Jack pours another shot of shine for his only customer. This is an even slower start to the morning than anticipated. It’s coming up on noon and so far he’s only seen one of his first call regulars stagger in.

But Wall-Eyed Clyde didn’t even stick around for a drink. Dude made it two steps in, stopped, and took a long stare at the guy already drinking shots at the bar. A moment later, Clyde was out the door.

Thinking back on it, Jack frowns. It’s not like Clyde to pass on his morning dose of dog hair. Of course, that guy’s been around the circuit a few times. Gotten close to packing it in more than once during some pretty major-league battles, if you believe his stories. Left him a bit shaky and unpredictable. Prone to erratic behavior. Especially if things are different from what he expects.

Maybe Clyde was thrown off by Jack’s new chembraid. It’s only visible up near Jack’s neck and down his left forearm. The rest of the flat braid of cables and wires is hidden under his shirt, but the whole twisted thing itches something fierce. The annoyance of that alone is enough to keep him awake. Knowing that, he could have passed on paying Gorm a thousand nits and just gotten Zeke to stab him in the arm with a fork every two minutes.

Oh yeah. He winces. Zeke’s not here. It’s been a couple hours already and neither that double-timing little monkey nor Corva have made it back to the bar yet. Normally he’d be a bit concerned, but he’s still pretty pissed off.

On the upside, there is at least one good customer. And a new one at that. The guy is a pretty scraggly old mess, even by Bule standards. However, he was waiting when Jack showed at the bar, raring for his first call fix. Even better, the man’s two-drink down payment was made with a fist-sized bar of rock salt. That’s more than enough to run a tab for the rest of the day.

Inspecting the dark, angular block, Jack raises an eyebrow. It’s not that strange for out-of-towners to make payments in all manner of raw materials. Since every township has its own independently grown monetary system, commodities like minerals and grain are de facto exchange currencies. He should probably clue in Corva on that fact, if he lets her stick around.

The thing is, though, that most folks stop at the Exchange when they get into town and swap goods for trade units—nits. That’s not a mandatory thing, of course. A bunch of other towns don’t have an organized setup like that, so a lot of traders and mercs aren’t used to it. Many will simply skip the Exchange and try to deal direct. Most shop owners in Bule end up sending these people back to the Exchange to get nits for payment.

This stuff is special, though. When an outsider usually tries to pay in salt, it’s usually solar salt or salt refined by boiling seawater. Rock salt, however, has to be mined. With the war going on, it’s tough for any individual person to find a claim, let alone mine it. Drilling and explosions attract attention, and attention is rarely a good thing. Just about every salt mine worth digging has been confiscated by either the Karui or the Umbrati. So if a person pays in rock, it means they’ve probably done work—merc work—for one side or the other. Possibly both.

Jack cheats a glance at the old-timer, venturing a quick once-over. He’s seen old people before. They’re rare, but some people do manage to survive that long. Hell, Old Man V was well into the gray before he finally bit it.

However, this grizzled fossil of a man looks to have been kicking around well beyond his expiration date. There’s no possible way he contracts in the war. Maybe when he was younger … Jack risks a second look.

Was this guy ever younger? The man has wrinkles cut into his wrinkles. His skin hangs from his bones and sinew like a slice of ham draped over a clothesline, and his gnarled white beard more closely resembles a choked system of tree roots than hair.

Maybe he’s an old miner who’s been picking at rock underground for years and finally managed to crack off a chunk that’s worth something. Or perhaps he’s some senile elder from a passing group of trade nomads. He wandered off, stumbled over the body of a merc who actually works the war, and found the rock salt while looting. Or what if—

“You’re staring, boy. If you’ve a question, you should get around to asking it.” The wrinkled man leans forward. One of his eyes is open comically large while the other is barely open at a squint.

Jack clears his throat and looks away, remembering his lessons. Go slow. Think first. Think second. Then think about speaking. Then keep your mouth shut until you’ve thought one more time.

“Hey! ’S fucking rude to ignore the only customer in the room.”

