The Sanity's Edge Saloon (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 1) by Mark Reynolds

neglected to warn
Jack about. And of them all, Gusman Kreiger was the most dangerous.
    “You’re not supposed to be here,
Kreiger. What do you want?” the Writer shouted back, preferring to keep his
distance for safety’s sake.
    “I’m surprised at you, Algae,” Gusman said, one hand jammed into his
pants pocket, looking as if his fingers were struggling to keep hold of
something; something wriggling to get free; a pocketful of writhing adders. “I
think you know why I’m here.”
    “I suppose I do.”
    “Good. Then why don’t you save me a
great deal of time and effort, and yourself a great deal of trouble, and hand
it over.”
    “Hand what over, Kreiger?”
    “I lost the other four, but not this
one. You brought it here with you, I can tell, so don’t play with me. You have
no idea how difficult it is for me to be here.” And for one brief moment,
Gusman Kreiger seemed to be pulled sideways, as if caught suddenly in a wall of
hurricane-force wind that trapped him, tearing at him like wheat in a thresher.
Kreiger’s teeth ground tight, his muscles forming rigid lines beneath a thin
tissue of flesh, and his eyes locked with the Writer’s revealing a curious,
half-focused, half-manic glare.
    “I’d say you overstayed your welcome
already,” the Writer remarked. “Or have you forgotten that you do not belong in
this place?”
    “I belong where I please,”
Kreiger said tightly, regaining his consistency, if not his poise, the strain
evident in the gleam of sweat on his forehead and temples. The impression of
sliding sideways was gone now, replaced by a kind of rage that seemed to
manifest itself physically under the flesh of the others face and head like a
writhing knot of worms.
    “Of course you do, Kreiger,” the
Writer remarked with a malicious grin. “But you don’t get to stay. That’s the
rule.”
    “Don’t talk to me of rules, Algernon.
You treat the Nexus like a back alley whorehouse, a place to come and go as you
please. There are rules, true enough, and you’re breaking them with every
breath you take.”
    “A lecture on rules from a Cast Out?”
the Writer admonished. “I am the Caretaker. The rules are mine to break.”
    “You’re unworthy—”
    “Have you any idea of how ridiculous
such an accusation is from one such as yourself? Cast from the Nexus for sheer
arrogance, the refusal to acknowledge that some rules are beyond your will to
control, and that you would have to bend to them, or be broken. Go away,
Kreiger. You were cast out. This is no longer any of your affair.”
    “Isn’t it? You’re leaving, Algernon.
You’ve come here looking for another to take your place.”
    “I came here to sell my manuscript. I
write books. I’m sure a hack such as yourself can grasp the premise, even if
its mastery eludes you.”
    “You came here to pass on the final
ticket, Algernon. Don’t lie to me; it is an art at which you are remarkably
inept. And don’t pretend not to understand what I’m talking about! Give me the
ticket, now!”
    Again, Kreiger appeared to slide
sideways, caught by some otherworldly wind blowing out of thin air, intent upon
blasting him straight through the molecules of the nearby building, his
features reduced to wet paint smeared across glass. It lasted only a moment,
but the duration was fractionally longer than before, and it took him longer
still to recover and pull himself back together. “I’m on borrowed time here,
and so, by extension, are you.”
    “You’d better go, Gusman,” the Writer
warned softly. “Stay here any longer, and this world will tear you to shreds.
The Wasteland is already reaching out for you … and it wants you back. You’re
to blame for where you are, Kreiger—”
    “No!” Kreiger screamed. “You are
right about rules that cannot be broken, but you are gravely mistaken as to
which ones they are. Now I want that ticket!”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Kreiger’s jaw worked slowly, side to
side, taut muscles