What Distant Deeps by David Drake Page A

Adele glanced at the raucously circling birds. Smiling faintly, she took the weapon in her left hand.
    The maws wobbled between a hundred and a hundred and fifty feet in the air, higher than most of the other birds. The bare skin of their wings was, as Daniel said, pinkish below, though the upper surface was opalescent and rather attractive in sunlight.
    That was the birds’ only attractive aspect. Their heads were roughly the size of clenched fists and resembled beaked gargoyles, their call was as shrilly unpleasant of that of a tortured rabbit, and they spread their liquid green feces widely as they flew. One could scarcely ask for a better—
    Adele presented her pistol and fired as part of the same motion. Spectators jumped at the shot; a few reflexively clapped their hands over their ears.
    One of the birds had been over the sea. Its head vanished in a pink mist; the heavy body tumbled, motion making the wings flutter like unstayed sails. The bird splashed but did not immediately sink.
    Adele tipped the butt of her pistol up; Daniel took it in his free hand as he offered her the loaded weapon. She held that one for a moment, judging the balance. The pistols should have been identical, but Daniel wasn’t going to try to tell his friend her business.
    Some of the birds had scattered at the previous shot, but the remaining maw continued its circle. It shrieked as it sailed over the sea wall, apparently in general peevishness. Adele presented and fired, her motion more like someone netting butterflies than anything lethal.
    The bird’s skull splashed, though this time the lower half of the beak remained attached to the neck by a strip of skin. The throat sack filled like a parachute, halting the maw in mid flight.
    The bird dropped, spilling air and swelling again twice more before it hit the water; it floated within an arm’s length of its mate. The new splash drew some of the fish which had begun to nibble the previous carcass.
    “Thank you, Adele,” Daniel said as he took the emptied pistol. He beamed at Platt.
    The youth had stopped struggling. He stared at Adele, then turned gray and threw up. Hogg grinned to Woetjans. When they both let go, Platt toppled face-first into his own vomit.
    Hogg elbowed one of the liveried servants. “I guess you two can get him to the car, right?” he said. “Do it now.”
    The servants took their master by the arms, but they fumbled badly. Platt dropped to the ground again before they got him to his feet. They finally stumbled off in the direction of the aircar.
    Daniel turned. He threw the pistol in his right hand as far into the sea as he could get it, then followed it with the other. He managed to get an additional three or four feet on the second throw. Fish, made hopeful by the maw corpses, shivered toward the fresh disturbances.
    “Very sorry about dropping the guns, Hofmann,” Daniel said. “I’ll pay you for them, of course.”
    Hofmann was helping his wife to her feet. He looked over his shoulder toward Daniel. “I wouldn’t think of it, Leary,” he said. “It’s just another of the several favors you’ve done me this day.”
    Then, to his wife, “Come along, Bertie. We have things to discuss when we get home.”
    The landowners and Sand remained where they had been. Daniel gave them a quick, hard smile to show that all was well.
    Bantries sidled away from Daniel and Adele, whispering to one another with a variety of expressions. Cazelet had headed for the hall, his arm around Cory’s shoulders.
    Hogg and Woetjans were moving back also. That surprised Daniel until he realized that the gallon liquor jug had somehow vanished from sight.
    They’ve earned a drink this day, he thought. He ostentatiously turned his back instead of peering more closely at his servant’s baggy tunic.
    Adele was standing at his side. “I don’t know about you, Daniel,” she said quietly, “but I’m ready to leave Cinnabar for a place where the rules are simpler.”
    “Yes,”