Jack looks up, pacing himself. Ol’ Wrinkles must’ve pre-gamed and got here already sauced. “Um, no … no. Just lookin’ at this rock and wonderin’ if I gotta be worried about anyone who might show up with an eye for their ‘misplaced’ property.”

“Oh, that.” The old man curls his body back over the bar, a buzzard hunched over the carcass of his destitute shot glass. “No need to worry about that. It was mine. Got plenty more. I’ve also got an empty cup.”

Alright, so the senile trade nomad theory is out. Wrinkles must be a miner. Jack spreads his arms wide on the bar and leans his weight forward so he can speak more directly at the hunched-over old man. Sure, there’s no one else in the bar, but folks like to feel like they’re getting an inside secret, especially when they’re being sold to.

“What’ll you have this round? Whiskey? I got some of the best salvage barrels from a sacked mill town. Stored right, and aged well. Tequila? It’s hard as shit to find blue agave, but I got a source that grows and distills her own. I’m the only place she ships to this far north. Or I can give you another hit of our house cornshine. It’s set some folks blind, but that shouldn’t hurt if you’re gonna mole your way underground for more salt.”

Wrinkles doesn’t even raise his head when he replies. “You sure talk a lot more than you pour. I’ll let you know if I want different.”

It takes Jack a second to fully register Wrinkles’s terse answer. He doesn’t let that stop him, though. If Old Man V taught him anything, it’s good customer service in the face of assholery. “Cornshine it is! Good choice. Made with the best trade grain, plus a spike from my own hybrid. Grow it right up on the roof.”

Jack watches Wrinkles launch the contents of his glass to the back of his throat. Floppy-armed old coot sure ain’t slowin’ down. Not my problem, though. His tab is paid up.

Still holding his glass, Wrinkles signals a need for another refill by tapping the side of his glass with a bony forefinger. The nail on that finger is long and looks like it’s been sharpened. Freckles and liver spots cover the full span of his hand and forearm. He doesn’t set the glass down for Jack to pour the refill. Instead he holds it hovering out over the bar, hand surprisingly steady. Innumerable scars trace the length of his forearm.

He raises his gaze to meet Jack’s and shakes his glass expectantly. “You think I’m a miner? What gives you that idea?”

Jack struggles to make the pour at such an awkward height. “Uh, well, you just—alright, hold on.”

He uprights his bottle of shine and plunks it on the bar. “If you want me to serve this drink, ya gotta put the glass down. Have a little friggin’ patience. I ain’t gonna get pulled away to pour for someone else right now. And it’s not like—thank you.”

Even with the glass lowered, Wrinkles keeps his focus on Jack’s face. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yeah, well, you were being a d—”

Jack! Slow down! Think.

“D-um, difficult. Distracting.” Jack finally manages to pour another shot of shine in the old man’s glass. “Couldn’t concentrate on talking while serving at that angle. You mighta took notice, I ain’t all that tall.”

Wrinkles nods and swipes up his glass. “Yup. Noticed.”

“Anyhow, how’d I know you’re a miner? You squared up in rock. No way you got that as merc pay. I figure you got a little private claim somewhere up-canyon and you’re hand-diggin’ it.”

“What gives you the idea that I’m from farther up the canyon?”

“You got no hair, old man! Gettin’ close to Sheep country up there.”

“Sheep country?”

“Yeah, Sheeps. Karui, lightheads, cloth faces … you know. Them things in the hive don’t got any hair on ’em. Probably best not to stand out too much. Though your disguise needs some work. That ratty-assed beard of yours makes it kinda obvious that you ain’t one of ’em. Whattya do? Wrap a scarf around your mouth?”

Jack pauses a moment and gives Wrinkles a long look. It could be that the chembraid is making him extra sensitive, but there’s something off about the old guy. Something weird. He’s different from most of the heavy drinkers that find their way to the bar. At the same time, there’s something familiar about him. Uncomfortably familiar. Like walking a path and seeing two nearly identical natural rock formations a klick apart. Enough to make you wonder if you walked a loop even though you know you’ve walked a straight line.

