I woke up with a dry mouth, an angry tooth, and someone robbing me. Before I even recognized what I was doing, Patience was at his temple. I could smell the booze on his breath, hot and heavy. It reminded me of my own. He froze, my purse somewhere between out of my pocket and into his. Neither of us had spoken, but feeling a cold metal barrel poking into your head needs no words.

“I was—” he started, “You were moving on.” I growled. The effect of which would’ve been greater if my mouth wasn’t dry as a canyon, and if my final word hadn’t been punctuated by a small coughing fit.

He was young, and skinny. The beginnings of a patchy beard on his face. Not a pro; just someone trying to get a leg up where he could. Reminded me of myself before I joined the war. Must’ve been what, two hundred years ago now?

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” I said, my voice loosening up with each word til it was somewhere between a stage whisper and a hellhound growl. “You’re gonna drop that purse that isn’t yours, then you’re going to drop any sort of weapon you’ve got on ya. Then, and this is the important part, you’re gonna FUCK RIGHT OFF OUTTA HERE.”

He dropped the purse, unclipped a knife from his belt, and slowly backed away, hands up.

“Wait” I said, “Leave my boots too.”

“Y-Ya didn’t have any” he mumbled at me.

Godsdammit, I thought. Not this again.

Off he fucked, leaving me to wonder why I was laying on a bunch of tree roots and dead leaves in yesterday’s clothes. I lay my head back down and felt the vice grip of a headache. I closed my eyes briefly, hoping the pain between my temples would deaden the pain in my back molar. As their battle was raging my bladder came in and flanked the two. Guess I wouldn’t be going back to sleep.

I got up, stumbled towards, then watered the nearest tree. My socks were wet and damp with the morning dew, and I couldn’t see Reluctant anywhere I looked. Mind you, that was with eyes that were mostly closed, but I’ve become somewhat of an expert at finding things through the haze of a hangover. Been doing that much since Ammatica, maybe even before.

Time gets a bit hazy for me.

Since it was still pretty fresh on my mind, I felt my coin purse again. Lighter than I remembered, and the last thing that stuck in my brain was I was winning at ace-high. Luck must’ve changed after the second bottle. It usually does.

I opened the purse and dumped the contents into my hand. 3 crowns, four halves, and some of that worthless paper money the Grensch keep trying to foist onto people. Less than a quarter of what I started with. Damn. Going to have to figure out a way to make some money before I get to Northamba.

This day was getting worse and worse.

Wait a minute.

I looked again at the paper money. The bills were the same in number, but the numbers on ‘em were higher. I had three fifties and a … thousand? Who ever heard of a thousand note? I flipped it over to look at the backside of it. It was a fake. Obviously.

Each Grensch bill had the same portrait of King Verisius on it. That one painted by the old master Rosfmann that made the King look twenty years younger, and a hell of a lot better looking. They figured a way to get that portrait onto a piece of paper, so every note had a smiling portrait of that bastard: Spirit King Verisius (Eternal Hero of the Granze, Holy Architect of the Crystal Arches, etc. etc.) All except this one.

This one had my face.

Neat trick, I thought.

The backside of the note was blank.

Real neat trick.

I looked over my fifties. Whoever had forged these bills was a master. It was the same material, the same ink, the craftsmanship was perfect.

The first two bills were fine, but the third was another blank back. Someone had written on the blank side: Barzoba. The 15th. Locklake.

Barzoba I knew. A Grensch town near the contested line. I figure it was about a week’s ride from... what was the name of that town I was in yesterday? Kalb? That sounded about right. I’d never been to Barzoba before, guess I had an appointment now. I swore I'd never go back to Granze as long as Verisius drew breath, but I have a habit of breaking oaths lately.

All but one.

What was Locklake though? A name, a merchant, a bar? The 15th I gathered as the date and I reckoned today as the 6th, so I had some time. As long as I didn’t have to walk the whole way there. Guess it was time to find Reluctant.

I needed some sort of equalizer before I went, so I grabbed the kid’s knife from where he dropped it. Patience was superior, but bullets were as rare as decent booze in this country, and cost near as much. One thing I learned from Major Odell, was the pricelessness of having something that can’t run out of ammo.

The blade itself wasn’t great. Fornish steel I assumed, but the kid kept a good edge on it. I’d rather have something cheap and sharp than pricy and dull.

I squinted my eyes once more to try and tell the two forces in my head to quiet down, then I wandered out to find that damned horse.

Took about an hour to find him. He was near a stream getting his fill, when I finally stumbled out of the woods; cursing the day, the Gods, the horse, and just about anyone else on this rotten continent I could think of. I grabbed him by the halter and led him to the nearest tree. I took his lead and tied him so he wouldn’t wander off again. I could do this with my eyes closed; which was lucky since I couldn’t actually keep my eyes open. I had a tabor drumming in my forehead with my molar playing a fife. I could tell this was going to be a hangover of enormity.

My mouth, dry as burnt bacon, started to make itself known then. So I walked myself down to the stream, crawled on my belly to the banks, and took a deep pull. Is there anything better than a gulp of cold water when you’re hungover? Another shot of whiskey maybe, but the thought of a drink turned my guts to rocks.

I stood up, shaky. Looked out at the world. That’s when I saw the rifleman.