you need healing, or they do, I won’t help them. I’ll just laugh, Wes. Laugh.”

“That’s fine,” Wesley said with a shrug. “I’m used to looking after my own.”

Pru turned and stormed off, her group hurrying after her.

“Do you believe her?” Malia asked, stepping out of the alley. She must have caught up to him pretty quickly and been listening.

“She’ll leave us alone,” Wesley nodded. “At least for now.”

////////////////////

They both hurried back to the bakery. The nasty comments were bound to affect Joy. 

To both of their surprise, Joy was beaming with pride as she held out a large pie to the baker.

“Well?” The squirrel-kin asked. “How did I do?”

The baker took a deep sniff, then another. He passed a critical eye over the pastry and then tapped the pie in several places with a fork. He nodded for her to place it on the counter and carefully cut a perfect slice from it.

As he drew the slice out from the crust, the whole bakery filled with a complex aroma that immediately had Wesley drooling. It was a mix of savory and sweet, with hints of fruit mixed in amongst the thick, dark gravy and a heady, meaty smell.

The baker took a careful forkful, pointing out how the gravy didn’t drip through the fork's prongs, then popped it in his mouth and chewed carefully. 

Wesley could see Joy visibly sweating. She was so anxious and dancing from foot to foot as she awaited his final judgment.

“Yes, I think so.” He ushered forth his wife, who went through the whole tasting process again, pointing out the delicate balance of flavors, and then nodded to her husband. “Well, Cook Joy,” the baker said at last, “I have no doubt about it. A perfect pie. Well done.”

Joy squealed with happiness and did a little dance before hurriedly offering everyone else a slice. 

Wesley made an attempt to be first in line, but Malia beat him to it. 

The pie, once he actually got some, was just as the baker had described. 

Perfect. 

The meaty taste was something like a mix between pork and beef, with a spicy and fruity gravy absolutely stuffed with vegetables and fruit chunks. 

When they left the bakery a half hour later, the pie had been completely consumed, down to the last crumb. As for Joy? She was practically vibrating with excitement at all she had learned. 

It was only after three blocks of non-stop baking talk, that Malia gave in and just asked the question that was bothering both her and Wesley.

“Joy, did that woman and her friends upset you?” Malia was always direct, but this was almost tactful by her standards.

“Who?” Joy asked. “Oh, the red-haired one?”

“Yes,” Wesley confirmed. “That is Pru, one of the people I warned you might hassle us.”

“Oh, I suppose,” Joy wrinkled her nose a little. “But there are always nasty people, right?” 

“Right,” Wesley agreed. “Still, if she upset you, it is okay to tell us that.”

“I’m fine,” Joy smiled. “Thank you for checking on me, but I am sure she is very sorry about it.”

“I hope so,” Malia huffed. “But I doubt it.”

“I don’t,” Joy giggled. “I put so much ease-root in her order she may never get off the toilet again.”

Wesley and Malia both stopped dead in their tracks and looked at each other before bursting into laughter.

Never fuck with the people handling your food.   

They were in such a good mood when they returned to their temporary home that Peterson's pissed-off face made them laugh all the harder.

“It isn’t funny!” Peterson insisted. “You threatened to kill her. In public.”

“No, I didn’t,” Wesley corrected him. “I promised to kill her if she moved against me or my people. It’s very different.” 

“Also, we thought you were pissed off about something else,” Malia admitted. 

“She has also accused your cook of poisoning her food,” Peterson admitted. 

“It was entirely deserved,” Wesley insisted. “Besides, if it was poison, why didn’t she heal herself?”

“Uh,” Peterson hesitated. 

“No poison, no crime, right?” Malia asked archly. 

“She’s only an apprentice,” Wesley hedged. “Can’t be her fault if she made a mistake.”

“Too bad, dreadfully sorry, oh well,” Malia said with clear amusement.  

Peterson rubbed his forehead tiredly and then just threw his hands in the air, going inside without another word.

“I don’t think we are making a great impression,” Malia said somewhat sadly as they entered the common room, seeing Split lying on the couch, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. 

“Ease-root!” Peterson was doing his best to look pissed off, but the corners of his mouth kept creeping up. “Really?”

“She’ll be in there for hours!” Split cracked, opening laughing. 

“That’s….” Peterson coughed a few times. Excuse me,” he pushed past them. “I'm very upset at you all!” He hurried up the stairs, but they all heard him break into laughter before he even got to the top. 

All good things must come to an end, so it was no surprise to Wesley when two guards turned up less than an hour later, bearing a handwritten note from Earnshaw.

It seemed that things were a little more dire than any of them had known. Several groups had decided to get a jump start on the Sundering and were pushing in from the borders.

By far, the biggest problem was coming from a group of bandits that had entered from the south, where a small garrison from the city had been established.

“What’s with having people all the way down there?” Wesley asked Peterson.

“The Sundering is a numbers game. We sent groups to the north, south, and east to make sure there was someone claiming territory for the city out there. The more we control, the more we have left after all this is over.” Peterson explained. “They can control the area, then cede it back to the city afterward.”

“No one to the west?” Malia asked. 

“We ran out of people,” Peterson shrugged. “We still need people in the city, after all.”

“We heading south?” Split asked as she leaned forward.

“Not us,” Peterson shook his head. “Them.” He gestured to Wesley and his group.

“We had planned to stay here,” Wesley protested. “Help protect you all.”

“This is the best way to do that,” Peterson insisted. “The more trouble you can nip in the bud, the better.”

“In that case, why don’t we head out to the west after dealing with the bandits?” Malia offered.

“You need someone who can claim the land,” Peterson shook his head. “It won’t work.”

“Worth a try,” Malia insisted. “At the least, we can deny control of it to anyone else.”

Peterson sent the guards back with a message, and they waited for the response. 

Twenty minutes later, it was confirmed. 

Wesley and his group would head South, help out the garrison there, and then turn west.