He gives his head a little twist, clearing away the thought. “But maybe that’s not why you’re hairless—tryin’ to hide out in Sheep country. Maybe you’re just old. Either way, I know you’re not comin’ from down-canyon. Been all over that way. If there’s a claim out that side, I’d know about it.”

“Well that’s valuable information.” The ancient drunk leans his head back and empties his glass. “You got a knack for guessing, kid, I’ll say that much. But you got me all wrong. See, I have been underground my fair share. Thing is, though, I’m no miner. I’m a hunter. Tracking myself a pretty big payday right now, actually.”

“Ha! What? I call bullshit, Grandpa. You’re a pile of bones shoved in a wrinkly deflated old balloon. That cornshine’s startin’ to make you think all sideways.” Jack pauses. He may have gotten a bit ahead of himself. Probably would be best to try and correct course. “If, you know, you’ll pardon me for being a bit frank.”

“Believe what you want, Frank, but facts are facts. I can—”

“My name ain’t Frank. It’s—”

“I know that’s not your name, Frank. And as rude as you are, I don’t care to know what you call yourself. Now, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of saying something. I was saying that I can prove I’ve been in the hunting game for a while.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” Jack pauses a beat. “And my name is Jack.”

“Sure thing, Frank.” Wrinkles turns his squint toward the top of Jack’s head. “I noticed you’ve got a bit of premature aging going on.”

The white streak in Jack’s mop of hair. He’s used to people staring at it. Talking about it. “Yeah. My mom was part skunk. If you want, I can prove it to ya by shittin’ in your drink.”

The laugh that comes out of Wrinkles’s throat sounds like something between a squeaky door and an uncontrolled series of coughs. The old coot’s face stretches in a way that shows it’s not used to smiling. “That’s a good one, kid. I like it. It’s funny.” Just as fast as it came, though, the smile is gone. “It also distracts folks from asking what it really came from.”

For a fraction of a second, Jack reflexively eyes the corner of the bar where the gitfo bags sit. He’s not sure why, but he suddenly has the strong feeling that he shouldn’t be here right now. It’s a ridiculous urge, though. He knows it. Just an old man telling old man stories. He pulls his focus back to his wrinkled customer. “What it really came from? Whattya mean?”

“That streak of yours. Mind if I have a guess at a few things?”

This should be interesting. Maybe the old guy came from a traveling circus group. “Alright, Old-Timer. Shoot.”

“That whole area where the hair grows white. I’m guessing it feels numb most of the time, but there’s no real scar there—not on the skin at least.”

“Sure.” A little specific, but not too difficult a guess.

“Except it isn’t always numb, is it? Sometimes it burns a bit. Aches even.” Wrinkles leans back. “Like right now.”

Jack feels his stomach jump to his throat. Things are striking a bit close to home. He’s got no response for Wrinkles. He just stands there, gawking.

“There’s only a couple ways you could get that streak in your hair. My guess? That’s Death’s Mark. I’m thinking you’re one of the few people who got the mark, but didn’t get what comes after it.” The crusty old man pulls on his beard, reflecting. “In all my years, I think I’ve only come across three people like you.”

Jack clears his throat and finally finds his voice again. “How do you—”

Nope. Wrong question. Start over, Jack. “So you think you have a knack for telling the origin of a scar. How in the world does that prove you’re a hunter?”

“Because of those three people like you, two of them are ones I’ve tracked.”

“What happened to the third?”

“Someone else got that one.” Wrinkles chews a bit on part of his upper lip, bitterly staring off into the distance. Suddenly, though, his demeanor changes. “But enough nostalgia! Give my glass a reload.”

Pleased to have a change of focus, Jack dutifully pours some more cornshine in Wrinkles’s glass. The whole time, the old guy looks around the bar, particularly the areas with patchwork repairs.

Wrinkles grabs the glass and swings it around, abstractly pointing at the entirety of the bar. “Looks like this place has seen better days.”

“It’s functional.” Jack’s gaze follows everything Wrinkles points at with his glass. “We’ll have everything all the way back to normal in no time.”

The thick hairs on Wrinkles’s eyebrows push up. “Is that so, Frank?”

Jack ignores the incorrect name and keeps talking. “Yeah. Aside from repairs, the bar’s got pretty low overhead, no competition, and a steady stream of customers. It’s a good business to be in.”

Wrinkles turns and sits forward in his stool to give Jack his full attention. “Speaking of customers. I was wondering if you might be able to help me out.”

Jack smiles. “See, now you’re convincing me that you’re a bounty hunter. Every hunter that enters this bar looking for someone eventually gets to the ‘speaking of customers’ lead-in. Took you long enough to get there. You shoulda started with that.”

The hairs on Wrinkles’s beard seem to bristle more as his face scrunches up to show mild frustration. “I’m on the hunt. A live capture.”

Wrinkles stops for a moment and stares, like he’s daring Jack to interrupt. It takes some effort, but Jack manages to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Old Man V would be proud.

Seemingly satisfied by Jack’s monumental act of self-restraint, Wrinkles continues, “I’m tracking a girl—a bit older than you—she blew through this area about a month ago or so. Hear she actually made a stop at this bar.”

Jack blinks. It feels like all of the air has suddenly been sucked from the room. “Oh? What’s she look like?”

“Knotty hair. Green eyes. Dark skin. No tech.” Wrinkles keeps staring at Jack. It feels like he’s digesting Jack’s every action.

Sooner than I’d thought … but this guy?

Pouring the man another shot, Jack feels the muscles in the back of his throat start to flex. He may have doubts about how effective Wrinkles might be as a bounty hunter, but nobody lives that long without some kind of advantage. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking, or maybe the chembraid isn’t keeping him sharp; Gorm did say it may take a little while to tune. Of course, it could also be the years of paranoia, but something is definitely askew.

Play it safe. Play it stupid. He’s played poker before. Never won much, but he’s definitely bluffed his way outta losing at least once. “No tech? Really? Who is she? Some rich guy’s runaway concubine?”

“Can’t say. There’s rumor that she’s a survivor from Fareburne. Don’t really care. She’s on my list, so I’m hunting her down.”

Fareburne? The back of Jack’s throat feels like it’s instantly dried up. That’s specific. And it’s not information that could be found in the trades. Jack had looked up Corva’s bounty to figure out who might be after her. The report there was really thin. Where was Wrinkles getting his information?

Suddenly aware that he’s not said a word since Wrinkles mentioned Fareburne, Jack clears his throat. He needs to find out more about what the old vulture wants with Corva.

“You don’t care? That’s the town that got wiped by them Shadowfold fuckers. They took out whole towns without setting foot in them. I’d certainly care. Anyone who survived that ain’t someone I’d want to mess with. For a live capture, I’d care an awful lot. I’d ‘care’ a bullet right into her head.” Jack pauses a bit. This whole thing about Fareburne and the Fold has gotten him more twisted up than he’d like. “But anyway, ain’t no one looking like that been through here. You sure you got the sand to take on someone like that?”

The old man ignores Jack and reaches into the folds of his cloak. “Here, maybe this’ll help your memory.”

Wrinkles pulls a leather glove from his cloak. Well, not a full glove. When he puts it on, the thin bleached skin of it only covers the old man’s first two fingers and his thumb. A data sphere sits at a junction near the base of the thumb, and from it runs three wide, flat metal strips, each one tracing along the back of a finger or thumb.

He smiles at Jack. A crooked, toothy grin. “I hate wearing this thing. Feels gross.”

With that, he uses his newly gloved hand to reach out and steal the bottle of cornshine from Jack’s hands. He finishes off what little remains in the bottle before Jack even comes to the realization that his hands are empty.

Leaving no time to react, Wrinkles holds the bottle in front of Jack’s face. The surface of the bottle glows a soft blue in the space between the ancient bounty hunter’s thumb and fingers. In that illuminated space, a faint image begins to coalesce. A short sequence of images, actually.

It’s Corva, in the bar. Jack recognizes the chaos from the bar fight just over a month ago. But it’s from an angle he doesn’t recognize. Someone else’s viewpoint. Whatever the view, though, she’s ruining everyone and everything in her path.

The wrinkly bounty hunter brings his face up next to the bottle. He’s close enough that the only thing Jack can smell is Wrinkles’s aura-like haze of alcohol. The old codger still has that grin smeared across his face. “This is the girl I’m hunting. You saying that isn’t your bar getting all beat to shit in there? Sure looks like this place to me.”

Jack’s stomach twists into itself and his skin tightens like a shirt shrunken in the wash. This is almost the same sick feeling he had when trying to negotiate that day. The picture of Corva isn’t what has him fazed. It’s obvious that Wrinkles has been talking about Corva. The problem is this old coot has—and is using—imbued tech.

It’s not just the imbued tech, though. It’s the nonchalance with how he’s using it. Like it’s perfectly natural. No different than putting on shoes in the morning. That’s just not done. Without first doing some pretty heavy-duty preparations, any kind of soulmancy can be easily traced. That’s the whole reason Old Man V put up the shielding down in Cliff City and why he and Lyia did the same when healing Corva. People don’t just go shining their fixins all over the place. Not unless they’ve got something big to back it up.

Jack thinks about the raid that came after the bar fight. That whole mess was for some pretty minor imbued tech. A couple infused beads. This thing that Wrinkles has on his hand is on another level altogether. It’s not just some simple bead with imbued power. This thing is playing back memories on glass.

That’s not something just anyone can do. Only the Karui have that ability. In fact, that glove probably isn’t even leather. It can only be skin peeled from some low-level conscript in the Karui hive. And here this wrinkly old bastard is shaking it in Jack’s face.

As he watches the sequence of memories dancing on the bottle, the situation becomes abundantly clear. These are Tretch’s memories. That peanut-headed merc brought this whole mess to Jack’s door. Well, not exactly his door. It was through his wall, actually. In any case, even after skipping town, that dick is still causing trouble for Jack. At least now there’s no wondering where that tiny-skulled bounty hunter ran off to.

It also clears up the question of who Tretch was working for. The Karui. They’re the ones with the live-capture bounty out on Corva. Despite his appearance—and his age—Wrinkles is under contract, and Corva is his target. That the Karui want her alive means only one thing: conscription.

It’s a lot of effort for one person, though. What’s so special about being a survivor from Fareburne?

A wave of nausea rolls over Jack; he can feel a sick heat emanating from behind his eyelids as he tries to blink as calmly as possible. Don’t matter where she’s from or which side this guy’s huntin’ her for, no one deserves to be pulled in the war ’gainst their will.

Jack sticks to his plan of playing it stupid. He peeks around the bottle and looks at Wrinkles.

“Oh, that bitch? Yeah, I know who you’re talkin’ about. Wrecked my bar something stupid while doin’ the same to a whole buncha your kind. Hunters.” He pauses, looking at the wrinkled, bony old man in front of him. “Well … the younger, stronger, more heavily armed sort.”

Reminding himself to slow down and think, he takes a deep breath in. Big mistake. It could be nerves or his body getting accustomed to the juice from the chembraid, but most likely it’s the overwhelming miasma of booze wafting off Wrinkles. Whatever the cause, a wave of sickness rolls over Jack. His mouth instantly fills with saliva. Aw, crap. Which is it gonna be? Words or stomach?

He tries for the former. “She skipped town not long after she kicked the—”

Nope. Spit glands turn into firehoses as Jack clamps his mouth shut and covers it with his fist. He sprints to the end of the bar and buries his face in a spittoon as the contents of his gut cascade out. He’d hoped that putting his face deeper inside would dampen the sound of his retching, but the old brass pot resonates with every little grunt and groan. The putrid smell of old, expended tobacco juice and other assorted trash only amplifies his spasms to a sequence of post-release dry heaves.

Jack pulls his face upward a bit, just enough to feel the cooler air outside the spittoon flow across the misty beads of sweat on his face. Keeping his head down, he reaches up, blindly pawing for a towel that should be hanging at the end of the bar. After a few fruitless pats, he finally grabs hold of the gritty, sweat-starched cloth and yanks it from the hook. He bunches the stained rag over his face, wiping away the sweat and breathing through it as a makeshift filter.

Real smooth, dumbass.

“Anxiety, Frank?” The sound of Wrinkles’s voice crackles on the other side of the rag. But it doesn’t come from his seat back at the bar. It’s much closer, like the old buzzard is still somehow close despite the distance Jack’s traveled to the side of the bar.

What the shit?

Jack’s eyes snap open and he topples backward from his squat. The decrepit old man arches over the edge of the bar like the most menacing of wilted flowers. His head hangs above Jack with the same amused, closed-lip smile that a child given a frog and a magnifying glass on a bright day might have.

Jack regains his composure and drags himself up to a kneel. “My name still ain’t Frank. An’ no. I’m not anxious. Least, I wasn’t before. Think you could get back on your side of the bar, Gramps? You’re freakin’ me out.” He leans over and spits the last of his excess saliva into the spittoon. “Just had too good a time last night. Guess I don’t recover as fast as I used to.”

The ancient bounty hunter retracts to his stool, then removes his skin glove and places it back into the depths of his cloak.

Jack stands up, dusting himself off with the towel. “As I was saying, that chick skipped town after she wrecked my bar. That was about a month ago. Took me this long to get the place put back together. You find her, you tell her she owes me damages.”

He stops, noticing the bottle that Wrinkles emptied and used as a makeshift playback screen. “And your tab only covered that bottle of shine. You want more, you’ll need to pay more.”

Wrinkles doesn’t even look at the bottle. His gaze never leaves Jack. “You’re a remarkably poor liar, Frank, you know that?”

Jack tries to stammer out a protest, but he’s cut off before any coherent syllables cross his lips.

“Don’t take it that way, kid. There was a brief span of time in history when that was an admirable trait. A man like you was trusted because he couldn’t help but speak to the truth of things. Of course, that time has long passed. What used to be honored—celebrated, even—is now a liability.”

“I—I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about. Girl’s gone. Been gone. Ain’t comin’ back.” For the briefest of moments, Jack feels a touch of relief. That last part is true. Probably. After how he blew up at her on the steps between Lower and Upper Bule, he wouldn’t be surprised if she never comes back. She is gone. Hopefully, for her sake, she stays that way.

“Then where did she go? She’s got no trail after showing up here. Scent is hot here and cold everywhere else. Do you even know who it is you think you’re protecting? I’m doing you a favor, boy. You’ve got no idea what kind of danger you’re really in.”

“From this girl you’re talkin’ about? Or from you? Don’t matter much in either case. She ain’t here and the only danger I got from you is the chance you might black out and lie on my floor until closing time.”

The aged hunter bolts to his feet, stretching to his full height before lurching forward and pressing his hands against the edge of the bar. Tilting his head to the side, he continues to stare at Jack. The smile from earlier is gone, replaced with a grim stone-faced glare. Wrinkles closes his eyes and breathes a heavy, liquor-filled sigh before reopening them. “Let’s try this a different way. How familiar are you with the way the war started?”

“Really? What is it with old fuckers and tellin’ stories on how things used to be? I got no patience for history lessons, Grandpa. ’Specially for something that’s known.”

“Yeah? Tell me what it is you think you know.”

“Look, I ain’t playin’ this game. You can help the Sheeps and Goats fight their war. I’ve got my bar. Keep a low profile, make some cash offa you saps, and tend to my own. Your girl bounced. She ain’t here.” He tilts his head toward the door at the front of the bar. “You’re a hunter. Go fetch.”

Just as Jack finishes, the door to his bar swings open. Hard. A pop echoes through the bar as the door claps against its frame. Corva steps across the threshold and stumbles in, showing all the grace of a duck with a brick strapped to its head.

Wrinkles grins at Jack. His rotting teeth emanate their own biosphere, along with the smell that accompanies it. “Not playing a game, you say, Frank?”